Papa glanced back with an apologetic smile but could do nothing to escape the firm grip Mr. Harcourt had on his arm.
RyAnne despaired the critical loss of time alone with Papa.
After a brief pause, Ali ventured, “You play quite beautifully.”
Her smile felt stiffer than a week-old chapati left lying in the equatorial sun. “Thank you.” She thought quickly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go find my mother and my sister.”
Khalifa pointed toward the dance floor, and RyAnne turned to look. Jasmine swept by on the arm of Captain Dawson’s first mate, Garrett Holloman. And Mother stood chatting with Mrs. Ropes, the wife of the American consul to Zanzibar.
When was the last time she’d felt relief at seeing Mother?
“Oh, there she is! I’ll just go join her, if you’ll excuse me?” She had turned to walk away, when she heard Ali shuffle forward and speak.
“May I have the honor of this dance, madam?”
Her back still to the man, she closed her eyes in dread. If she refused him without just cause—something much more just in cause than the free-roaming of his gaze—the tale would surely wend its way to Mother’s parlor. And the tongue lashing Mother would render for the offense to one in the employ of the Harcourts, and under their own roof nonetheless, would be the likes of which just might cause a burn.
So, turning back to face the man, she forced a smile and nodded her head.
Khalifa’s hand felt clammy as he led her onto the floor.
Or was that her hand? RyAnne’s eyes stung from the fever, but she forced herself forward and prayed her strength would hold out. They had only made two turns of the reel, however, when the dizziness washed over her. Her foot twisted and gave way. She caught herself on Khalifa’s arm.
“Miss Hunter, are you all right?” Polite alarm rang through Khalifa’s voice.
“Yes.” RyAnne shut her burning eyes tightly for a moment.
“I think you could use some fresh air.”
Trepidation of going into the garden with this man swept through her, but both Brayden and Captain Dawson were out there somewhere, and if she didn’t cool herself with a bit of a breeze, Papa was sure to notice her fever-flushed skin and insist on taking her home to rest.
Besides, the man was commodore of the Harcourt fleet. Surely Harcourt wouldn’t have hired anyone overtly unsavory, even if he did have wandering eyes.
Quit being a ninny. Papa wouldn’t have introduced her to the man if he was someone to be avoided. Of course he could be trusted.
She nodded acquiescence.
Khalifa took her arm gently and led her through the French doors and out onto the patio. And, just as she’d assured herself, he was nothing but a gentleman as they walked through the fragrant foliage in the Harcourt’s back garden.
RyAnne released the remains of her unease.
He took her elbow only when they came to a rough place in the trail and then, as soon as he saw her footing was sure, let go again. He chatted easily about different plants along the path, every now and then asking if she felt any better.
They passed the great domed building that housed the Persian baths of the plantation. And although her eyes still burned, she was not at the moment experiencing the chills, hot flashes, or dizziness that came with the fever. The cool breeze must be doing its work.
They walked up the steps of a white octagonal gazebo, overgrown with dark shadows of ivy. Benches ran all the way around the inside of the octagon, and the rail around the perimeter held several potted plants that added pale moonlit splashes of color to the tranquil setting.
She turned to look back at the plantation house and, with a jolt, realized they had come far enough that not even a glimmer of light from its windows could be seen through the garden’s vegetation.
Her unease sprang to life anew. “Sir, I really feel much refreshed and would like to return now.” Proud of the fact that her voice only trembled slightly, she lifted her skirts and started back down the stairs.
Ali caught her elbow and stilled her retreat.
She darted him a look. Her heart threatened to clamber right out of her chest.
He smiled, but it was not a comforting smile. He took her hand, gently at first, but when she tried to pull away, he would not let go. “Stay with me for just a few minutes more, madam. Your skin is so enchanting in the moonlight.”
His fingers grazed over RyAnne’s cheek, and a shiver of revulsion slithered down her spine. She jerked back only to find the benches of the gazebo grinding into her knees.
He stepped closer.
She tried to push him away, but he possessed strength much greater than hers. He grabbed her waist, pressing closer.
“Sir, I must protest!” She shoved him as hard as she could and lurched to one side. Father in heaven! Her elbow knocked one of the potted plants to the ground with a crash. The pots!
“Just a moment more, madam. I won’t hurt you.”
But still, the man held her and leaned even closer.
“Your actions belie your words, sir!” She scrabbled her fingers along the rail until she contacted another pot. Snatching it up, she swung it hard at his head. A satisfying thunk preceded the tinkling shards of clay falling at their feet.
Khalifa cursed loudly. His large, bony hands clutched at the side of his head, and he staggered backward.
RyAnne didn’t lose a moment. She lifted her skirts and fled down the steps of the gazebo and up the path.
She dashed past the Persian baths. One of the ornate double doors was open a crack! Even as she skidded to a stop, thinking to hide inside, she caught a flash of movement and then felt strong hands around her waist. One corded arm yanked her back against a solid wall of chest, while a hand slammed over her mouth and cut off her frightened shriek.
This wasn’t Khalifa! She could still hear him muttering and stumbling about on the planks of the gazebo. Who had her then?
Her eyes widened as the new assailant pulled her through the doors into the dank, dark interior of the building. He nudged the heavy wooden doors shut with his foot and dragged her further into the darkness. Her heart pounded in agony, and she tried to pry loose the hand blocking her screams, but to no avail.
The man whispered something, but the blood rushing through her ears kept her from understanding what he said.
The interior of the baths smelled of wet stone, reminding RyAnne of a damp cave, and the floor under her feet was slimy and slick, preventing her from catching her balance. As she tried to gain her footing, the man pulled her back into the blackness of a side chamber, and a cloying terror enveloped her. She clawed at the hand covering her mouth and brought one small boot down on the man’s foot, but it was all without effect. She was firmly held in the strong arms of her captor.
Trent held her against him as gently as he could without letting her get away. If he didn’t want to avoid having Ali know he’d been following, he’d let her scream and give the man a good thrashing when he showed up.
Alarm shot through him as he realized how warm she felt. Her skin was hot and dry to the touch, and although the little she-cat did her best to get away, he could feel her trembling all over.
“Miss Hunter, ‘tis I,” he whispered in her ear again. Pain shot up his arm as her teeth sunk deeply into the heel of his hand. The throbbing filled the back of his throat with a growl, and he snatched his hand away for a split second. But before she could scream, his palm was back over her mouth, more firmly this time, so she could not bite him again. “Miss Hunter! Be still! It’s Trent—Captain Dawson.” He gave her a small shake for emphasis. “Quiet now, or Ali will find us. And,” he added dryly, “I will be forced to get dirty teaching him a lesson.”
The reality of who he was must have finally penetrated, because she went still in his arms.
“I will take my hand away now, but you must not speak.” When she made no response, he prodded, “Understand?”
She nodded slightly against his chest.
Ea
sing his hand down, he rubbed the throb that still pulsed in the heel of it against his trousers. Keeping her against him, he shuffled them deeper into the shadows of the baths.
The doors burst open with a bang, sending a long rectangle of moonlight onto the floor.
RyAnne flinched perceptively, and the sudden urge to forget about being covert, step out of the shadows, and teach the man a lesson on the finer points of being a gentleman was nearly more than Trent could suppress. Instead he wrapped his hand around the comforting feel of the pistol tucked into the waistband under his coat.
“Are you in here, madam?” Ali’s voice rang with deceptive calmness. “I am sorry, Miss Hunter. Your beauty overcame me. Come out, and I will take you back into the ball.” When he received no response, his patient demeanor vanished. “Come now, Miss Hunter. Let us be done with these games. We will go back to the ball and pretend this never happened. You have my sincerest apologies.”
A tremor vibrated through RyAnne, and Trent squeezed her arm gently, a reminder to keep quiet.
After glancing around the interior of the baths one more time, Ali was apparently satisfied no one was present, save himself. Grumbling, cursing, and rubbing the back of his head, he stomped from the building, leaving the door half open.
RyAnne didn’t move, other than to drop her head back against his shoulder in relief.
Trent kept her in the shadows for several minutes. He listened carefully to the sounds coming from outside. But the longer he stood there, the higher the flames of his anger grew. If he hadn’t come along when he had…
Another tremor coursed through her.
Good! Hopefully she was, at this very moment, realizing how lucky she was!
He swallowed.
Once satisfied that Ali had indeed left, he loosened his grip on RyAnne’s arm and moved around in front of her. He led her to a step near the milky rectangle of moonlight spilling through the doorway, and motioned for her to sit before her legs gave out.
She complied and then pressed her face into her palms as though to block out the memory of the last moments.
Squatting down on the balls of his feet, he glowered at her. But he couldn’t ignore a twinge of concern. “Are you well?”
Her fingers shook as she smoothed them across her brows, but she nodded. “Thank you.”
The anger he’d been doing his best to keep at bay rushed out like a flood. “Are you a half-wit?! Going out into the dark quiet of a garden alone with the likes of Ali Khalifa?!”
Moisture glistened on her lower lids, and she didn’t bite back with a retaliatory comment as he’d expected her to. Her words were distant and resigned. “We’d had a proper introduction from Papa. And I needed some fresh air.”
The anger drained from him and regret took its place. He reached out a finger to tilt her chin up. “Forgive me. This was not your fault. Did he…” He couldn’t bring himself to voice the horrible question.
“No.” She looked away, rubbing her upper arms with her palms. “Intention was as far as he got.”
Relief washed over him. He spoke again. “You need to tell someone you are sick.”
“I can’t.” She glanced up at him with a shrug.
He opened his mouth to protest, but she lifted a hand to silence him. “Mother has looked forward to this ball for weeks. Let’s not ruin it for her by making a scene over a silly fever. If I’m not feeling better in the morning, I’ll make a visit to Dr. Kirk, who is in town with the Livingstone expedition.”
“And yet only this morning you were willing to ruin it for her by hiding out with your friends at Valah’s little cockfight.” He did nothing to disguise his disbelief of her magnanimity.
She blinked. Then shrugged as though she couldn’t bring herself to care if he believed her or not. “Think what you want, Captain.”
He tilted his head. “Oh, I do, Miss Hunter. And right now I’m thinking I wish I knew what connivings were rolling around in that head of yours.”
Perhaps for the first time since he’d known her, the lady remained silent in the face of his taunting. That, and perhaps the touch of pleading in her gaze tugged at his heart, and before he realized it, he nodded agreement. “Very well. I will keep your confidence in this matter.” However, he couldn’t help but feel she had an ulterior motive hidden in the request somewhere. “I will see if our way is clear.”
He stepped to the door and eased it open, peering out into the moon-washed garden to give her another moment to collect herself.
He pondered the past several weeks and considered the job he’d been given to do. Was the Harcourt fleet really being used to smuggle slaves to India and beyond?
After he’d left the ballroom earlier, he’d followed Brayden to the stables, where he’d saddled a horse and then ridden out of the gates. Trent had returned to the ballroom just as Ali had led RyAnne out onto the patio. But as he’d made to follow, a rather plump dowager, to whom he had been introduced earlier in the evening, had approached him and smiled coyly. Trent could not get away politely without engaging her in a few words of conversation. He had made his escape as soon as propriety allowed, and had come around the corner of the baths just in time to see RyAnne smash the clay pot over Ali’s head.
Trent gritted his teeth. He should have excused himself the moment he’d seen Ali lead her outside. Maybe he could have spared her some emotional distress.
He watched as she rubbed her temples in a circular motion, and reached out to touch her elbow. “If you think you are ready, we should head back inside now.”
RyAnne nodded, lifted her skirts, and followed him out of the baths. He led her down the path, but he paused when they came to the steps leading up to the main patio outside the ballroom. He folded his arms and looked down at her. “You should rest.”
Her chin tipped up. “I will be fine. Thank you for your concern.” Her tone indicated many things, but gratitude was not among them.
One brow arched, and he studied her determined face in the light emanating from the dance floor. He wanted to remind her that if he had not followed her outside… But he couldn’t finish the thought. His fists clenched merely considering what could have happened to her. Instead he turned and preceded her up the steps, then took her elbow as they entered the room through the French doors.
As they stepped into the hustle and bright lights of the ballroom, RyAnne’s eyes burned, and she wished to do nothing more than follow the captain’s advice and find a quiet dark room to rest in. But she still hadn’t gotten her chance to speak to Papa. And there was only an hour or so left in the evening to accomplish her task. Her time to change his mind was rapidly disappearing.
“RyAnne!”
She turned toward the call.
Brayden hurried toward her, turning this way and that to dodge clusters of people.
Beside her, Captain Dawson stiffened and folded his arms.
She glanced at him and noted that instead of the irritation she’d expected, his face held a puzzled curiosity. He looked as though he was surprised to find Brayden here, but that couldn’t be right, because he’d followed him out into the garden only an hour ago.
She pulled her assessment from the captain and turned to watch Brayden striding confidently the last few steps toward her. He had straight blond hair, parted in the middle. His rounded, handsome face, blessed with a generous mouth, broke into a smile as he approached.
“RyAnne!” He took her hand in his own, placed a featherlight kiss on her knuckles, and with his pale-blue eyes twinkling up at her, said, “I am so pleased to have found you at last. I’ve been looking for you ever since I heard your entertainment obligations had been fulfilled. Come dance with me.” He started to lead her toward the dance floor, but no matter her constant irritation with the captain, she couldn’t just snub him without a parting word.
She held her ground. “Brayden, you know Captain Trent Dawson, I presume? He leaves on the morrow to escort Papa to the Interior and seek his fortune in ivory.” She couldn’t resis
t that last jab. The captain always seemed a tad uncomfortable with her mentioning his desire to get rich on ivory.
Brayden seemed to notice the captain for the first time. A hardness crept into his jawline, but he stretched his hand toward the man. “Dawson. Good to see you again. Look me up when you get back with your haul. Maybe we can cut a deal for your ivory. Harcourt Shipping is always looking for goods to supplement our shipments of indigo to England.”
The captain’s gray-green eyes glinted, as if maybe he had read something subtly hidden in Brayden’s words, but he only said, “Thank you.” He shook Brayden’s hand, then turned toward RyAnne and inclined his head. “Miss Hunter, it has been a pleasure.” Leaning close to her ear, he spoke low. “You should rest.”
RyAnne merely raised her eyebrows and looked at him. The man was persistent, she’d give him that, but he was not to have his way in this matter. Could not, for her very future depended on it.
Brayden glanced from them to the open veranda doors just behind them. “Have you just come in?” Slight suspicion edged his voice as he glanced back and forth between them.
“Captain Dawson—” RyAnne started with a gesture of her hand toward the garden but then found she couldn’t finish. Her throat constricted in embarrassed silence, and she looked at the man for help.
The captain leaned toward Brayden as though he was about to offer something in great confidence. “Miss Hunter and I have been out strolling in the garden.” A hint of a smile curved his mouth, and with a sketch of a bow in RyAnne’s direction, he turned and walked away.
Oh, that irritating man! He had made it sound as though they had been out for a moonlit tryst!
Brayden’s eyes narrowed.
She lifted her chin. “He found me in need of an escort and walked me back to the house. And that was all.”
Brayden folded his arms, not looking convinced.
With a dart of apprehension, she turned from his questioning perusal. Why were her feelings all a muddle, of late?
Across the room, Captain Dawson approached Alicia Harcourt, Brayden’s beautiful golden-haired sister, and asked her to dance. Alicia agreed with a stunning smile, and he led her onto the floor and pulled her into his arms.
On the Wings of a Whisper: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 1) Page 4