Veil of Pearls

by Marylu Tyndall

  “She was never right for you, brother. Marrying her would ruin the Rutledge name.” Hadley propped one boot atop the marble hearth in the sitting room of their townhome. “You’ll get over her soon enough. Why, I know of a ravishing lady with both pedigree and fortune who is dying to make your acquaintance.”

  Morgan crossed his arms over his chest and gazed out the window at the passing horses, people, and carriages. “Not interested.” He rotated his sore arm and stretched his shoulder, where an ache reminded him of the bullet wound Adalia had dressed so expertly. It had healed perfectly. Perfect like her. No other woman could ever take her place. If she truly didn’t care for him, if she truly never wanted to see him again, that was one thing. He would honor her wishes, of course. But he must hear it from her own lips. Not the lips of a man who hated his family and would do anything to keep them apart.

  He must find a way to speak with her alone. To gain an audience with her where she couldn’t run away. Where he could hold her captive until he’d had his say. Captive.

  “Well, I dare say, do you plan on being celibate the rest of your life?” Hadley gave a chuckle as if such a thing were possible. “For I don’t see that there’s anything you can do about Miss Winston.”

  Ah, but there was. Morgan rubbed his whiskers as a devilish idea formed. “That’s where you’re wrong, brother.” He spun around, noting the surprised look on Hadley’s face as Morgan passed him on the way out of the room. “I know exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Drawing the covers over her head, Adalia curled into a ball and prayed for God to dry up her tears. She’d cried herself to sleep every night for over three weeks. And she was tired of it. Good heavens, the cad was not worth so much grief. No doubt he was right at that moment in the arms of another woman. Loving her, whispering in her ears the same enchanting things he used to say to Adalia. The thought caused yet another sob to rise in her throat.

  M poked his head under the covers and then slid beneath the quilt and nestled against Adalia’s chest. His purring rumbled in the small space. Drat! The darned cat did nothing but remind her of Morgan. She should get rid of him, but she’d grown quite fond of the furry imp. Much as she had grown fond of Morgan. Yet the cat was nothing like its master. M was kind and affectionate, tender, and loving, and most of all—loyal. Adalia could always count on the kitten to curl up beside her, or on top of her, or around her neck, and bring the comfort and warmth of unconditional love. In fact, she couldn’t imagine her life without him.

  Renewed tears filled her eyes. They slid over her nose and her face and onto her pillow as she stroked M, eliciting a new round of purrs.

  At least the cat enjoyed her company.

  “Father God,” she said, trying to pray, but further words escaped her. God knew she was hurting. Why didn’t He comfort her? Why had He allowed this to happen? She sighed as M yawned and rolled onto his back, stretching his paws to her face. But she knew the answer. God had not allowed this. She had. She’d allowed herself to get swept up in the opulence, the glamour of high society—swept up in the arms of a man who treated her like a princess. Like the princess her daddy told her she was. Somehow, she had convinced herself that Morgan loved her, that she had a chance to be a part of his world. “Oh God, I thought I was a princess.”

  You’ll always be My princess.

  The soft words settled inside her, reminding her of her earthly father. Did God love her as much as her daddy had? Why had Adalia spent so little time with Him recently? Her Bible had grown dusty these past months sitting atop her nightstand. Though she knew she should read it even now, knew it would bring her comfort, she couldn’t bring herself to open its holy pages. She couldn’t bring herself to read the truths that would surely convict her for her recent actions. She was miserable enough as it was. In fact, she couldn’t do anything but cry. Was it true that anger always came after sorrow? She hoped so. The sorrow was unbearable.

  She could handle anger.

  M laid a paw on Adalia’s chin, alerting her that she’d stopped petting him. She began caressing his belly once again until, finally, her heavy heart dragged her into a fitful slumber.

  Morgan made his way down Bay Street. Dressed in his sailor attire and under cover of night, he felt confident no one would recognize him. Excitement buzzed through him like an agitated hive, for he felt every bit like the rapscallion his reputation declared him to be. In fact, it took all his control not to run all the way to Doc Willaby’s home, but he didn’t wish to draw any unwanted attention. Not that there was anyone of note about at two in the morning, save drunks, thieves, and the night watchmen. The latter being the only ones he needed to avoid.

  Slinking around the corner of the doctor’s house, Morgan made his way to the back garden. He knew the slaves and servants would be quartered below stairs, and that only the doctor and Adalia occupied the upstairs chambers. But which one was Adalia’s? He gazed up at the two open windows gaping at him like suspicious eyes and chose the smaller one facing the garden. Stretching his injured shoulder, he leapt into the large oak beside the home and climbed up its thick branches with ease, thankful for his training as a topman on board Captain Bristo’s ship.

  The tree’s branches were close to the house, affording him a slight view inside the window. At least as much as the moonlight allowed. There she was! His sweet Adalia, covers over her head, and her dark hair sprawled over the pillow above her. He’d recognize those silken black locks anywhere.

  Grabbing the branch, he swung down and inched closer. The wood scraped his fingers and creaked beneath his weight. The screech of a night heron sounded. Sweat trickled down his back. He started to leap when a wheat-colored cat appeared on the window ledge, eyeing him curiously. Adalia had kept his gift. That thought alone brought him a modicum of hope.

  Gathering his strength, he swung his legs and soared across the distance. He grabbed the window ledge. His body slammed against the outside wall. But it was the pain in his shoulder that made Morgan cry out. Biting his lip, he pulled himself up, flung himself through the window, and landed on the floor with a thud.

  Adalia shrieked. The cat pounced on Morgan’s chest. Shoving it aside, he lunged for the bed and eased Adalia down as he covered her mouth with his hand. Her wild gaze darted over his face. “Shhh, Adalia.”

  The cat let out a pitiful meow and darted into a corner.

  Arms flailing, Adalia struck him and tried to shove him from the bed with her legs. He could think of no other recourse but to throw his body atop hers. It worked. His weight pinned her down. But it also sent a swirl of desire in his belly as he realized that naught but her thin nightdress and his clothing separated their bodies.

  She thrashed beneath him. Morgan groaned. Each move sent hot blood coursing through him. “Adalia. Please, sweetheart. Be still.” His face was inches from hers. Her sweet scent filled his nose, his lungs, teasing him. “I will not hurt you.”

  Her chest billowed against his. The breath from her nose dashed over his hand, tight on her mouth. The crazed look in her eyes softened before resignation set in. She stopped struggling.

  Morgan jumped off her, keeping his hand on her mouth. “Adalia,

  I’m not going to hurt you. I simply wish to talk.”

  Wide-eyed, she stared at him, her chest heaving, her hair ribbons of ebony over her pillow.

  “I’m going to take my hand off now. Please don’t scream.”

  She didn’t scream. She clamped her teeth into his palm. Pain etched into his fingers. “Ouch!” Snagging his hand back, he waved it in the air.

  Adalia shoved off the other side of the bed, grabbed her coverlet and clutched it to her throat. “How dare you barge into my chamber at night!”

  Too loud. He held up his hand to motion her to silence as he slowly circled the bed. “Apparently it is the only way to gain an audience with you.”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion at his statement. “Other women may swoon in your arms beneath such brutish tactics, but I am not impre
ssed.” Though her stance was defiant, her voice quavered.

  “Adalia.” He reached for her, but she backed into the shadows. He halted. “You know me. I would never force myself on you.”

  “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

  Morgan took another step toward her. Why would she say such a thing?

  “Get out of my chamber at once, or I will scream.”

  Morgan cringed. “You’re already screaming. And I only ask for a few minutes of your time.”

  “It’s hardly appropriate here in my chamber with me in my nightdress.” She paused, shifted in the shadows.

  “Then meet me tomorrow.”

  Shuffling noises sounded from within the house. Morgan walked to the door and listened, then returned to her. He had to hurry.

  Adalia slunk further into the corner. What was the scoundrel doing? Trying to win her back? But by such inappropriate means! The man was incorrigible. He’d scared her nearly to her wits’ end. He was either besotted or he’d gone completely mad. She smelled no alcohol on him, so it was obviously the latter.

  Swallowing, she pressed a hand over her still-thrashing heart. If she screamed again, eventually the servants would wake. Not Dr. Willaby, though he was just down the hall. The man slept as sound as a hibernating bear. He’d never heard Adalia’s screams from her nightmares. But Joy would hear. Joy would come.

  M’s eyes peered at her from beneath the bed. Traitor!

  Morgan shifted his stance, confusion wrinkling his brow as awkwardness came over him. Moonlight silhouetted his muscular frame. Perhaps in her heartache, in her desperate longing for him, she only dreamed he was here. But no, she could still feel the press of his hand on her mouth—gentle, but firm. She could smell the spicy scent that was Morgan and taste his blood on her lips.

  Part of her longed to forgive his intrusion and into his arms, kiss him, and tell him she loved him. But Hadley’s words rose up like a barrier between them, keeping her frozen in place and barricading her heart in steel.

  Morgan approached her. “Adalia. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I love you. My father has granted permission for our courtship.”

  Adalia tried to skirt around him. Not the response he expected. He grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop. “What is wrong with you? Did you hear what I said?”

  “Then why haven’t you sent word in three weeks?”

  “Keep your voice down.” His seething whisper filled the air.

  A creak sounded from below.

  “I don’t believe you. Let me go!” Adalia tugged in his grasp.

  “Why don’t you believe me? And why are you so angry?”

  “I want you to leave, Morgan.”

  “I don’t have time for your stubborn theatrics. Will you or will you not agree to meet me tomorrow, so we can discuss this?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.” Turning her back to him, she headed for the door. “I’m calling Mr. Gant.”

  Every fiber within Morgan screamed in frustration. If she called the footman and they tossed Morgan from the house, he’d never have a chance to talk with Adalia again. He’d never know why she was so angry. Never know what he had done. Never convince her of his love. The doctor had done a great job of keeping them apart for the past three weeks. Morgan had no doubt the man could keep him from Adalia indefinitely. No, he could not wait another day, another week, another minute to set things straight between them. “I’m sorry, Adalia.”

  She reached for the door handle. “For which offense?” Her voice was curt. “For—”

  He spun her around in midsentence and stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth. “For this.”

  She groaned and kicked him in the shin. He grimaced. “And for this.” Tightening the coverlet around her, he hoisted her over his shoulder without effort, opened her chamber door, and halted on the landing, listening. After peering into the darkness, he began descending the stairs. Another sound filtered from the servants’ quarters below. The creak of a tread. Someone was heading up to the main floor. Adalia squirmed and moaned and pounded her fists on Morgan’s back. He hated to do this to her, but she gave him no other choice. Pressing her legs against his chest, he darted down the remaining stairs, tore open the front door, and carried her into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Unusual sounds penetrated Adalia’s slumberous mind. Unusual, yet somehow familiar. Creaks and groans and the swoosh of water. She must be dreaming. If she was, her bed just tilted. And her mattress was hard as a rock. Something pricked her cheek. A splinter? She moved her fingers, praying she would feel her soft coverlet. Or perhaps M’s fur. Nothing but rough wood met her touch.

  She bolted upright. Her heart cinched in her chest. Her glance took in the small room: a table and chair bolted to the floor; a large trunk; a cot extending from the wall; a tiny oval window through which sunlight streamed. And her, perched on the floor. No, not a decent floor but rough wooden planks that looked as if they hadn’t been swept or polished in years. Reaching up, she plucked a splinter from her cheek and rubbed her aching head.

  That was when the sounds shot through the fog of sleepiness, pinching memories awake—memories of being on a ship at sea. She struggled to rise and stumbled to the window, nearly tripping on the coverlet dangling at her feet. Nothing but blue met her gaze. Blue sea and blue sky, distinct only in hue and intensity. She’d been kidnapped! Ignoring her queasiness, she rushed to the door and tugged on the handle. Locked.

  The deck canted. Adalia’s knees wobbled, and she sank onto the cot. Shock forbade her to believe her awakening memories—the sight her eyes were now seeing. Yet even her tortured mind could not invent a story so incredible. Or so completely insane! Visions sparked in her mind: Morgan, hoisting her over his shoulder like a sack of rice, carrying her across Charleston, depositing her in a boat and rowing her out to a ship, then carrying her down a ladder and tossing her in this cabin. After removing her gag and untying her hands, he’d tried to reassure her of her safety before he stormed out. Adalia had banged her fists on the locked door until they were red and aching. She’d screamed and wailed and paced and fretted until she had dropped onto the floor and fallen asleep.

  But what she hadn’t anticipated was that the ship would sail. Was Morgan still aboard? Had he discovered her heritage and sold her back into slavery? Surely if that were true, she’d be chained up below in the hold, not in this cabin.

  Her questions were soon to be answered as the click of a lock, followed by the clank of a latch, rang through the cabin. Only then did Adalia realize she still wore her nightdress. Grabbing the coverlet from the floor, she held it up to her chest as the door opened to reveal a kind-looking, elderly woman carrying a bowl and pitcher with a gown flung across her meaty arm.

  “Good morning, Miss Winston.” She set the bowl and pitcher down on the table and faced Adalia. Bright eyes and sun-kissed cheeks brought beauty to a face lined with age and surrounded by a mass of tight gray curls.

  Dumbfounded, Adalia could only stare at her.

  “Ah, still a bit scared, are you now?” Laying the gown and petticoats across the chair, she turned and poured water into the basin. “I don’t blame you. ‘Twas a frightful way to be brought on board.”

  “Who are you, and why am I at sea?”

  The lady chuckled. “Do forgive my manners. I am Mrs. Wallace, wife to the purser aboard this ship.” She set the pitcher down and gave Adalia a curious stare. “As to the second question, you’ll have to ask Mr. Rutledge about that.”

  “Morgan? He is on board?”

  “Why, of course. What would be the purpose of bringing you on this voyage if he weren’t coming along?” She laughed as if the question were ridiculous. “Now, I’ve brought you water for washing and some underthings and a fresh gown.” One gray brow rose as she glanced over Adalia’s thin nightgown. “I can see Mr. Rutledge was correct when he said he had to rescue you rather quickly.”

  “Rescue?” Adalia fisted her hands at her hips, dropping
the coverlet. “He didn’t rescue me. He kidnapped me!”

  If she expected to find a mother’s comfort or sympathy from the weathered old woman, Adalia discovered she was mistaken. Mrs. Wallace gave her a look of reprimand before she shrugged. “Well, you’ll have to take that up with him, miss.”

  “How can I do that when he keeps me locked in this cabin?”

  “You need not worry about that. Mr. Rutledge informed me that he locked you in here for your own safety during the night, since you are so afraid of sailing and all. He was worried you might wander above and fall into the sea. Such a thoughtful man.” She smiled a dreamy smile as she headed toward the door. Adalia growled inwardly. Obviously Morgan’s charm worked on women of all ages.