Day Dreamer

by Jill Marie Landis

  When Cord looked down at Celine and smiled, she knew that he was subtly letting her know that his plans for tonight were quite definite. She shivered despite the closeness of the quarters and the heat from the warming stove in the pantry.

  Celine traced the floral design on the rim of her dinner plate as the mate entered into quiet conversation with the doctor. The idea that if she chose to remain with Cord she would have to take her rightful place as mistress of well over two hundred acres of land and an estate filled her with dread. Along with running the household, all responsibility for the health and welfare of any slaves he might own or acquire would fall to her. It was one thing to learn to be self-sufficient in a small shop in New Orleans, but she had no idea how to cope with the role of mistress of a sugar plantation.

  The captain had emptied another plate of food. He signaled one of the men waiting in the pantry and the sailor began to clear the table.

  The scent of lamb and onions lingered in the saloon, and Celine longed to go back on deck. Captain Thompson wiped his mouth with a napkin and then said, “I hope you don’t mind being the only woman aboard, Mrs. Moreau.”

  “Not at all.” It wouldn’t matter if she were one of one hundred women aboard, she thought ruefully. She was the one Cord wanted tonight.

  “We usually carry quite a few passengers, but the weather can be so unpredictable this time of year that not many want to make the journey. We’re well into hurricane season.”

  She had not known. Now that she did, she realized she’d not only have to deal with Cordero Moreau, but with the possibility of a hurricane.

  By the time the table was cleared the Adelaide was bouncing like a cork in a washtub. Celine excused herself, performed a precarious walk across the saloon and left the men to their port and cigars. A shuttered door was all that separated her from their loud conversation and the pungent, nauseating scent of their cigars. But the odor managed to filter into the small cabin.

  She locked the doors to both the saloon and to Foster and Edward’s adjoining cabin and prepared to change out of the pale peach gown. Jemma O’Hurley’s trunk was wedged in the corner near the bunk, its lid raised so that she might have easy access to the wardrobe inside. One of Cord’s servants had carefully spread a white lawn nightgown across the bunk. Steadying herself with one hand, Celine quickly wriggled out of her evening gown and tossed it toward the trunk. The sight of the bed gave her pause. It looked far too small for two.

  A particularly violent swell sent the room tilting at a sharp angle, forcing her to wait to slip into the nightgown. When she did, the gaping scooped neckline drooped off her shoulders. She tugged up the left side, only to have the right sag until it exposed nearly all of her breast. Finally, after much wriggling and adjusting, she gave up. She put her evening gown away and gingerly sat down on the edge of the bunk with her hands folded in her lap and her knees pressed tight together. She couldn’t take her eyes off the door.

  As another rough swell hit the ship, a wave of discomfort forced her to lie down and draw her legs up. Curled up on her side, she tucked the hem of the nightgown over her toes and stared at the wall. The wool blanket felt rough beneath her cheek. She wished she could put off the inevitable, wished that Persa were still alive and they were both safe at home in their little cottage. She longed to wish away the ship’s incessant rocking, the disconcerting sound of creaking timbers and the cloying odor of cigars. Most of all, she wished she were on solid ground and that Cordero Moreau were miles away instead of lurking just outside the door.

  At ease with the pitch and roll of the ship beneath him, Cord sat in silence at the dining table, staring up at the darkened skylight above it. Captain Thompson and the other men had long since left him to dwell on his future—not to mention his bride—alone. He had tired of wondering what to expect when they reached Dunstain Place. Nor did he particularly want to think about what he would do once he arrived on St. Stephen. His thoughts were occupied with his dark-haired beauty of a wife, who now claimed to have gypsy blood. If nothing else, she was proving to be highly entertaining. His gaze strayed to the door directly opposite his place at the table. Was she waiting inside with anticipation or dread?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Cord stood and stepped over the long bench. When he reached the door, he tried the knob and found it locked. He knocked softly. When there was no response, he scanned the saloon. All of the adjoining doors were closed and there was no one in sight.

  “Celine. Open the door,” he whispered.

  Still no response. He tried again, louder this time, his anger piqued. “Celine?”

  Cord heard a slight sound on the other side of the door, and then the bolt snapped. The door swung inward to reveal his bride standing there with one bare foot atop the other, staring up at him with a pained expression on her lovely face. Her hair was in wild disarray, her nightgown drooping off one shoulder. He reached out and pulled the gown up. The opposite shoulder immediately fell.

  Celine batted his hand away, reached up and grabbed both sides of the gown’s neckline. A wave of nausea hit her. She wanted nothing more than to lie down again, but with Cord framed in the doorway, his ice blue eyes assessing her as if she were a ripe peach ready for the picking, she decided against it.

  “Are you going to let me in or not?” He thought she might be rooted to the spot, capable of little but staring.

  Still clinging to the gown, she stepped back. As he moved past her, she was careful to keep her bare toes away from his heavy boots. He glanced at the bed and saw that it was still made up.

  “I see you waited up for me,” he said.

  She held on to the doorknob for dear life.

  The ship listed to one side and quickly righted itself again.

  “Are we going to sink?” she whimpered, not caring if he saw her fear. The recollection of her mother’s body disappearing beneath the waves flashed through her mind.

  “Not before morning.”

  Her face blanched. When he realized his answer had truly frightened her, Cord reached out for one of her thick, ebony curls and rubbed it between his fingers.

  “I’m only teasing. We are in no danger of sinking.”

  “How do you know that for certain?”

  He let go and watched the curl tease the flesh over her collarbone.

  “The captain has gone to bed. If there was any real problem, I’m sure he would be up on deck having the men bail water or something,” he said.

  He shifted his weight with the roll of the ship, walked over to the bunk and sat down. Cord patted the blanket beside him.

  “Come here.”

  Celine took a step toward him. As she attempted to take another, the ship rocked, the floor went out from under her and she ended up sprawled across his lap. The nightgown gaped precariously low, giving him a tempting view of her breasts.

  “I didn’t mean for you to throw yourself at me.” Cord righted her gently until she was seated beside him.

  “When will it stop?” she moaned.

  “We haven’t gotten started yet.”

  “I meant the motion of the ship. Surely this isn’t normal.” She shook her head. “I don’t remember anything like this …”

  “How old were you when you sailed before?” he managed to ask despite the inspiring view of her breasts which the ill-fitting gown afforded him.

  “Five.”

  “Then you were too young to remember exactly what that voyage was like, weren’t you.”

  Celine pressed her palm to her forehead. “I don’t think I would have forgotten something this … What are you doing?”

  While she was worrying about capsizing, Cord had slipped his hand into the gaping neckline and cupped a breast. When he did not withdraw his hand, Celine slapped it away.

  He crossed his arms and watched her gather the front of the gown into a tight wad and then try to tie it in a knot. When the attempt failed, she pressed her fist between her breasts to hold the material there, effec
tively cutting off his view, then glared up at him.

  “Do you intend to deny me my rights?”

  “I really think I should lie down,” she said.

  There was no way she could refuse him, not when the law declared a husband could resort to force if he had to.

  “Don’t think you can get away with lying here with your eyes closed and your fists clinched like a virgin sacrifice—”

  “I’m not thinking anything of the sort right now. I need to lie down.”

  He stood up and began to pace the cabin. Three strides found him nose to nose with one wall. Cord started back the other way. By the stubborn set of her shoulders, he could see this was not going to be as easy as he had hoped.

  “Go ahead and lie down then,” he snapped.

  She was not doing a damned thing to arouse him, yet he found himself fully aroused. He probably had the damned oversized gown and the enticing view of her breasts to thank for that. After all, he had been celibate of late.

  It didn’t help knowing that she was a virgin …

  “You are a virgin, aren’t you?”

  The startled look she shot him said more than words.

  No help for it then, he thought. What a pity Alexandre was dead. Cord knew his cousin would have known exactly how to woo the girl, how to put her at ease, skillfully deflower her and even have her thinking it had been her idea. Alex had been faithful to his Juliette all those years, but he had also been a consummate flirt well adored by the ladies.

  Cord couldn’t help but wonder now if it wouldn’t have been better for all concerned to have done the less honorable thing and to have refused to fulfill the marriage contract in the first place.

  Celine lay down on the bunk and curled in on herself. From the moment Cord had walked into the cabin, the room seemed to have shrunk three times. He filled the place with his very maleness. Even now he stood there bigger than life, the top of his head nearly grazing the ceiling, his feet planted wide, his hands fisted on his hips as he stared down at her, his expression waffling between contempt and desire.

  The ship creaked; the timbers groaned. Cord began to unbutton his jacket and strip it off. She quickly closed her eyes.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” he warned.

  He quickly unbuttoned the neck and first few buttons of his shirt, then pulled it over his head and tossed it aside.

  “As if I could,” Celine mumbled to herself, certain that the next swell would send her rolling off the edge of the bunk.

  “What’s going on now?” Edward whispered. He stood with one hand on his companion’s shoulder while Foster pressed his ear against the door to the adjoining room.

  “They’re still talkin’,” Foster whispered back. “Cordero seems to be moving around. I can ’ear ’is footsteps.”

  “You think they’ll do it?”

  Foster put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Cord was moving closer to the door. Both men held their breath until they heard him walk away again.

  “I noticed the miss was in a panic when she came in to change for dinner.”

  “Oh, no,” Edward said. Behind him the cabin was crowded nearly floor to ceiling with their trunks plus some of Cord’s. “Do you think she’ll refuse ’im?”

  “I don’t know. So far she’s everything ’er father warned ol’ ’Enre about.”

  “What if she plans to run off once we reach St. Stephen? What if that’s why she agreed to leave New Orleans? It’d be a way to get away from ’er father. Is that window leaking?” Edward ended on a squeak.

  Foster glanced at the window. “No. Now calm down, Eddie. We don’t need an imagined crisis when a real one might be ’appenin’ in the very next room.”

  “I think they should ’ave separate cabins. I’d be just as happy to bunk on the ’tween deck, but I don’t like the way the bosun’s been lookin’ at me. He looks as if he’d like nothin’ better than to—”

  “Would you please stop imaginin’ the worst? We ’ave to keep our wits about us. It’s best they been thrown together like this.”

  There was a distinct thud on the other side of the door, and Edward’s hand tightened on Foster’s shoulder. “What was that?”

  “A boot hittin’ the floor.”

  There was a second, identical sound.

  “Other boot. Good. Now we’re gettin’ someplace.” Foster rubbed his palms together.

  “We can only ’ope. Wot if she does refuse?”

  “They ’ave to consummate. Otherwise she can get ’erself an annulment.”

  Edward sighed. “Cordero needs someone in ’is life. I’ll never forget ’ow much his father loved our Miss Alyce.”

  “Cord don’t need just anyone, though,” Foster reminded him. “ ’E needs someone who’ll shower ’im with all the love ’e deserves.”

  “Everyone the poor lad ever loved ’as died or abandoned ’im.”

  “Everyone but us, Eddie.” Foster shifted and pressed his ear closer to the door. “Damn. I don’t ’ear anythin’ now. Maybe I should have opened a bottle of wine and ’ad it ready for them.”

  Edward smiled. “You’re such a bloomin’ romantic, Fos.”

  Cord stared down at Celine, certain there had never been a less enthusiastic bride. She wasn’t even looking at him. She was lying so damn still he thought she might have actually fallen asleep.

  He felt like a fool standing there naked as the day he was born, fully aroused, debating what to do next. He could awaken her with gentle kisses, undress her, coax her with tenderness. He could whisper sweet words of love that he did not mean but knew most women loved to hear.

  Or he could shake her awake, rip off her gown, ravage her and have done with it—but then Alex would probably haunt him forever. Besides, ravaging would require too much effort, especially if she put up a fight—one which everyone on board would undoubtedly hear.

  As he stood there debating, the ship slammed down a swell.

  The Adelaide shuddered. Celine’s eyes flew open. She shoved herself to a sitting position. The only lamp in the cabin was violently swinging from a hook on the wall. Cord stood in the wavering ring of light, hovering over her, buck naked.

  “Oh, my God!” Celine slapped her palm across her mouth and held it there. Her eyes began to water.

  “Look, there’s no need to get hysterical.” Cord’s erection started to wilt under the uninspiring look of sheer panic in the wide, beautiful eyes staring at him over an outstretched hand.

  She shook her head violently.

  He reached toward her. “Just calm down. I’ve already decided against ravaging you.”

  She moaned behind her hand.

  “Get ahold of yourself. You’re my wife, Celine. I have every right, you know.”

  Celine pulled her hand away from her mouth and took a deep breath. She swallowed twice.

  “I’m going to throw up.”

  Before he could move, she grasped the edge of the bunk and vomited all over his bare feet.

  “What’s going on now?” Edward said, nudging Foster between the ribs.

  “I don’t—” Before he could finish, the bolt popped and the adjoining door flew open so hard it smacked into the wall. The support gone, Foster fell into Cord’s cabin, with Edward right behind him. Foster quickly regained his balance and found himself face-to-face with Cord, who appeared to be wearing nothing but vomit where his stockings should have been.

  Foster adjusted the collar of his nightshirt and straightened his spine. “May I be of ’elp, sir?”

  Edward reached up and smoothed the few wisps of hair left atop his bald head. “Ready to serve, sir.”

  “I’m afraid, gentlemen,” Cord said with as much dignity as he could muster, “that my wife has exploded.”

  Seven

  Looking at her now, he thought she might up and die and leave him a widower. Cord hadn’t seen Celine for twelve hours, so it came as a shock to find her lying in her bunk in the same position in which he had last seen her. Her face was the color of w
atery split-pea soup.

  “You look like death warmed over.” Unable to think of anything more encouraging to say, he stood there waiting for her to open her eyes.

  She didn’t move, but did finally manage to croak, “Get out.”

  Cord stayed as far away from her as he could in the confining space. He shoved his hands through his hair and then settled them on his hips. She looked like hell. Her hair was matted, the delicate skin beneath her eyes shadowed. Foster had expressed concern that she would become dehydrated and had instructed Cord to see that she took something.

  “Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

  She moaned and rolled over to face the wall, presenting her back to him. As he stood rigid and at a complete loss, she mumbled, “What are you doing here? Have you come to torture me for last night? Surely you don’t expect me to … you know.”

  “Edward has also taken ill and Foster is too busy seeing to him to tend to you.”

  Cord had found it a bit suspicious that Edward professed to be ill, since the servant had not once suffered from seasickness on the voyage to New Orleans years ago. He had gone to see for himself and found Edward in his new bunk on the ’tween deck, refusing food, refusing to do anything but lie there with the covers up to his chin. Celine looked far worse than Edward. At least his servant was not the color of sheets tinged green.

  Cord tried again. “If you’re hungry, I’m sure the cook still has some nice gray gruel left from breakfast.”

  “Please stop.”

  He almost smiled. The way she looked at the moment and the memory of last night made verbal torture far more appealing than the thought of bedding her.

  “If that’s not to your liking there’s liver and onions.”

  She rolled over and glared up at him with a jaundiced eye.

  “I know what you’re trying to do. You married out of some twisted sense of honor and now you find yourself stuck with a wife you never really wanted, so you’ve decided to slowly torture me to death. Why don’t you just shoot me and get it over with?”