Gallant Match

by Jennifer Blake

  They had made love for reasons that had little to do with desire and nothing to do with permanency. She had required an excuse to avoid marriage; he had wanted a pretext for a challenge. That neither had worked out as envisioned made no difference since the end was much the same. She had avoided being wed and Kerr had brought low the man who caused the death of his brother. What need was there to touch and hold, to kiss or to sleep in each other’s arms?

  Sonia clenched her hands into such tight fists that a seam split in her glove. She looked down, smoothing the gap in the leather, forcing her fingers to lie flat on the railing.

  “I do wish Monsieur Tremont could have sailed with us,” Tante Lily was saying. “I quite see that it will be best to transport his prisoner in an American vessel, of course. I only hope he isn’t forced to wait in port for the invasion force he seems certain will come.”

  “No, indeed,” Sonia said, following her aunt’s train of thought with desperate concentration. How strange it seemed to think of Tremont as an agent of the United States government, or that the shipment of arms out of New Orleans could be important enough to warrant sending him to investigate the traffic in guns to Mexico. Now Jean Pierre was being held in Tremont’s custody for the crime.

  What would have happened to her, or to Kerr, if Tremont had not been on hand? She didn’t care to think about it.

  “You are not still holding a grudge for his abduction of you? He explained his reasons quite well, I felt. I should think you would be grateful it was he who took you and not another of Jean Pierre’s hirelings. I shudder to think of the insult you might have suffered, or what injury might have been done to Monsieur Wallace.”

  “I doubt I would have been harmed. I was Jean Pierre’s bride-to-be, after all.” About Kerr, she was less certain. His death during the abduction would have been most convenient.

  Alex Tremont had volunteered to remove her from the diligence, in part to make certain she was unharmed, but also because he had grown suspicious of Jean Pierre’s intentions. He had taken Kerr’s measure aboard the Lime Rock, so he said, and was disinclined to allow him to be murdered out of hand. She and Kerr owed the American agent a great deal, when all was taken together.

  “I never quite understood the business of the rifles,” her aunt complained. “I realize Monsieur Rouillard was importing them into Mexico in partnership with Santa Ana’s party. Still, Monsieur Tremont told us himself of their presence aboard the Lime Rock when we were hardly out of the Mississippi. Yes, and while Monsieur Wallace was there, as I recall. Did he really believe he might be involved?”

  “Apparently so, until he came to know Kerr. Later, when he learned of the enmity between him and Jean Pierre, he knew it was quite impossible that they were working together. In any case, the arms were under the eye of Monsieur Tremont to serve as a trap for Jean Pierre. There was scant danger of them being used against American troops.”

  “Then the steamer was sunk by the Mexican man-of-war as it attempted to retrieve them. Quel dommage.”

  “Actually, the captain of the man-of-war had no idea they were aboard. His mission was to take the American commissioner traveling with us into custody, in part as a hostage, but also to discover what he knew of American plans in the event of war.”

  “So it was all a tragedy.”

  “That the arms sank with the Lime Rock was unfortunate, yes, since it removed Monsieur Tremont’s excuse for meeting with Jean Pierre. I believe he called upon him to explain the loss, and so the results were the same.”

  “He was taken up with the other passengers when we were rescued,” her aunt said, “but I never saw him questioned.”

  “He kept his identity concealed from Mexican authorities, he said. I believe the American commissioner may have aided him in that regard.”

  “Indeed. I’ve never seen such a to-do as that gentleman made when we reached port. He waved his official papers in everyone’s face, demanding to be allowed to return to his country at once and threatening all manner of reprisal against the captain of the Mexican man-of-war for daring fire on civilians, yes, and for sinking a merchant vessel of U.S. registry as well.”

  “A good point.”

  “Yes.” Tante Lily gave a theatrical shudder. “Let us hope they are more careful of those registered in Spain.”

  Sonia could only echo the sentiment.

  Though they saw several ships on their first two days at sea, none appeared to take the slightest notice of them, much less prove hostile. They made good time, clipping along at five or six knots with a fair wind behind them. Supposing it held, they could expect to be in Havana in something just over a week’s time.

  It didn’t hold.

  The winds turned southeasterly, then died away altogether. The sails emptied and hung slack. They were becalmed.

  There followed hours of hope when they made some little progress. These were succeeded by days when they were pushed off course and lost all they had gained. After a week at sea, they could still sometimes catch sight of the peak of Citlaltépetl shining like silver as the sun struck its white snowcap, proof positive they had actually returned to Mexican waters.

  The heat was trying, alleviated only somewhat by the cat’s paws of wind that now and then rippled the water. Tempers grew short. Fights broke out among the seamen, and the men who gambled away the time in the gentlemen’s sleeping cabin often came to blows.

  The week at sea became two, and then leaned toward three. On the seventeenth day, the ship’s cook, tired of complaints about the fare he put on the table, went temporarily mad and tried to cut off various body parts of his helper with a meat cleaver. On the eighteenth day, it was discovered that an importer of women’s sundries from Paris was sleeping in the men’s common room wearing nothing except a cream silk shawl with rose-red flowers and gold fringe. On the nineteenth day, Sonia woke with a queasy stomach and, counting back, realized it was highly possible she was going to have a baby.

  Arriving in Havana ceased to be important. The greater the delay, the better, or so it seemed, since it meant more time to think before facing her father.

  He would be livid. Never in this life would he understand the sequence of events that had led to this conclusion, much less his part in them. The reasons would not matter to him. He would only consider the scandal and how it was to be avoided.

  Her papa would doubtless send her away again. She would be shipped forthwith to France or Italy, someplace with an accommodating convent where young women like her could have their babies and leave them with the nuns. Or else she would be married off to anyone who would have her.

  As a future, neither course recommended itself to Sonia.

  She considered telling Kerr. He had some right to know that he was to be a father, after all. It might make a difference in how he felt toward her.

  Oh, but she had no wish to force the obligation upon him. That she had conceived was an accident of nature. There was no need for him to change his life or his future because of it.

  Hers would be changed; it was inevitable. Yet what did it matter? After these past weeks, she would never be the same again.

  Still, suppose the possibility was important to him? He was a man of deep emotions, stringent concern. Suppose he cared?

  Back and forth in her mind she went, back and forth. When the winds finally turned and they sailed free, finally passing El Morro Castle and into the harbor at Havana, she was no closer to a decision.

  Their luck changed in the Spanish city with its sleepy streets and mellow church bells. A steamer was leaving within twenty-four hours, and carried empty bunks. They barely had time to complete the formalities of landing and transfer their meager baggage before it would be time to board again.

  Suddenly events moved with furious speed. The Spanish officials stamped their papers, signed them with elegant scrawls, affixed a plethora of ribbons and gold seals and waved them on their way. They had a decent meal at an inn, slept a little and had their laundry done, then made their wa
y back to the quay. The packet steamed out of the harbor and over a sunlit sea, making record time toward New Orleans.

  Soon, too soon, the yellow-brown waters of the Mississippi River invaded the blue of the gulf and they were drawn up its mighty flow as if through a giant straw. The stunted oaks, shell mounds and endless sea of saw grass of the lower reaches gave way to moss-draped giants dressed in summer green. Plantation houses appeared amid fields of waving cane and shining cotton. Fishing shacks drifted past, giving way to flatboats and warehouses until finally they rounded the great crescent that marked the city. And there were the endless ranks of steamers ready to sail, the ships at anchor, the bobbing dinghies, canoes and pirogues. There was the dear and dusty Place d’Armes and the beloved cathedral. There was home.

  No one was on the dock to meet them. Her father did not know they were returning, much less when they would arrive. Time in Havana had been too short to write, since they had been certain to arrive before a letter. Sonia could have written from Vera Cruz in the days while they waited for a ship, but what could she say? To explain on paper was too difficult, too open to misunderstanding. All that was left, then, was to gather their belongings once more, her and Tante Lily, and descend the gangway. They might as well walk the short distance to the town house since they had so little to carry.

  Sonia turned away from watching the steamer dock. Picking up her skirts, she moved back in the direction of the cabin where Tante Lily was packing.

  “Wait.”

  Sonia halted, her throat tightening at the sound of that deep, rough voice. Her lips trembled into a polite smile of the kind she and Kerr had been exchanging for days as she made herself face him.

  “Were you going to leave without a word, without even a polite goodbye?”

  He leaned on the bulkhead with one shoulder, his hat in his hand and a small valise at his feet. The breeze off the river ruffled his hair into a wild mane and narrowed his eyes to silver gleams. He was far too attractive, and too dear, to be dismissed, and she didn’t try.

  “No, never.” She stepped toward him, holding out her hand. “I am pleased to have this chance to thank you yet again, monsieur. You have been everything that is kind and generous on this journey, the perfect escort. I owe you more than I can ever repay. And you may be sure that I shall never…never forget you.”

  He took her hand, lifted it to his lips as he executed the graceful bow he had learned at some point during their venture together. “That sounds as if you expect never to see me again.”

  “Does it?” She had thought she probably never would, except perhaps from a distance. Abruptly, that seemed insupportable. Her ambivalence of the past several days fell away as if it had never been. Between one breath and the next, between her greeting and farewell, she knew what she must do. “I do apologize,” she went on with scarcely a pause. “There is one last duty as my escort and protector that you may perform, if you will.”

  The straight line of his mouth lifted into a wry smile, one that brought the slashing dimple in his cheek to life. “Command me.”

  “Command me…”

  She felt a little faint as her memory brought forth the last time he had said those words. Her face went hot, and she thought her very bones would melt. The answering heat in his gaze gave her hope, and courage. “I would be grateful if you would see me and my aunt to the town house.”

  He sobered. “I’ll be—”

  “This isn’t a part of the job you undertook, I know,” she went on before he could say more. “I’m sure you have other things to do, other things you’re anxious to see about now that you’re here.”

  “Truly, mademoiselle…”

  “It isn’t that I’m afraid to face Papa or to confess that I’m not married, or even—”

  He released her hand, placed a finger to her lips. “I never intended anything else,” he said when she fell silent. “Your father should have a report from me of just what happened in Vera Cruz.”

  “You meant to come.”

  “I would not leave you to face him alone.”

  “You feel responsible. I might have known.”

  He hesitated, then gave a determined nod and clapped his hat on his head. “It’s time we put this behind us. I’ll be at the top of the gangway when you’re ready.”

  He meant to go on with his life once his part in the arrest of Jean Pierre was explained, once she was settled. She could hardly blame him. Still, she had one last chance left to make things right. Pray to le bon Dieu it was enough.

  Twenty-Nine

  Tante Lily’s smile was roguish as she came toward him, as if she knew a secret but would not tell. Kerr gave her a bow and took the carpetbag she carried, but looked immediately to Sonia who walked a step or two behind her aunt.

  He had been right earlier. She was pale again this morning, and her gown, admittedly not from the hands of the most fashionable modiste in the world, was looser than it had been when they left Vera Cruz. She had not been eating well, this he knew; little she had said or done in the past weeks had escaped his notice. Her skin was so translucent he could see the network of blue veins under it, and the shadows under her eyes matched the lavender ribbons that tied her bonnet.

  Kerr frowned as he thrust her aunt’s bag under his arm, picked up hers and his own valise in the other and followed her and her aunt down the gangway. She was not looking forward to the confrontation with her father, he was sure, but he hadn’t thought she’d make herself sick worrying over it.

  He should have been more attentive. She had seldom been out of his sight, but he had kept as far from her as possible and still be on the same ship. To be near made him ache to touch her, to touch her made him ache to have her, to feel that desperate need was to act upon it—and that wouldn’t do. He had served his purpose for her in that manner. She needed nothing more from him. And he couldn’t breathe the same air and be satisfied with less.

  He’d thought it best that he keep his distance. Now he wasn’t so sure. She still might have need of a protector.

  At the foot of the gangway, he handed off the bags he carried to a pair of young black boys hanging around for that kind of custom, passing out a coin with each bag and directing them to the proper addresses. Giving an arm to each of the ladies, he headed toward the rue Royale.

  It occurred to him, when halfway to the town house, that Monsieur Bonneval might not have returned from his trip upriver. Sufficient time had passed for the journey itself, but there was no way of knowing how long his business might have required. The question in Kerr’s mind was whether the expedition might have some bearing on his association with Rouillard. If so, the gentleman needed to be made aware of certain facts. He also required instruction in the worth of his daughter and how she should be treated.

  The carpetbags of the ladies arrived at the town house before them. Kerr flipped the boys who had brought them another coin, then followed Sonia and her aunt inside. The butler, called Eugene by Tante Lily as he grinned a welcome, mounted the stairs ahead of them with the bags while telling them over his shoulder that Monsieur Bonneval was in the salon. He left them at the door to that chamber, which stood open to the mild air of early summer.

  Sonia’s papa had heard them coming, it seemed. He was on his feet when they stepped through the door, a ponderous frown pleating the skin between his brows. Folding his news sheet with precision, he set it on the table beside his chair before coming toward them.

  “What is this?” he asked in blank reproof as he exchanged bows with Kerr, kissed his sister-in-law on either cheek and performed the same perfunctory ritual for his daughter. “Please tell me you have not thrown away the expense of your wedding journey and your trousseau and shamed the man you were to marry. Explain to me at once why you are here instead of with Jean Pierre in Mexico.”

  Sonia turned white and swayed where she stood. Kerr, taking her arm, guided her to a settee and stationed himself behind its back. It was Tante Lily who rustled forward, answering as if the extraordin
ary questions had actually been civil. “You would not believe the adventures we have had, monsieur! What frights, what indescribable terrors. We have been shot at by a Mexican warship, shipwrecked—”

  “Shipwrecked, madame?”

  “But, yes. You are amazed, as who would not be, but I swear it’s the truth.” She walked to the bellpull beside the fireplace and gave it a tug. “I was myself taken prisoner aboard the Mexican man-of-war as well, and that is only the beginning. Let us have sherry and perhaps cake and savories to sustain us, and you shall hear all about it.”

  The recital took place much as Tante Lily outlined. She did most of the talking, applying to Sonia or to Kerr only on rare occasions as an aid to memory. An excellent job she did of it, too, sidestepping all mention of his and Sonia’s separate escape from capture. That was, until she got to the part where the two of them arrived at Rouillard’s place, and he was clapped in a makeshift cell.

  “One moment, if you please,” Bonneval said, raising his hand to call a halt, his gaze searching Kerr’s face. “Why was this? What cause had you given for it?”

  “None,” Kerr answered, his voice a low growl.

  “I find that difficult to believe. Monsieur Rouillard is not an unreasonable man.”

  Sonia’s aunt drew breath, her eyes snapping with annoyance, but it was Sonia who replied.

  “On the contrary, Papa, he is so unreasonable he thought he could get away with running guns to Mexico, also with abducting me and trying to have Kerr killed. You arranged my betrothal to a scoundrel, one who has been arrested for his crimes.”

  “Ridiculous. I will hear no further such insult on your lips. But there is something here I don’t understand.” He turned to Tante Lily. “Where was Monsieur Wallace that he did not arrive with you, madame? How could Rouillard have cause to put him in chains when he had never set eyes on him? What possible reason could he have for such action?”