“How do you feel?” he asked, even as he judged for himself. “You are a strong one, I’ll grant you that. Never thought you would make it, as sick as you were yesterday when first I saw you. I must say, I’ve had happier homecomings.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Curling the top edge of the sheet around her fingers, she wondered how long it would be before she was no longer welcome here. The way Vallé had turned away, she didn’t think he would ever invite her back into his bed. She had become a burden to him, one he’d want to be quit of as soon as she was strong enough to leave.
Depressed, she cast a glance at the door, then pasted on a thin, slight smile for the one brother who didn’t seem repulsed by her. Bryce looked at her for a long moment, his strangely familiar blue gaze locked not on her cropped cap of hair, or her cracked lips, but on her eyes. She sat perfectly still as he plumbed their depths, until finally, she shifted uncomfortably beneath his penetrating stare.
He tipped his chin and focused his vision on a point somewhere above her head. “Tell me,” he asked softly. Running a hand across his beard-shadowed jaw, he smiled in self-derision when he realized he’d forgotten to shave. “Are you a woman who prefers sugarcoated lies or the harsh truth?”
“The truth, no matter how bitter,” she told him, infusing as much confidence into her voice as she could muster.
With a bourbon-scented sigh, he moved to the chair and sat, struggling with the wire-stiffened hem of his justacorps and adjusting it to reduce wrinkling. “Tant mieux,” he murmured, breathing heavily. “So much the better. I don’t think I’ve a clear enough head to weave tales, not with but two hours’ sleep and the hair of the dog for breakfast.”
After Vallé’s taciturn silence, Bryce’s candor should have been a welcome change. But when he looked at her with a smile as beautiful as an angel’s, she knew she was right to be wary. There was nothing overtly sexual about it in the least, and yet she felt its latent power down to her core. Inhaling a steadying breath, she let her gaze shy away from his, the piercing blue eyes uncannily familiar and all too knowing.
“Just because Justin and I rub each other the wrong way doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” When he sounded more thoughtful than hopeful, she dared to look at him. His head was canted, his mein more serious. “We are brothers, but we are quite opposite in temperament, as you may have noticed. He frightens gently bred women with his scarred face and fierce expressions while I—I am most happy playing the gallant.”
Bryce’s lips curved in a smile full of secrets. “Our differences seem to either complement each other or make for hellish fights,” he told her bluntly. “Justin dares the world, and I dare him. Like most siblings, we can be best friends and worst enemies in turn. Today,” he admitted, somewhat chagrined, “we seem to be the latter.”
“I am curious, monsieur,” she said slowly, sounding her way in this unknown territory. “Can I expect more days of peace or war during my stay here—wherever here is?”
“Justin didn’t tell you?” Tilting his head, Bryce ran his slightly unfocused gaze over her face then found the thin column of her throat, exposed above the lace-edged neckline of someone else’s chemise. Felicia’s? she wondered, feeling more self-conscious than ever, with her always-slender frame shrunken further by her illness.
Bryce blinked and shook his head, no doubt to clear the fog of alcohol. He looked at her again, in sharper focus, but rather than turn away, repulsed, he sat back, frowning slightly. “I don’t suppose it’s a secret. You’re in my brother’s house on Valhalla, a spit of an island close enough to Île à Vache that once you’re up and about, you won’t want to walk alone on the beach, lest some passing pirate snatch you up and carry you off, ma petite.”
“Île à Vache?” Christiana repeated, feeling her pulse quicken perceptibly. If Mick McGuire had followed instructions, if no one had seized her nor the recent storm delayed her, O’Malley’s ship was anchored there now.
Bryce nodded. After a moment’s pause, he leaned closer, elbows on his knees, his head close enough that he was able to keep his voice low, his words confidential. “As one who hopes to be your friend, I would offer you some advice, mademoiselle, which you may choose to accept or spurn at your own peril. Always—always remember that you are in Justin’s house, on Justin’s island, and at Justin’s whim of mercy. If you need an ally, I’m your man, because everyone else belongs to him, down to their souls—something you’ll soon see for yourself, by the way they worship the water he walks on. I’m the only one who will stand with you against him,” he told her, “and the only man who’ll dare to pick you up when he lets you fall by the wayside.” His beautifully carved mouth tightened grimly. “Some women may be drawn to him, like moths to flame, but he has only one use for them. I would hate to see you burned, too.”
“Too?” she said before she realized it.
Bryce stiffened and shuttered his eyes—but not before she’d seen the anguish that lay hidden behind them. He looked away, rubbing his fists on his thighs, a futile effort to erase the terrible sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. Suspicion gnawed at her, an intuition which seemed very female indeed, and with it came an unwelcome flare of envy. She chided herself for silliness, to be jealous without reason, but when Bryce’s gaze swung back to meet hers, she saw that her theory was right, however much she might wish otherwise. Easily recognizing the pain that could only be inflicted by heartache, Christiana knew why the brothers fought and the name of the woman who had come between them.
Looking away, she cast a glance about the room, a spacious suite whose finely appointed furnishings were fit for the lady of the house. Then she saw the door, not the one to the hall but to an adjoining room. Her stomach churned with realization.
“Oui. That’s Justin’s room.” Bryce murmured it in such a way, she wondered if he couldn’t read thoughts, much like one of the Ursuline sisters she’d had for a teacher, who always knew when someone was cheating.
“And this,” he said, his voice grown thick with emotion, “would have been Felicia’s chambre à coucher…if only she had lived.”
Torn between wanting to ask questions and begging him to say no more, Christiana welcomed the footsteps on the stairs that took the decision from her. Bryce settled himself against the chair back in a pose of indolence, looking for all the world like a bored aristocrat come to pay a morning call on his mistress en déshabillé .
Not wishing to appear as if she were hiding, Christiana placed her arms atop the covers, refusing to draw them up when Vallé came into the room and looked at the two of them with undisguised suspicion. Her chin rose in challenge, daring him to accuse her of plying feminine wiles on Bryce by receiving him without a proper bed jacket when Vallé had seen every inch of her body. The thought, at once mortifying and tantalizing, sent color rising in her cheeks and flooding her chest, forcing Christiana to focus on Vallé’s earring, afraid of what he’d read in her eyes.
His gaze volleyed between the two of them, before bearing down on his brother. “I hope you haven’t been filling her head with nonsense.”
Bryce smiled at him, perversely and quite deliberately, a goad that made Vallé glower blackly. “Of course I have, Justin. I also warned her that the door to your room doesn’t lock.”
Christiana eyed the brothers, sensing undercurrents that ran years deep. These two men tread treacherous waters, and she wasn’t strong enough to fight their tow. Not yet.
“I am certain it does not matter,” she said, silently releasing Vallé, who could not possibly want her now, not like this. “I stay only as long as it takes for us to free O’Malley.”
Bryce snapped his head back to her. “Ian O’Malley?”
Bryce’s gaze went from her dark Irish hair and clear green eyes, to the pale delicate hands and the emerald ring now loose upon her finger.
“I’ll explain downstairs,” Justin said tightly, hoping his brother would not argue the point. He had yet to tell Christiana about the ring’s origin, a
nd there was no way he’d let Bryce break the news and shatter any chance he and Christiana had to rebuild what they’d begun.
“But must I go so soon?” Bryce angled a knowing glance at Christiana, one corner of his mouth lifting in a hint of a private smile, as if they shared a joke on him. “We were just getting acquainted.”
“I’m afraid your tête-à-tête must wait.” Justin spoke softly, but there was an underlying steel to his voice that allowed no dissension.
Bryce’s sly smile widened. He glanced at Christiana. “Eh bien? What did I say?”
“Now,” Justin snapped, his hooded gaze fastened on his brother. “The mademoiselle must rest.”
Mademoiselle, Vallé called her. Generic, impersonal, nonproprietary. He was distancing himself as surely as he’d once drawn her into his embrace and called her ma belle.
“Please go,” Christiana pushed the words past the tightness in her throat. “Both of you.”
Vallé’s frown deepened ominously. Too drunk to give a particular damn, Bryce pushed himself off the chair and managed half a bow. Clicking his heels, he carefully pivoted and launched himself in the direction of the hall door, whistling off key, the notes tripping down the stairs, leaving her alone to face the fury he’d stirred in his brother.
Vallé turned and caught her staring at him. Her throat constricted tightly—and so quickly that she wondered if it had done so in self-defense. “Please,” she rasped, blessedly hoarse. “Might I have some water?”
At her request, some of his anger faded, but there was a coiled tensile strength in each movement he made. She wondered again about the woman who’d come between him and his brother. Who was Felicia, that the mention of her name brought an overwhelming sadness to one brother and bitter rage to the other? More importantly, what would it take to exorcise her ghost and let the breach begin to heal?
Vallé sat beside the bed and held the glass for her, setting it back upon the tray when she was through. “Merci,” she murmured, leaning against the stack of pillows and turning her head, choosing to face the wall rather than let him see how close she was to absurd tears. He’d looked at her in anger, in passion, in triumph, but she’d be damned if she could face his rejection, particularly when lying in another woman’s bed.
“Christiana,” he began, then sighed deeply. “I do not want to leave you alone so soon, but now that your condition has improved, I must see to my ship, provision it for the next time out. I have sent an agent to Port Royal. Until he returns, you must rest and regain your strength—and try to avoid Bryce. Most days, I fear the solace he seeks in a bottle eludes him The more he drinks to numb himself, the sharper his tongue becomes. He’ll cut you to the quick before he knows it and not give a damn that he did. Frankly, he probably won’t remember even if you call him on it. Lord knows I have oft enough.”
Christiana said nothing. How could she begin to empathize when she’d never had a sibling? Growing up with O’Malley as her only blood relation, snot-nosed Jimmy with his chronic sinus trouble was as close to a brother as she’d had. She’d managed to take Jimmy’s teasing and disdain because he was a step removed; he wasn’t kin. Remembering how she’d been secretly hurt by him, and worse, by her fellow students at the convent school, she wondered: How much deeper, then, did wounds go when inflicted by a true brother?
Vallé gave her another drink, then asked if she needed aught else. She shook her head, and he gathered the tray, heading for the door.
“Ring the bell on the table, should you require anything. My housekeeper, Mattie Sharp, has agreed to stay tonight, and I have instructed her to listen for it.”
His housekeeper, thought Christiana, watching him disappear around the corner, listening to his sure-footed tread on the wooden stairs, hearing the unintelligible murmur of hushed conversation that drifted up the steps. She stared at the netting that shrouded the bed, thinking, thinking, wondering if this unknown Mattie had been the one who’d bathed her, dressed her, tended her…and feeling oddly forlorn at the thought.
CHAPTER TEN
Rising from the daily nap that Mattie insisted she take, Christiana went to the bedroom window and drew aside the curtain. In the time she’d been here, it had become a habit to stir herself in time to watch for Vallé’s familiar figure as he walked home from his dockside office after his day’s work.
She hadn’t realized that Vallé had so many legitimate business interests, both in France and in the West India Islands, until Mattie had boasted of them. Bryce had understandably said nothing of the Vallé fortune, since his own situation was diametrically opposed to his brother’s success. Bryce lived, by his brother’s graces, in the quarters above the office, working when he felt like it and spending the rest of his time drinking or gambling away his pay, wanting all that he felt cheated of by circumstances of birth and willing to risk everything on a single turn of the card.
Christiana understood the thrill of it, having been around O’Malley enough to know. He and Bryce were a pair, she mused, addicted to gaming as surely as an opium user craved the fruit of the poppy. But while O’Malley led a charmed life—or had, until he was arrested, Bryce won but little and most days cursed his poor luck. Accusing its fickle goddess of writing on the cards, he preferred to blame abstractions rather than accept responsibility. He stubbornly refused to recognize himself as author of his circumstances.
Vallé no more approved of his brother’s gambling than she did O’Malley’s, and his refusal to help pay Bryce’s increasing debts was a bone of contention between the brothers. The theme was a common after-dinner topic, invariably raised after Christiana had retired to the salon to practice her stitching under Mattie’s patient guidance whilst the men ate fruit and drank wine in the dining room. She’d meet Mattie’s worried gaze when the voices grew loud enough to carry, or when Bryce stormed out of the house, hell bent for harder liquor or bound anywhere men were willing to accept his bon de garantie in exchange for credit.
The gray-haired widow of a foretopman who’d fallen to his death, Mattie worried about the brothers like an adoptive aunt, quietly insisting that the captain worked too hard and prodding Bryce to apply himself better. Christiana merely stood silent, wishing for the impossible, that Vallé would look at her with Bryce’s approval and that Bryce would be quit of his bad habits and fulfill the promise she saw in him. He was intelligent, with a knack for figures and a keen eye for profits, and would do well in private enterprise if he could learn to govern himself. The amount of liquor he consumed was staggering.
Vallé, on the other hand, drank little, as if seeing what his brother was doing to himself was enough to drive him to sobriety, even temperance. But when Bryce chose to display his considerable masculine charm, Christiana knew that Vallé would not stop with one glass of wine. No, he’d listen until he could stand no more, then take a bottle and closet himself, waiting until Bryce was gone before emerging from the library that served as a second office at home.
Vallé had built his house with a commanding view of the harbor, selecting a site halfway up one of the rolling hills that comprised this miniature Eden. From her window, Christiana could look over the roofs of mostly one-story homes and cottages and see the loading dock, Vallé’s office, and an adjacent wharfside storehouse. Looking past a massive warehouse that was under construction, she could see where the turquoise water lapped the white sand beaches, fringed with swaying palms. Bathed by trade winds, the grassy emerald slopes rose gently to brush against azure skies. Flocks of parrots flew in the late afternoon, careening over the narrow paths made by the goats that provided milk, meat, and cheese for the inhabitants.
To be sure, this verdant island, this Valhalla, was almost as striking to the eye as her native Ireland. To the north, spring water trickled from its source in the hills, tumbling over rocks and collecting in mossy grottoes that were framed by jungle vegetation possessing an untamed, savage beauty. Wild orchids of every color bloomed in profusion, along with frangipani, jasmine, sage, red hibiscus, and y
ellow tube flowers. The bountiful indigenous flora was a veritable banquet for at least ten different kinds of hummingbirds that she’d counted. They hovered at every turn, constantly seeking their repast.
Birds far outnumbered the human population here, feasting on the insects that swarmed and bit and made for misery, with vinegar baths and applications of witch hazel easing the itch only in part. Hundred of scarlet ibises ventured towards the dock by day, only to return to the stand of mangroves on the far side of the island shortly before dusk. Most of Vallé’s men stayed on board the four ships now anchored in the harbor, performing maintenance work and preparing for their next mission. Women were rarer yet, but would usually be seen near the wharf, the center of activity on Vallé’s island paradise. One or two watched over the children, keeping a lookout for less friendly island inhabitants—the anacondas and pythons she’d been warned about—while the youngsters helped catch crabs and gathered coconuts, mangoes, and wild bamboo.
Looking towards the harbor, Christiana saw both brothers heading for the wide rock steps that led to the house. They appeared to be on speaking terms, but she knew that situation could change more quickly than a fickle wind. Downstairs, before her nap, she’d helped Mattie set the table; now she hurried to see if dinner was nearly done. Mattie had confided that the Captain, as she called Vallé, liked nothing better than a tender steak and she’d been fortunate enough to secure some beef.
Christiana opened the back door of the house’s spacious central hall and looked out to the separate cuisine, where she could see Mattie through the opened kitchen door. “How soon?” she called. When Mattie did not respond, she crossed the covered walkway to check for herself.
Mattie was making too much noise to hear, Christiana quickly learned, clanging pans and stirring the savory vegetables and herbs she’d prepared to go with the steaks that were laid to one side, keeping warm, while she finished the rest of the meal.
Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1 Page 11