Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  The boat swung on its rope. The rain died away with a last growl of thunder. Still, they lay unmoving, drifting in a half-world between unconsciousness and rational thought. Lorna’s face was buried in the hollow of his throat. The hairs that curled there tickled her lips, but she could not bring herself to mind. His mouth was against her temple, and she thought she felt him press a kiss to the soft wave that lay there. His weight was not upon her, but rested on his elbow and forearm.

  At length, he stirred. His tone was both amused and puzzled as he murmured, “What is it about you that destroys my common sense.?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nor do I, ma chére, but I think it would be a good thing if I found out. This was a brainless thing to do.”

  “You wish you … we had not?” she inquired, her tone constrained. Shifting her hand that lay upon his shoulder, she used the tip of one finger to carefully press aside the hairs at the hollow of his throat that tickled her.

  “Mon Dieu, no! But, neither do I want to wind up stark naked in a rowboat floating among the ships of the federal blockade fleet in the gulf!”

  The image brought a chuckle. “I don’t think I would enjoy that either.”

  “No, but the men of the fleet would be delighted. To have the captain of a blockade runner fall into their clutches would be one thing, but, if they saw you, I would never be asked for my credentials.”

  “If that’s a compliment,” she said, “I accept it.”

  He raised himself up, then leaned to press a quick kiss on her lips before he spoke. “It is, and also another piece of foolishness, when I should be attending to getting us under way again.”

  They pushed aside their canvas covering and sat up. The cold wind off the water and the raindrops dripping from the willow overhead brought gooseflesh as they struggled into their crumpled and wet clothing. Every vestige of warmth was soon dissipated in the damp chill of the night. Ramon tried to insist that she lie down and cover herself with the sail once more; she compromised by drawing it around her as a windbreak. Even so, she had to clench her jaws to keep her teeth from chattering and, as she brushed against Ramon, she felt the shiver that ran over him before he could control it. They would have to have shelter soon, permanent, solid shelter, and a fire to warm them. She did not think they would die of exposure, as cool as it was on this spring night in late April, but they might well develop congestion of the lungs.

  The lull in the rain was temporary. By the time they had reached the river’s channel, a light mist was falling of the kind that might last for hours or turn to a solid downpour at any moment. It flew in their faces with maddening persistence, fine, cold drops that beaded on the skin and hair, running into their eyes. Lorna narrowed her vision, trying to see, recognizing that Ramon, in the front of the boat, was blocking much of the rain from her with his body. How he was guiding them she could not imagine, but he plied the paddle with a steady and unceasing stroke, focusing to the exclusion of all else on the stretch of water just in front of the skiff.

  Some time later, they negotiated a wide horseshoe bend. Ahead of them appeared a pinpoint of light. It grew larger, separating into several squares, evolving by slow degrees into the shape of a steam packet. They were gaining on it, which could mean only one thing: the boat was tied up for the night to avoid those same dangers in the dark and swollen river that they had been dodging these past hours.

  Ramon stopped paddling. A glance told her that he was watching the packet also. His alert stillness sent alarm coursing through her. Rising to her knees, she inched forward to kneel at his shoulder. She raised her voice above the rush and gurgle of the river to ask, “Is it the General Jackson?”

  “No, it’s isn’t large enough.”

  Without stopping to examine the relief she felt that it was not the steamboat taken by her aunt and uncle, she spoke again. “Would it be safe to board her, do you think?”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but we have no choice. We both need to get to New Orleans as quickly as possible. That boat will take us faster and more safely than any other means.”

  As they were swept nearer, the packet’s name, painted on her wheel housing, leaped out at them. She was the Rose of Sharon, a familiar name, that of a small riverboat that plied between Natchitoches, up the Red River, and the city of New Orleans on a regular run. Doubtless it had passed Beau Repose earlier in the evening, perhaps while she had been changing from her wedding gown. Once a fine boat, it had been overshadowed by the larger crafts that had earned the name of floating palaces in the past decade. The Rose was known as a “lucky” boat, however, since it was still making its regular run while dozens of the fancier, faster boats had burned to the waterline or had their bottoms torn out on half-submerged sawyers, trees floating just under the surface of the water. Of late, the larger boats, too, were being commandeered by the Confederate government, leaving only the smaller river packets to serve the people along the river. Much of the reputation for luck enjoyed by the boat was due to the captain, who was known for his caution, making it a practice, as now, to tie up at night and during severe weather.

  “What if there is someone aboard who knows us?”

  “That’s a chance we will have to take,” he answered, his tone deep. “Either way, we had better decide on the story we are going to tell. I have a couple of gold pieces in my boot that the guards back at Beau Repose missed when they took my purse. They should cover the fare, but not, I think, in more than one stateroom.”

  “I … I have the bracelet Franklin gave me. If the captain will take it, I can pay my own way.”

  “Offer him a bauble like that, and it will be certain to set him wondering.”

  “It seems likely,” she pointed out, a shade of tartness in her voice, “that if we are picked up before dawn in the middle of nowhere, looking like drowned rats that he will be uncommonly slow if he doesn’t wonder a bit anyway.”

  “In that case, what does it matter whether we are in one stateroom or two?” He turned to look at her. The light streaming from the packet gleamed orange across one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow. It illuminated the concern in the depths of his dark eyes.

  Seeing it, Lorna was forced to acknowledge what he must have seen from the beginning; that their escape together, and their connection with Franklin’s death, could not be hidden for long. Soon, the news would be spread up and down the river and, when that happened, it would make little difference whether the two of them had observed the conventions while traveling on the Rose of Sharon.

  “True,” she answered.

  “If you will allow me, then, I will undertake to concoct a tale that will satisfy the captain temporarily. All you need do is smile, and look … woebegone.”

  Aware of the rain plastering her hair to her head and trickling down the back of her neck, and of the sadly rumpled and stained state of her clothing, no small amount of which was due to the man beside her, she sent him a flashing glance. Her voice flat with sudden weariness, she said, “That should be no problem.”

  What exactly Ramon told the steamboat captain, Lorna did not know, though she overheard some mention of an elopement, and a guardian who did not want his charge to marry a soldier, home these past weeks on sick leave, but scheduled to rejoin his regiment. She was ushered into a stateroom with “Missouri” painted above the door in scrolled letters surrounded by sunflowers. Promising to send a can of hot water at once, the young officer who had been detailed to escort her went away.

  She moved to the small, marble-topped washstand and peered into the mirror that was speckled with damp. With a quick grimace for what she saw, she turned away, lifting her hands to release the pins that held the rain-soaked knot of her hair. A double bed with massive, turned posts took up much of the space in the cramped room. It sat upon a carpet woven in a pattern of blue and red diamonds, leaving scarcely room at the footboard for the door leading onto the deck to swing open. A brass lantern with a bulging base to hold coal oil hung from the ceiling,
its brass shade narrowing the light to a small spot over the foot of the bed, leaving the corners in shadow. Still, even as small and dark as it was, the room was nicer than the common chamber she had shared with her aunt and three other women passengers on the trip upriver to her wedding.

  A knock on the door heralded the arrival of a Negro maid bearing the promised can of steaming water. Directly behind her came Ramon, who held the door for a steward carrying a napkin covered tray. He had, apparently, paid their passage and received some few coins in change, for he pressed one into the hand of each servant before he saw them out.

  “That was generous of you.” Lorna turned away as she spoke. Her hair had uncoiled to lie in a shining rope over her shoulder and down upon one breast. Suddenly ill at ease, she made no attempt to release it further, but carefully placed her hairpins on the washstand, keeping her back to Ramon.

  “Considering the state of my finances? Not really. We will be in New Orleans in a matter of hours, once we begin to move again. I will be able to replenish both wardrobe and purse when we get there.”

  “I see.”

  He watched her for a moment, then moved to touch the brass can holding the water. “Come, let’s get out of these wet things and make use of this while it’s still hot. We can eat later, in bed.”

  He began to remove his shirt. Lorna made no effort to follow his example. His movements slowed. He stepped in front of her and reached to tilt her chin with one finger. “What is it?”

  “I — nothing.” Warm color seeped upward into her cheeks. She kept her lashes lowered, refusing to look at him.

  “Not an attack of modesty, not after what has been between us.”

  She jerked her chin away. Turning from him, she said, “Is that so strange? I hardly know you. It’s one thing to speak of sharing a stateroom, but another to actually be alone here with you.”

  “You have been alone with me for hours,” he pointed out reasonably enough.

  “It seems different somehow.”

  “If you are suggesting that I sleep elsewhere, on deck for instance—” he began in hard tones.

  “No!” She turned swiftly, her gray eyes widening as she realized that the last thing she wanted was to be alone. “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  He stared at her, his dark gaze on the pallor that had crept under her skin, moving to the pure lines of her mouth with its tinge of blue, and the damp, raw silk of her hair shimmering with the quick rise and fall of her breathing. Frowning, he said, “If that is what it will take to please you—”

  “No,” she said again, “only, could you turn your back?”

  He had offered to do that once before. It seemed this time that he would refuse, would take some drastic step to force intimacy upon her. Then, with an abrupt turn, he moved toward the door. His hand on the knob, he sent her a long glance. “I will be back in five minutes. If you are not bathed and in bed then, I’ll put you there myself, modesty or no.”

  It was more like ten minutes before he returned. Her clothing lay draped over a chair. The heavy china basin sat upon the washstand where she had used precisely half the hot water before pouring it away in the slop jar. Her hair, combed out as best she could with her fingers, was spread over the pillow on which she lay, while the covers were pulled up to her chin.

  He closed the door behind him, his gaze flicking over her, resting on the bed on which she lay. “Is it comfortable?”

  “Yes, but cold.”

  There was an obvious retort to her words; she realized it as soon as they were said. He did not make it. Moving to the foot of the bed, he sat down and took off his boots; then, standing again, pulled the shirt from his trousers, removed the studs, and tossed everything onto the washstand. Taking the brass can, he poured water into the bowl.

  Lorna had glanced at him, then looked quickly away as he began to undress. Now, she allowed her gaze to wander back to the broad expanse of his bare back as he leaned to sluice his face in the warm water. His torso was burned brown, as though he was used to going shirtless in the sun. Idly, before she caught herself up, she wondered if the rest of him was the same. His muscles stretched, rippling under his skin as he reached for soap and a cloth. Watching his reflection in the mirror, she noticed a great bruise at his narrow waist and another higher under his heart, the second the place where Nate Bacon had hit him. That this man had held her in the most intimate of embraces, not once, but twice, was amazing. That she had allowed it, had even wanted him to do so, was beyond belief. Moreover, if he were to turn now, if when he got into bed he were to reach for her, she was not certain she would have the will to deny him.

  What power was it he held over her? Was it a mere enslavement of the senses, a need born of desperation? Or was it, could it be, something more? She glanced at his face, reflected in the gray-spotted mirror, and found him watching her. She removed her gaze in haste to the post at the foot of the bed, staring at it as if it were the most fascinating object she had ever beheld. Nor did she look around when he removed his trousers and came to slide between the sheets beside her.

  “Here,” he said, “take this.”

  He had their supper tray in his hands. She struggled upward, clutching at the sheet to cover herself, tucking it under her arms as she held out her hands. He set the tray, instead, on her lap, then took his own pillow, placing it on top of hers so she could lean back. Leaning on one arm, he took away the napkin that covered the food.

  There was fried chicken and boiled potatoes, along with a small loaf of bread, a few pickled peaches in a dish, and half a bottle of wine. It was not sumptuous fare, but it was more than adequate and, considering the times, better than Lorna had expected at this hour. Taking up the plate of chicken, she offered it to Ramon.

  She had forgotten how hungry he must be. His self-control as he took a piece and bit into it was like a rebuke. She felt the urge to apologize for keeping him waiting the few short minutes longer than necessary. She said nothing, however. Breaking off a chunk of bread, she began to eat, discovering in the process that she was famished herself, hungrier than she had been in weeks.

  There was not a morsel left, not even a crumb, when they were through. Ramon tossed aside the remains of a chicken wing and reached for a napkin to wipe his fingers. He surveyed the pile of bones on his plate with a rueful expression before asking, “Did you have enough?”

  She nodded, then, lifting the last of her wine to her lips, swallowed it before placing the glass back on the tray. During the meal, he had shifted to sit up in the middle of the bed with his legs under him like a tailor and the sheet making a tent over his knees. Now, he uncoiled and, taking the tray in one hand, stepped from the bed to place it on the washstand.

  Lorna, watching him, found herself thinking of the depictions of Greek statues she had seen in her uncle’s library. His body had that same muscular grace and perfect proportions, although she feared that a fig leaf would be somewhat inadequate for a covering….

  She looked quickly away, rushing into speech with the first thing that came to mind. “I … I’ve been thinking about tomorrow.”

  “Is there somewhere I can take you, someone who will help you?” He stepped to the foot of the bed and reached up to lower the wick on the lamp, so that the room was plunged in darkness.

  She shook her head, then, realizing that he could not see, said, “No, there is no one.”

  “Friends? Relatives?”

  “No one.”

  “Not even the uncle who came looking for you that evening?”

  “Especially not him.” He did not press it and, because he did not, but only waited, standing there in the dark, she told him briefly of her Uncle Sylvester and Aunt Madelyn, and of what must be their reaction to what she had done.

  “Then, what of tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I thought perhaps you would take me to the convent of the Ursuline nuns, that they might take me in.”

  “You realize you would have to tell them why you are running away?”<
br />
  “Would I? I had not thought.”

  “It would be unfair to expect them to extend their protection otherwise. Even so, I doubt they would be able to keep Nate Bacon from you, or any officer of the law he might bring with him if he chose to seek you out.”

  “He might not think to look for me there.”

  It was a moment before he answered, but then his tone was quiet, reflective. “I am beginning to see that it might well be the first place he would look.”

  “But, what else is there?” she asked, her tone etched with apprehension. “There is little hope of employment; the dressmakers and milliners of New Orleans are not working, for lack of goods or customers to buy. People have shut up their houses and hired their servants out as maids and cleaning women in the few such positions available. In times like these, no one thinks of drawing or composition lessons for their children—”

  “Don’t!” he said harshly. “Try not to think of it. It will do no good now.”

  The bed creaked, tilting in his direction as he got into it. She turned her head toward the sound. “But, how can I not?”

  “Go to sleep. The problems will still be there in the morning, but you will look at them in a different light.”

  “I can’t!” she said, a trace of despair creeping into her voice. “I keep seeing Franklin, lying there after I hit him. His head—”

  There came the rustle of the bed covering as he turned toward her. “Maybe I can help,.”

  Her muscles stiffened at his touch. “What do you mean?”

  “I only want to warm you.”

  “No, I don’t — I’m not cold.” The intimacy with this man that had seemed so natural such a short time ago now felt awkward, clandestine.

  “Liar,” he said with a soft laugh as he slid his hand beneath her, encircling her waist and scooping her across the bed toward him. He turned her with her back to him, fitting her into the curve of his body, so that her hips were pressed against his pelvis and the muscular ridges of his legs lay against her thighs. With care, he tucked the sheet and coverlet under her chin, securing it beneath her shoulder that was against the pillow.