An oath, harsh, little more than an unbelieving grunt, came from among the limbs of the tree. A man stood there, though he was no more than a solid shadow in the dimness. Lorna, startled herself, spoke a musical good evening. The man did not answer, but stood staring after her as she walked on toward the entrance of the hotel. She was in her room, preparing to ring for supper, when finally she placed the voice. The man who had been so surprised, so shocked to see her, was Nate Bacon.
She got an early start the next day. She called first on Sara Morgan to report the success of her mission, and found that lady feeling well enough to be thinking of returning to England as soon as she had hired a nurse to care for her on the journey. The task of aiding the Confederacy, she said, could not be carried out in Nassau. Lorna was almost of the opinion that her own task of finding a room was also impossible in Nassau.
Her efforts took her along Bay Street a number of times. She was there to see the Bonny Girl arrive and to hear from a stevedore the story of how she had been chased ninety miles off course by a federal cruiser before she could haul for home. From a distance, she saw Ramon. It appeared that he was making the Lorelei ready to run again, despite the fact that the moon had changed. Three days to unload and take on another cargo was considered dispatch, she knew, which meant that he would probably be taking the ship out again in two days' time. That information was the sole result of her day.
She saw Peter the following afternoon. His ship had sustained a hit near the waterline that had caused problems with the engine. With the delay for repairs, he would not be going out again. She did not mention her quest. He might have been able to help, but he still believed, or pretended to, in the polite fiction of her uncle who paid her expenses. Since she was not prepared to confide in him, she could see no point in raising questions to which she could tender no truthful answers.
She was having breakfast on the morning of the third day, sitting alone at a table on the terrace, when she saw Nate Bacon again. He noticed her at the same time and changed his course, coming to stand with one hand resting on the stiffly starched white linen of her table, the other holding his high-crowned hat, and his back to the sun.
"You are looking well, Lorna," he said, his voice grave. "You are rested from your trip to Wilmington?" She ignored his pleasantry, reaching for the knife to butter her roll. "How did you know I had gone?"
"There must be few in Nassau who don't know. Cazenave is the hero of the hour in Nassau, one of the dashing blockade runner captains who can do no wrong, and this is a small place, a provincial backwater. You were seen boarding his ship, and seen returning. The only question is whether you went for love or for money."
"I beg your pardon!"
"Forgive me, I put that badly," he said, his voice bland, though the look in his pale blue eyes was not. "I meant to say there was some idea that you may have had an investment in the run, since you are known to be living here on the bounty of a wealthy uncle."
He meant her to know he was aware of the lies that secured her place in Nassau society. But, could it be that his snide remarks also indicated his ignorance of her real purpose in traveling on Ramon's ship? Whatever the reason for them, she had no intention of being drawn out. His reaction to her return had caused a virulent suspicion that he might have some knowledge of how the federals had come to learn of her trip as a courier. She could think of no way to prove or to persuade him to admit it, however. She turned her attention to his question.
"Let us say," she said, a smile curving her mouth with a hint of fond remembrance, "that I went along for the pleasure."
His face darkened, but the waiter, a long apron tied about his waist and covering his dark trousers, approached to refill her coffee cup, and Nate could not speak for long moments. When the man had gone, Nate put his hand on the back of the chair across from her, saying abruptly, "May I join you?"
She looked at the chair, then raised a limpid gaze to his face. "I think not."
"You little bitch," he said softly.
It was odd that his virulence left her unmoved. Not so long ago, she would have been upset, thrown into dismay. Now, she calmly picked up her coffee cup. "If that is the way you feel, I'm surprised that you care to speak to me."
"I would like to do more than that to you."
"That would be difficult here in public. I suggest you go, before I call the waiter and tell him you are annoying me."
He stood staring down at her. There was a quality of menace in his silence that affected her much more than his threats. She wished she could see his expression, but the glare of the sun behind him made his features dim. She set down her cup and it rattled in the saucer. Turning her head, she looked about her for the waiter.
"All right, I'm going," Franklin's father said, "but this isn't the end of it. I thought I could ignore you, since you were so well guarded; that I could get on with transferring my holdings into gold and strike out for Yankee country. There were things more important than a beautiful blonde bitch, even if she did kill my son. I thought I could see to it you paid the price, and that would satisfy me. I was wrong. There's something unfinished between us, and I mean to finish it."
She gave an unsteady laugh. "Fine words. The people of Nassau have little use for people who trade with the Yankees. The government here, to say nothing of the men in gray I've seen, might be interested in knowing your plans. I would be careful if I were you."
"Are you threatening me, Lorna? I hope not. It would be most unwise, considering your own past."
She traced the rim of her coffee cup with a finger. "I wonder who they would be most interested in, a murderess or a traitor?"
"I somehow doubt," he said, a savage undertone to his humor, "that we will find out. On the other hand, you can be sure that I will get my hands on you, alone, someday. Soon."
He left her, striding from the terrace back into the dining room. After a time, Lorna picked up her fork, pushing at the piece of pineapple left on her plate. She bit into her roll, but it was dry, nearly choking her. Lifting her coffee cup, she sipped at the liquid. It was cold and bitter.
Lorna's encounter with Nate left her disturbed, chilled in spirit. She could not seem to bring herself to consider what she must do. She kept to her room, tending to her scanty wardrobe, rinsing out a few things, sending others to be laundered. She stared out the French doors, watching the harbor; looked over the books she had brought from Ramon's shelf in the cabin, and paced, stopping now and then-too often for her peace of mind-to stare at the portraits of Peter and Ramon and herself that had been made that day in Wilmington.
It was a comfort to have the guards in the hall and at the end of the veranda, all within call. She had been inclined to resent their presence when they had reappeared on her return, had been tempted to send them away with a sharp message for Ramon. No longer.
If she were able to find another place, would her guards follow her? Would Nathaniel Bacon? Or would she be safer, more anonymous, away from the hotel? She could not decide, and so abandoned the idea of looking further that day. Instead, she concentrated on the prospect of employment. An idea formed slowly in the back of her mind, one connected with Peter's frequent lament concerning his ever-declining supply of shirts. She would have to present it to Mrs. Carstairs to see what she thought.
It was peculiar that she had not heard from the Lansings since her return. Or perhaps it was not. She had suspected it was Ramon who had insisted on her name being added to their guest list. If he no longer pressed it, then Charlotte and Elizabeth would doubtless be glad to overlook her. That she should feel hurt by the omission was silly. She was nothing to the Lansings, nor they to her. Instead of letting herself be seduced by such petty concerns, she had best be trying to remedy her situation, even if it had grown late in the day.
Mrs. Carstairs was not in. The door of her shop was wreathed in black crepe, and the maid who answered said that she had been called away to one of the out islands, to Abaco, she thought, for the funeral of a relative.
As she was turning away, a carriage pulled up.
It was Peter who jumped down and strode toward her. "There you are! They said at the hotel that you had gone out, and I've been looking for you everywhere. Come on, we haven't a moment to waste."
"What is it?" she asked, as he took her arm and hustled her toward the carriage.
"There's an opera troupe in town on their way to Boston. They will stage one performance of Verdi's La Traviata, and one only. We don't want to miss it!"
They didn't, though Lorna flung herself into her gown with only the most sketchy rinse of her face, and they snatched a dinner of fried grouper and chips at a stand near the docks, eating them with their fingers while the carriage rolled away. The music was marvelous, the soprano who sang the difficult role of Violetta, the tragic Lady of the Camellias, superb. The ending brought tears to Lorna's eyes, even as she took pleasure in the evening's escape from her own problems. Peter took out his handkerchief and, complaining in mock exasperation, dried her tears with gentle care.
It was while they were moving slowly toward the exit doors, caught in the crush of people made more difficult by the enormous circumference of the ladies' skirts, that Lorna saw Ramon. He was escorting Charlotte, with Elizabeth moving ahead of them on the arm of a man in the extremely correct evening attire of a diplomat. Edward Lansing and his wife followed. Ramon was staring at Lorna with clenched jaws. As he met her gaze, he looked away to Peter, and the expression that smouldered for a moment in his eyes was murderous.
Charlotte, chatting away, noticed suddenly that his attention had wandered. She followed his gaze, and a haughty mien descended upon her. She looked through Lorna as if she were not there, then tapped Ramon's arm with her fan in an imperious gesture, so at odds with her usual vivacity that it made her seem extremely young. He turned back at her summons, bending his dark head as he listened to her.
Lorna felt herself go hot, then cold. Charlotte had cut her as if she had been a social pariah. Such a thing had never happened to her. She could not believe it. Was it possible she had been mistaken? Could it be that the younger Lansing sister had been moved by spite because she knew Lorna had gone with Ramon to Wilmington? That must be it.
It might be cowardly, but she would as soon not give Elizabeth and her mother the opportunity to treat her in the same manner. She wondered if Peter had seen. She sent him a glance from under her lashes as they reached the door, and saw that his long, narrow face was set in lines of unguarded anger. With his usual quickness, he caught her oblique regard Forcing a smile, he began to complain in put-upon tones of people who could not bear to miss any entertainment offered, who were inconsiderate enough to fill up the aisles of theaters and music halls, and snarl traffic with all their carriages when he wanted to get to his.
He fell silent when they reached the hotel. With his hand under her elbow, he moved with her across the lobby and up one side of the double staircase. Lorna, trailing her fingers along the mahogany railing, was aware of his preoccupation as they reached the first landing and rounded the upper newel to mount the second flight of stairs. By the time they had mounted to the third floor, the feeling had become oppressive. She nodded to the uniformed Negro guard who stood in the hall halfway between the door of her room and the arched entrance to the piazza, murmuring a quiet good night. Tall and slender, but wiry, he answered respectfully. His gaze remained on the man at her side, however, a fact of which Peter, from his glance of irritation, was well aware. At her door, he took her key and inserted it into the lock, turning it. With his hand on the knob, preventing her entering, he said, "Lorna, I must talk to you."
"All right," she answered.
"Seriously, my love."
Something portentous in his manner warned her this would indeed be no light discussion, even as she heard the lilt of humor in his endearment. "Oh."
He sighed. "Your joy and anticipation unmans me, but I will persevere. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night, here in the hotel dining room?"
She stared up at him, meeting his dark blue gaze with an uncomfortable feeling of guilt. "You have been good to me, Peter, and I like you, but I hope I've given you no reason to think-"
He shook his head. "Very little. But, I would as soon not discuss it here with your watchdog looking over my shoulder. Dinner?"
"Yes, I suppose so." How could she refuse so reasonable a request? She had the feeling that she should have done so, but it was too late now.
He pushed open her door, then took her hands, pressing his lips to first one, then the other with an endearing lack of self-consciousness, for an Englishman. Releasing her, he stepped back. His voice low, he said, "Until then."
"Yes. Good night, Peter."
He did not reply, but stood watching her as she closed the door. It was a moment before she heard his footsteps receding, fading down the hall.
It was a warm night, giving a hint of the summer to come. Lorna wandered to the washstand and put down her purse, then began removing her gloves. Throwing them down, she moved to the French doors and set them wide to the night air, leaving the jalousies open since there was so little wind stirring. She stood for a moment, staring out at the scattered lights of the city, watching the riding lights on a ship at anchor in the harbor, a coal barque from Newcastle she thought, ready to restock the bunkers of the ships in the harbor. Some of the runners would be leaving tonight, perhaps even the Lorelei.
She swung from the French doors. She felt unsettled, on edge. She didn't want to think of Ramon and his ship, or of Peter, of what had occurred this evening, or the untenable position in which she found herself. She wished with sudden fierceness for oblivion. The thought of laudanum drops, such as her aunt had sometimes given her daughters for headaches, toothaches, and their monthly cramping, registered briefly. She had none, however, and no way of getting any at this time of night. Perhaps a bath would soothe her disturbed senses and provide a degree of composure. It must at least help her to feel fresher.
The only trouble was that after the long trek to the bathroom and her submersion in the tepid water, all that was available at that time of night, she was even wider awake than before. Wearing her nightgown of handkerchief lawn with small cap sleeves and a low-cut, tucked bodice fastened with tiny pearl buttons, she settled down beneath the mosquito netting to try to read.
It was difficult at first, but slowly she became absorbed. Time crept past. At last, her eyes began to burn. Putting the book aside, she blew out the lamp, adjusting the sheet over the lower half of her body, and closed her eyes.
As if at a signal, it began, the haunting melody of a guitar coming through the open doorway. Lorna sat up to listen. She had not heard it since her return from the run. She had missed it at first, that midnight serenade, then had thought no more of it. Now, the leashed passion of it seemed to strike inside her, tearing at her emotions. It soared in fervent rapture, then sank to throbbing anguish; it commanded and enticed, grated in vital dominance and shredded her heart with such piercing sweetness that she felt the rise of tears-and something more, the flaming touch of desire.
Flinging herself back down on the bed, she caught her pillow and turned onto her stomach with it held over her head to blot out the sound. Still, she heard it, almost as if the sound could penetrate the sensitive surface of her skin, vibrating inside her mind, seeping into the marrow of her bones. She cringed inside, torn with a longing that she could not deny, with the need of one man. How could she feel so about him when she could not respect him, when she despised his grasping and cynical nature? It was degrading that she could not control her mental and physical responses. Memories stalked her of Ramon's arms about her, his mouth upon hers, his hands.…With a stifled moan, she drew up her knees, curling into a ball, her raised arms pressing the pillow to her ears.
She was not sure when the music stopped. Had it died away gradually or ended with an abrupt flurry of chords? The echoes of it seemed to resound in her ears still, though she knew it for nothing more than an errant fan
cy. Slowly, she rolled to her back. She released the pressure on the pillow, staring wide-eyed into the dark, listening. No, the serenade was over; she could sleep. Sighing, she relaxed and let her eyelids fall shut.
The noise came a few minutes later. Like the rattle of metal against wood, it had a familiar sound. It seemed to come from outside, at some distance down the veranda, perhaps even on the piazza. Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown. She had heard something similar not too long before. It was not a common noise, not something you heard every day. Where had she heard it? When? She could not recall. How maddening, when it was such a simple thing. Lately, she had been here at the hotel, and aboard the Lorelei, of course. The squeaks and moans and rattles of a ship were a bit unusual, but fairly constant things. The whining and explosions of shelling had been new, startling, quite unlike anything….
It couldn't be. It couldn't. Her mind was playing tricks. And yet, she would swear that rattle of metal on wood, suddenly cut off, was exactly like the sound made by the grappling hooks the federals had thrown to secure their small craft against the side of the Lorelei before boarding. Sharp-pronged, the grapnels had bitten into the wood of the deck railing before being pulled taut by their attached ropes.
Her breath caught in her throat. She sat up, swinging her legs from the bed, starting toward the French doors. At that moment, a shadow moved in the opening, detaching from the darkness of the night, etched against the gray velvet of the sky. It was the height, the shape, of a man.
She drew breath to scream. At that first soft sound, he swung toward her, launching himself at her white shape in the dimness. A hard arm snaked around her waist, bruising her ribs as he snatched her off her feet, dragging her backward against him. His hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her cry. She writhed in his arms, painfully aware of how powerless she was against his superior strength. Ignoring her struggles, he held her. She felt his chest shudder in what might have been a laugh of satisfaction. He leaned to whisper against her ear.
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