Heard from old Farleigh’s lawyer today. Suppose the old codger finally retired and began to remember his old friends. Still, if what he tells me he suspects is true, I shall have to alter my plans concerning Royall’s future. This will take prompt investigation.
Then another entry, two weeks later:
Morrison, Farleigh’s lawyer, seems to know what he is talking about. The evidence certainly would seem to point to that.... Still, I cannot believe Carlyle would be guilty of such action. It is not indicative of the young boy I once knew ... Am waiting to hear from Morrison again!
Another entry, a month later:
Yes, it is true. Carlyle has not abided by my wishes to comply with Princess Isabel’s Ventre Livre law, and I will not condone his actions. From recent correspondence with him and from other sources which have come to my attention, I tend to believe Morrison’s accusations. This is not all. From searching my memory, I seem to remember my dear friend complaining to me of his son. Something about the boy cruelly beating a slave to death. There was some talk of disinheriting the boy.
And among the last entries:
More and more I search the past; now I am quite convinced Carlyle was responsible. I must arrange for a major upheaval in my plans for Royall. I am going to dissolve my holdings in Reino Brazilia and let Carlyle Newsome be damned!
Royall couldn’t understand what she had uncovered in the ledger, and it was too late to do anything about it anyway. She was already on her way to Reino Brazilia, Brazilian Kingdom. Richard Harding had died before he had had a chance to sell his share of the plantation. She pushed the chilling phrase that she had read in the ledger away from her thoughts. Father had always been overprotective; still, something was amiss.
Rifling through her bandbox now to find a fresh length of ribbon, she came across the letter that Carlyle Newsome had sent her upon the news of her father’s death. She knew its flowery phrases by rote.
My dear Royall,
I am much saddened by the news of your husband’s death. I know his passing is a great burden to you. I can only offer you my sincerest condolences in your time of grief.
Your father was a much valued business partner and greatly respected and honored by my father. I remember having met your father only once, when I was but a boy.
This letter is to extend to you a warm invitation to the Reino Brazilia. It will be your home.
Enclosed are sailing dates for ships leaving New England, also instructions for your travel.
If you can arrange to book passage on the Victoria, you will have the pleasurable company of Mrs. Rosalie Quince, who is returning to Brazil. She will bring you as far as Reino Brazilia. Her own plantation is but ten miles from here.
My sons, Carl and Jamie, extend their condolences and wish you a safe, speedy journey.
My sincerest wishes,
Carlyle Newsome
Coming back to the present, Royall found herself annoyed once again at Carlyle Newsome’s letter. It said all the right things, but what it didn’t say was that Royall now owned one half of Reino Brazilia. That what appeared generously offered hospitality was nothing more than her right to look into her investments. Pulling the brush through her hair, she scowled into the mirror. Enough of these dark thoughts. She would deal with “the Baron,” as he liked to call himself, when the time came. For now, she had more urgent problems: the sudden, unexpected appearance of the buccaneer. This was a new life with new opportunities, and she meant to make the most of it! Still, the buccaneer occupied her thoughts as she dressed.
Enough of all those dark thoughts. This was a new life with new ideas. With this new life, the first thing she had to see to was her person and her hair.
She finished her hair in the popular style of the day. Her coif of golden curls, pulled back from her smooth brow, Grecian style, was swirled into huge coils at the crown of her head. The style accentuated her graceful, long neck and softly rounded shoulders.
Choosing a gown of fine silk in a dark amber color, she held it close to her body and admired her reflection in the long looking glass behind the armoire door. Its rich, gleaming folds were perfect for an evening of entertainment. Excitement eliminated the need for rouge, and she applied only a touch of pomade to her full mouth. Would he notice her? How could he help but be aware of her?
Gathering up her reticule and cashmere shawl, she stole a final glance in the glass. Unashamedly, she appraised herself, liking what she saw. She smiled, remembering Mrs. Quince interpreting the native women’s chatter and saying they called her golden girl. She thought perhaps she should feel conspicuous for her fairness in a land where most everyone was dark complected, but she recalled the eyes of the buccaneer on her and she tingled deliciously under the remembered feel of her body against his.
Pulling herself from her thoughts, she turned away from the glass.
“Yoohoo, Royall, are you dressed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Quince, I’m ready to go.” The door opened, revealing Mrs. Quince sitting primly in her wheelchair. “I think I’m finally able to maneuver this dratted contraption,” Rosalie Quince sighed as she worked the oversized wheels with the palms of her hands. A handsome woman, she had chosen a deep burgundy silk gown that complemented her rounded figure.
“Royall, you look absolutely breathtaking. You’ll turn every head when we enter the dining room. I hope you’re prepared to parry the notorious flirtatious natures of our Brazilian gentlemen.”
Royall pushed Mrs. Quince’s chair out of her room and onto the promenade deck, laughing over Mrs. Quince’s amusing observations about the amorous nature of the Latin.
The dining hall was full to brimming when they arrived. “Oh, dear, I underestimated the number of passengers who will be having dinner here the evening of the sail. I hope we won’t have to wait too long for a table. I’m famished.”
Royall was quite content to wait, however hungry she felt. The dining hall was sumptuous, approaching the point of garishness. Deep red carpeting, gilt-edge picture frames of questionable taste, floods of gloriously gowned women and scrupulously tailored men graced the hall. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the tops of the tables, causing irridescent shimmers to reflect from the jewels worn at the ears and throats of the ladies. After the sterile efficiency of the Victoria, which had brought them to Brazil, it was a welcome sight to Royall’s eyes to feast on the opulence and splendor of the Brazilia d’Oro.
A heavy-set, stern-looking maitre d’ approached them.
“If you will permit, mesdames, it will be an hour before you can be seated at a table. Perhaps you would like dinner served to you in your rooms?”
Mrs. Quince turned to look at Royall to view her reaction. Seeing the disappointment on her face, she answered, “No, we’ll wait. However hungry I am, I would not care to disappoint my young friend on her first night on an Amazonian river steamer.”
The maitre d’s stern look vanished, and he braved a small smile in Royall’s direction. He offered Mrs. Quince a slight bow as he took his leave.
The music had started to play again, and Royall turned to see the orchestra. The musicians were seated on a dais above the main floor of the dining hall. They were attired in bright red waistcoats and black trousers. She was surprised to see that all the musicians were Indian. They played the popular tunes so well, one would have thought they were English or American.
A movement caught her eye, and she lowered her gaze to the main floor. There, seated in an alcove, was the buccaneer. Suddenly, their eyes met and held. She tore her gaze away, then quickly found herself stealing another look. He was on his feet and coming toward her. Inexplicably, her heart beat faster, making her feel as though the pulsing in her throat was choking her. Her eyes followed his hindered progress through the crowded room. He was no longer looking at her; he was looking beyond her, and inexplicably her heart fell. As he approached, she noticed again how tall he was. Well over six feet, if her guess was correct.
Mrs. Quince made a slight gasping
sound behind her. “Why, it’s Sebastian. We’re in luck. I was right! It was you on the wharf in Rio!”
He gracefully climbed the four or five steps to the level on which they were standing. He smiled, white teeth gleaming in his darkly tanned face; his eyes were black ... Indian black. “Mrs. Quince! I had not expected to see you until sometime next month. Had I known you were traveling on the same vessel as I, I would have invited you to join me at dinner much before this.” He was suddenly aware of Mrs. Quince’s wheelchair, and his brows lifted in question.
“Oh, posh, Sebastian, don’t ask questions and make an old woman feel more foolish than she is. I’ve broken my ankle. I’ll be fine in a few weeks, I promise you.”
In a gallant gesture, he leaned over her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I am so sorry, Senora Quince. May you return to yourself soon.”
“I’ll feel more like myself as soon as I’ve had dinner, Sebastian. Whatever are you doing in Belém at this time of year? One would think you were too busy getting your rubber to market to treat yourself to a sojourn in the east. However; I am sure, never has one been so happy to see you as I am. The maitre d’ informs us it will be at least an hour before he can seat us to dinner.” At her last words, Mrs. Quince turned to Royall.
Sebastian’s eyes followed Mrs. Quince’s gaze, and he turned to Royall and gave a slight courtly bow. “Royall Banner, allow me to present Sebastian Rivera to you. Royall has been widowed recently and is journeying with me to the plantation, Sebastian.”
“How do you do, Senora Banner.” Sebastian’s eyes formed questions and then seemed to find the answers. He wasn’t surprised to find that Royall was a widow; it explained so many things. The night of Mardi Gras he hadn’t been surprised, thinking she was a prostitute, to find that she wasn’t a virgin. What had surprised him was her obvious lack of experience, her innocence. A smile formed on his lips. Royall had all the untouched innocence of a virgin, blended with a natural inclination for passion. No doubt her husband had never delved the wells of sensuality this woman possessed. Poor man, he found himself thinking, going to the grave never knowing what an exciting woman warmed his bed. The grin broadened; Senor Banner’s loss was Sebastian’s gain.
His eyes flashed at her; twin circles of jet bore into her being. She felt breathless and struggled for control. Never had she met so handsome and dynamic a man.
Regaining control, she answered, “How do you do, Senor Rivera. And that’s Royall with two L’s.”
Sebastian’s eyes became hooded. He remained silent for a moment. Was she daring him to expose her? Or was she simply mocking him? How sweet and innocent she looked standing next to Senora Quince. His heart thumped in his chest as she boldly returned his gaze. There was no point in denying the fact that he found her exciting. She was indeed a sleek jungle cat.
“Ladies, please do me the honor of joining me at my table,” he said urbanely.
Mrs. Quince, in the abrupt manner to which Royall had become familiar, answered for them. “I thought you would never ask. But I wam you, if you hadn’t, I would have invited us anyway. So it’s just as well you did, Sebastian!”
The twin orbs of jet glowed at Rosalie Quince. “Based on our long acquaintance, I’ve no doubt you would, Senora. However, let me assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” His words were directed to Rosalie Quince; his gaze was for Royall alone. A gesture, a word, and two stewards lifted Mrs. Quince, complete with wheelchair, down the few steps to the main Salon. Offering his arm to Royall, they followed behind the steward pushing the chair to Sebastian’s table.
The conversation was lively, owing much to Mrs. Quince’s jocularity and loquaciousness, not to mention her constant references to her wheeled chair. The dinner of stuffed lamb and rice was delectable, and the wine Sebastian chose to accompany the meal was the perfect complement to the savory courses. In spite of her previous misgivings, Royall found herself relaxing in his company, in fact enjoying it.
When the waiter came to take the order for dessert, Mrs. Quince uttered a small squeal of delight. “At last,” she sighed. “Sebastian, I can’t tell you how many months I’ve hungered for clea’ho.”
“I can well imagine, Senora Quince. I understand guava is not a popular fruit in America.”
At this exchange Royall frowned. She did so hate to be left out of any conversation.
“Dear, Sebastian is referring to my passion for the favorite dessert of Brazilians—guava paste and white cheese. Do you think you would care to try some? Or perhaps you would like to have a Blessed Mother?”
Royall frowned again. “What is a Blessed Mother?”
Sebastian and Mrs. Quince laughed, but at the embarrassed look on Royall’s face, Sebastian’s features sobered.
“Senora Banner, forgive my rudeness. Senora Quince and I are enjoying ourselves at your expense, I’m afraid. A Blessed Mother is what the natives call certain little pastries. They’re very similar to French petits fours. The Indians usually serve them on religious holidays, hence the name, ‘Blessed Mothers.’ ”
“Oh, I see. Perhaps I shall try a Blessed Mother, if you don’t mind.” Seeing the apologetic look on Mrs. Quince’s face, she broke into a mirthful smile. If Sebastian Rivera could act as though nothing had happened between the two of them, then so could she.
“It would seem Senora Banner also has a teasing sense of humor. Senora Quince, I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to this journey up the Amazon. Thanks to Mrs. Banner and yourself, I believe I’m the only gentleman aboard who is so fortunate as to be honored with the company of two such lovely ladies.”
“Sebastian, save your speeches for the dance floor. My ankle is aching me. Please don’t hesitate to ask Royall to dance for fear of leaving me alone at the table.” Mrs. Quince pressed her hand to her lips to stifle a demure yawn. “As soon as I have finished my dessert, I fear it will be all I can do to keep my eyes open. Therefore, I shall have one of the stewards take me back to my cabin and entrust you to see that Royall is properly entertained. I have no wish to act as a duenna, I can assure you. I’ve known you long enough, Sebastian, to feel it quite proper to leave Royall in your care.”
Oh, Mrs. Quince, if you only knew how wrong you are, Royall thought.
Sebastian nodded. “I shall be delighted to act as escort for Senora Banner.”
Sebastian turned his eyes toward Royall and smiled. Somewhere within her something stirred, making it hard for her to breathe.
He had kept his eyes on her throughout the dinner, ruining her appetite. What was he looking for when he peered so deeply into her eyes? Why was it so hard for her to keep her eyes from meeting his? She didn’t like the strange emotions his presence evoked.
The music began to play again, a soft, haunting tune with which she was not familiar. Waiters busied themselves quenching the candles burning brightly in the chandeliers above the tables.
A huge black man, dressed in bright gaudy trousers and an orange silk shirt open to the waist, proceeded onto the dance floor and squatted, placing a pair of drums between his knees.
The flutist played a haunting melody, rising an octave above the other instruments. Suddenly, on the dance floor were two other natives, a man and woman, both dressed in flamboyant costume. They assumed a stiff, yet graceful pose and waited for the music to reach its end.
The dining hall became quiet; the diners waited expectantly.
“You are in store for a treat, Royall,” Mrs. Quince whispered. “This is, if I’m not mistaken, the trio that has been taking Rio de Janeiro by storm. They’re from Africa and I understand they’re quite a success. I suppose they’re on their way to Manaus to play at the opera house.”
“Shhh,” came a command from behind Mrs. Quince. A woman gestured with her hand and turned Royall’s attention toward the dance floor.
The dancer began to move, swaying her hips in rhythm to the music; the man followed her lead. The drummer beat a slow rhythm, which became imperceptibly faster as the dance continued. The musi
c took flight, the flutist now reaching low, mellow notes and then soaring to unbelievably clear, high-pitched tones.
The dancers followed the rhythm, swaying, rocking, becoming faster till they were swirling together, holding each other close.
Royall had never seen anything like this. She had been to New York once with her father, to the opera and the ballet, but somehow she could not imagine even the sophisticated New York society of the year 1877 accepting these dancers at their ballet or opera house.
Her attention was attracted to the woman dancer. Tall and lithe, she was now arching herself backward, her expression one of ecstasy. The light of the few candles remaining was caught by the beads of perspiration on her arms and throat, creating miniature diamonds.
The melody and rhythm became heavy, surging to a rapid crescendo. The music stopped; the dancers remained absolutely still, a dramatic tableau. The diners were hushed. Royall glanced around and saw men pulling at their collars and women fanning themselves rapidly. Within herself, Royall felt a remembered excitement. She returned her attention to her own table. Mrs. Quince appeared mesmerized by the dancers; she was staring fixedly at them. Sebastian Rivera was staring at Royall. His gaze was penetrating, probing. Royall returned his look boldly. She felt beautiful under his gaze, warm and sensuous. He was remembering the same as she was. This man made her aware of herself, of her beauty, of her womanliness.
Their eyes locked. Deep, deeper. He gazed, she felt, into her soul and she welcomed him. How well she remembered.
Minutes later, Mrs. Quince retired to her cabin with the aid of a steward. Royall and Sebastian spoke of inconsequential things and shared the enjoyment of each other’s company. Along toward midnight, Sebastian acquiesced to the lateness of the hour and suggested a stroll around the deck before escorting Royall back to her cabin.
Royall felt drained. Why was he playing this charade? Not one mention of the Mardi Gras. He was behaving the perfect gentleman. Acting as though he had just met her. It was damn insulting. She should get angry and do something, say something to shake his manly composure. He had made wild, passionate love to her, and now he was treating her like a casual acquaintance. Exasperated with her own contradictory thoughts, she eagerly accepted his invitation for a stroll. She couldn’t keep things straight in her head. One minute she was praying that he would never refer to the night of Mardi Gras, and the next she was cursing him for pretending she had never spent the night in his arms.
Captive Innocence Page 6