Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  Meanwhile, she had Vallé to contend with. She’d been so sure he no longer wanted her, and then last night….

  Last night. When he’d taken her in his arms and buried his body in hers and spilled himself inside her and she’d wanted nothing more than to stay forever in his arms.

  Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.

  How could she sit at dinner, eat his food and drink his wine, knowing where the evening would end? When she met his eyes and saw what he would expect of her, how could she hide her feelings and feign ignorance, now that she knew the truth? How could she share his bed and pretend it was all that she wanted too?

  Somehow…somehow, she must carry on as if nothing had changed. No one—not Mattie, not Vallé—must guess any differently.

  She composed herself before rejoining Mattie, who was still at the McBride house, helping Comfort bandage a recalcitrant child. Christiana waited until they were done and Mattie was free to take the spyglass.

  “Thank you.” Christiana held it out, and was dismayed to see how badly her hand shook. Mattie and Comfort noted it, too, their faces registering concern. Thinking quickly, she looked toward the dock, where Bryce was preparing to cast off. “I’ll be fine,” she told them, “once he’s gone.”

  “Ye’re certain ye’re all right?” asked Comfort.

  All right? Would she ever be all right? Perhaps, she told herself, managing a small nod and enough of a forced smile to ease the frowns on the other women. She’d never backed down from a dare, and she faced a challenge from which she could not walk away—not with her future, and O’Malley’s, riding on the outcome.

  “Good riddance,” Comfort muttered, casting her turquoise gaze towards the departing yawl. “I rest easier abed when tha’ mon is off island. No offense, Widow Sharp,” she added when Mattie bristled. “I ken how much ye care fer both o’ the brothers.”

  “That I do,” Mattie admitted tiredly. “My David would have been their age, if he’d lived. But he was a fey child, too bright for this world.” She gave a heartfelt sigh and explained to Christiana. “He went home with the angels afore he were six years of age.”

  Christiana felt her own heart wrench at Mattie’s revelation. She had no idea that the widow had once been a mother. She didn’t want to think about what it must be like, to have a child, then lose it. And she could see, from the look on Comfort’s face, the thought was particularly troubling for the expectant mother.

  Mattie noticed, too, and Christiana sensed the softening in her. Vallé’s housekeeper might not approve of Comfort’s circumstances, but she had warmed to the surgeon’s daughter. Both of them had special spots for children in their compassionate hearts.

  Mattie broke the moment of shared silence. “The Captain won’t be back ashore until dinner. Why don’t I fix lunch,” she offered, “for the three of us? I’ve a nice hen, ready to dress. You can help Comfort here, and I’ll bring everything down when it’s ready.”

  Christiana welcomed the chance to feel needed. As governess, she had instructed, guided, and cared for the three youngest Joberts. Now she put her skills to use, engaging and entertaining the children waiting to be examined and treated. While Christiana sang nursery songs and a few of the tamer sea chanteys, Comfort bound wounds, pulled splinters and shards, and treated contusions. The short line in front of the McBride’s house dwindled, then disappeared.

  Comfort rubbed her aching back and worked the tension from her forehead.

  “Why don’t you sit? Rest.” Christiana eyed the sun. “There’s time for a nap before Mattie comes with lunch.”

  Comfort lifted the hem of her skirt and eyed her swollen ankles. “Aye,” she said. “I’ve a need tae put up m’feet. Ye may come in, if ye’d like. The least I can do fer yer help is offer a cup of tea.”

  “Please don’t bother yourself on my account. Water will do.”

  It was cool and wet and just what they both needed. Christiana sat at the small dining table, and Comfort collapsed in an upholstered chair. Propping her feet on a stool, she clucked at the swelling. “I saw Bryce Vallé’s face,” she said bluntly, as if the water had suddenly loosened her tongue. She lifted her chin and met Christiana’s gaze squarely. “I just want ye tae know, I share yer feelings. I’ll walk easier, knowing he willnae be around the corner.”

  Around the corner. Valle’s office, with Bryce’s apartment…and the portrait of their mother that he’d dared her to see.

  Comfort mistook her look and placed a hand on the curve of her belly. “‘Tis not his,” she hastily assured her. “Nay, the bairn’s father was a braw, black Scot. Hunter Cameron was his name, and I swear I saw the mon in my dreams. I was sae certain he was the one,” she said absently, placing a hand on the gravid mound of abdomen. “But I vow, I’ll yet hae the best of a bad bargain.”

  Envy. It struck Christiana with a force that left her stunned. And frightened. What would she do if, even now, there was new life growing inside her? What would it be like to bear Vallé’s child, to have the best part of him to keep no matter what the coming days revealed about the father? Thinking of last night, how he had poured himself into her time and again while outside the heavens raged, she could well imagine the speck of a child nestled there.

  She failed to hide the play of emotions that drifted across her face. Comfort smiled knowingly. “Justin Vallé is a law untae himself, as captain, but he’s rightly named. Ask anyone, save his scurvy brother, and they’ll tell ye he’s a fair one, nae one tae abuse his power. True, wie women, the captain’s nae an easy mon. He’s been dealt a hurt, I sense, and guards his self from more.”

  Christiana wished that she weren’t so transparent, but there was no denying the knowledge that shone in the depths of the Scotswoman’s eyes. She, too, had known a man, had fallen under one’s spell, and she’d recognized in Christiana the “look” that Bryce had mentioned. The look, she supposed, of love and longing and desire, the fervent wish for a happily ever after when one could only live a day at a time, not knowing what the morrow might bring.

  Comfort smiled softly. “Forgie me if I speak out of turn, but if ye love him, truly love him, ye’ll do all right by him.”

  Sweet Mary, she prayed so. But first she needed to see for herself what truth there was in Bryce’s words. She needed to see for herself the portrait of Madame Vallé.

  “Aye,” Christiana said. “It’s not been easy, for either of us. Bryce has only made things worse. And poor Mattie, caught in the middle of it all.” She glanced at the door. “I suppose I should offer to help her. If you will excuse me, I’ll see if she can use an extra pair of hands with lunch preparation. If nothing else, I can help carry it when she’s done.”

  But she had one more stop to make first.

  When Christiana knocked on the door to Vallé’s headquarters, she almost wished to find someone inside. But there was no answer, and a sweeping look assured her that she entered unseen.

  Inside, Vallé’s office was unlocked. To be certain she was alone, she knocked on the door, two rounds, before opening it. A massive desk dominated the room. Spread across its polished surface was a protective blotter, a silver inkwell and pen stand. She was tempted by the papers that lay on top, in case they concerned O’Malley, but forced herself to ignore them. Instead she headed for the stairs. Lifting her hems, she took them two at a time, to Bryce’s apartment.

  His love of luxury was evident in its appointments. The one large room contained a matched divan and two chairs upholstered in blue damask flanking an elaborately patterned rug. Beyond the sitting group was a kitchen area, with a small mahogany table and four chairs, perfectly sized for a single man—or a group of card players. Little in the way of cooking utensils was present, but then Bryce usually took his meals at his brother’s house. A copper teapot gleamed on the hearth. An empty water bucket sat to one side.

  A folded screen decorated with an oriental motif divided the living and sleeping portions of the space. Stepping further inside, Christiana saw a gentleman’s shaving st
and, with a pile of broken crockery at its base. On the far side was an ornately carved four-poster bed topped with a rich counterpane and draped with insect netting. Beyond the bed, on the far wall, were a towering armoire and the portrait.

  Christiana took a deep breath and entered the lion’s den, the risk of discovery outweighed by the need to see if Bryce spoke the truth.

  He had.

  The large oil painting, hung in an elaborately gilded frame, was luminous in the morning light. The artist’s central subject was as beautiful as the two children who flanked her skirts, the older one—Vallé—looking somber and standing somewhat apart while her younger son hugged her knee, smiling sweetly, his white-blond hair almost a match for their mother’s elaborate powdered wig. One of her hands rested on Bryce’s head; the other held a partially opened fan, as if she’d just begun to flick it open but had been captured on canvas before she could complete the action.

  Christiana was no expert, but she could see why the artist had chosen the unusual positioning. It drew attention to the madame’s hand, and to the ring upon her finger. A row of emeralds nestled in a golden band, painted in enough detail that there was no mistaking it for any other ring than the one she had worn since Tortola.

  She closed her eyes and turned away, fighting for control. Now was not the time to wonder what it meant, to try to analyze Vallé’s motivations and come to terms with what he’d done, leading her along a path littered with untold truths, at the very least, and flagrant lies at the most. She had to calm herself, had to go help Mattie, share lunch with the sharp-eyed surgeon’s daughter, and act as if nothing had happened in the time they’d spent apart.

  A much easier task, she feared, than tonight’s performance, when she’d be alone with Vallé.

  God forbid that he should prove to be more dangerous than his brother.

  Mattie prepared salmagundi, which they carried back to the McBride home, along with three trenchers, a fresh loaf of bread, a small crock of precious butter, and mellowed cheese, made from goat’s milk and aged in the large, cool cavern that served as the community’s springhouse and buttery, prolonging the life of perishable foodstuffs even in the hottest of weather.

  Her nap had done Comfort a world of good. She met them at the door, refreshed and ravenous.

  Christiana noted that the house had a similar layout to Vallé’s, albeit smaller in scale. A ship’s surgeon’s pay was second only to that of the captain, and the house was comfortably furnished, with styles and colors reflecting their heritage, dark wood and bolder colors. A folded tartan was draped on the back of a divan upholstered in a deep green, while a flame-stitched arm chair sat to one side. Upon a wall of pristine white hung a framed Scottish sampler, with thistles, crowns, prancing lions, decorative bands, and an elaborate alphabet. Stitched on tammy cloth with brilliantly dyed woolen thread, the precious work of needle art had been made by the talented hands of the doctor’s late wife, who had taught her daughter from an early age plain and fancy sewing.

  Mattie fluttered like a mother hen, so busy seeing her chicks were fed that finally she had to be shamed into sitting down with them. Conversation revolved around what they liked and how they came to be here. Mattie, with a joy of cooking, had followed her husband, only to find she’d come too late. With her husband gone and nothing to return to, she had accepted the captain’s offer and stayed on as his housekeeper.

  Comfort tailored clothes, taught sewing, and studied the healing arts, dreaming of a day when women were allowed to be doctors. She was young when her mother died, had lived with her grandparents after her passing, since her father was at sea. Once this house was built, she had joined him here. Comfort served as the island’s apothecary, growing, harvesting, and preparing herbs from her ever-increasing garden and serving as something of a surrogate mother for the “sea urchins,” as they called the island’s orphans.

  Then it was Christiana’s turn. She confessed that she’d spent her youth in boy’s breeches and was the one to give Vallé his scar when he threatened a spanking. She told them that she’d hired Vallé to free her father, and hoped he’d be going for O’Malley soon.

  “But what do ye like?” Comfort asked her. “What is it that ye want?”

  Christiana was saved from answering when a small bulge distorted the front of Comfort’s gown, pushing against the fabric in one long ripple, then a random series of thrusts and parries.

  Christiana laughed, fascinated to watch the baby move. “He seems to like Mattie’s cooking.”

  “She.” Comfort placed a hand upon her abdomen, smiling like a Madonna as she felt the miracle of life. “My daughter appreciates a well-seasoned dish as much as her mother. I fear I’m far more skilled with a needle than a spoon.”

  “I confess, I’m not very good at either,” Christiana admitted, sighing softly.

  Comfort angled her head, looking thoughtful. In the short time they’d spent together, it seemed to Christiana that she had found something of a twin soul, a woman who chafed at dependency and wanted, more than anything, to make her own way in the world. Independence. The ability to choose, to find her own destiny. And if she deigned to wed, she wanted to marry someone who would accept her as his life’s partner. Not her lord and master, to keep her beneath him, but a husband who would have his wife sail beside him.

  Comfort turned to Mattie. “If ye ever hae a mind tae take on culinary students, I believe ye may find two here, madam.”

  Mattie chuckled. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be more than happy to oblige. Or I can loan you my Housekeeper’s Companion. The two of you can test receipts to your heart’s content. All I ask is that ye leave my kitchen the way ye find it. Of course,” she added, “ye’ll be busy afore long with yer babe. How soon is the wee one due?”

  “A month.” She looked at Christiana but spoke to both of them. “I’ll be honest, and tell ye, I dinnae care if I ever again set eyes on her father. A handsome scoundrel, he was, but a real mon neither fears responsibilities nor runs from them.”

  A month? Christiana looked again at the mound of Comfort’s belly, appalled. Here she was, nearly ready to drop, and she’d mounted the search at daybreak for Adrienne, the half wild, orphaned mustee girl who’d gone missing in the storm. Adrienne was a ward of the McBrides, born in slavery and set free after her mother’s death. Several other orphans, who belonged to no one, looked to the doctor’s daughter when they were ill or in need of food, or clothes, performing odd jobs in exchange for Comfort’s care.

  “Four weeks, give or take,” said Comfort. “First bairns seem tae come early or late.”

  Mattie nodded, remembering. “When yours is of an age, I think we should speak to the captain about building a school. Come to think of it, we’ve enough children now to fill a classroom, if we only had a teacher….”

  A teacher. One who would challenge the brightest young minds while helping the slowest reach their full potential. Someone who loved children—and understood ones like Adrienne enough to weather the trouble they were certain to brew. They needed someone who could take a snake from a desk drawer and release it outside without blinking an eye. A person who knew how the most devious of boys’ minds worked…because she’d planned elaborate pranks many children would never dream of. Someone they could learn to respect, once she’d shown them the stuff she was made of—

  Stop! Christiana caught her bottom lip between her teeth, refusing to take Mattie’s bait. Aye, and bait it was. She could almost see the wheels turning in the housekeeper’s head. But in four nights, she’d have to make the hardest decision of her life, to trust Vallé unconditionally or attempt her father’s rescue and risk losing them both. She didn’t dare to hope. Didn’t dare to dream.

  How could she, when she wasn’t certain if she’d be coming back—

  Unless….

  Christiana lifted her cup and sipped the cool, lemon-laced water, while hope sprang anew in her breast. She’d always felt that she needed to go for O’Malley. She had begged to be take
n along. Bryce might think there was but one way for her to go—and that, aboard O’Malley’s ship—but she knew differently. If she could only get Vallé to agree to take her with him, she would prove Bryce wrong about his intentions. She would be there to see all that went on before and after the rescue.

  Aye, she mused, thinking of her own secrets, once held tightly, then reluctantly revealed. To be certain, there was a reason that Vallé had not yet told her about the ring, but ‘twas not necessarily a damning one, she told herself.

  What did she want? Looking at Comfort, and imagining a child, a child of her own, Christiana realized that the life of a governess, of always caring for someone else’s children, would no longer be her haven. Would no longer be enough. As much as she’d grown to care for la famille de Jobert, what Christiana wanted was a home of her own, shared with the man of her dreams, one who could not have changed so much that he’d be able to bring deliberate harm to her father, then face her as if nothing had happened.

  She knew Vallé, perhaps as well as one soul could know another. Until he proved himself unworthy of her trust, she must believe that he intended to set O’Malley free. For now, she could only pray that the plan she saw unfolding in her mind, that she intended to set in motion tonight, would succeed. Somehow she must convince Vallé to let her sail with him. Somehow, in the next four days, she must persuade him to take her along, on her father’s rescue. And if words were not enough….

  Then she had four nights to sway Vallé to her way of thinking. Four long, hot tropical nights to convince him that they belonged together, come what may.