by Jo Goodman
“Why is this floor painted red?” she asked when Johnson showed her the gun deck. Wheeled gun carriages lined both sides of the large room. He had already explained the guns were going to be removed in Boston, their necessity vanishing with the end of the war.
Johnson cleared his throat uneasily. “It softens the shock during battle, Mrs. Canning. The men don’t notice the blood so much.” When he saw Kenna pale slightly, he quickly moved her toward an upper deck.
She had some tea with him in his cabin before returning topside and Kenna kept the conversation centered on the captain, finding his experiences entertaining and instructive. They strolled about the upper deck once before Johnson called Rhys to come down from the rigging. Kenna held her breath as she watched Rhys make his descent. Beside her, the captain chuckled.
“You can ease yourself now, Mrs. Canning,” he said when Rhys’s feet touched the deck. “As you can see, he’s managed the thing as if he’d been born to it.”
He had indeed, Kenna thought, awed again by Rhys’s grace and strength.
“Did you enjoy your tour?” asked Rhys, blithely unaware that he had unnerved Kenna.
“Must you go up there?” she asked as Captain Johnson slipped away.
Rhys’s brows shot up at her tone. He held up his hands as if to ward her off. Almost immediately he realized it had been the wrong tack to take because he unwittingly showed Kenna the raw skin on his palms.
A salty breeze ruffled Kenna’s hair as she reached forward and took Rhys’s wrists. She examined them in the stern manner of her former governess, turning them over while she shook her head, clearly shocked by their appearance. “Your beautiful hands, Rhys,” she said, sighing. “How could you?”
Rhys’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut. He looked at his hands in astonishment, wondering what she could possibly have seen in them to call them beautiful. “There were things to be done,” he offered somewhat defensively.
“Well, no longer. Come with me, for I shall have to patch them up. They’re bound to blister.”
Rhys reddened a bit when he saw some of the men poking each other in the ribs as they listened unabashedly to his exchange with Kenna. Then he saw them study their own hands and glance at his wife wistfully as if hoping she would offer to do the same for them. Nettled, he said, “Let’s go below before everyone wants your attention.”
“Don’t use that tone with me, Rhys Canning,” said Kenna, but there was no sting in her words.
Kenna led Rhys straight to the ship’s sick bay where she found bandages and alcohol. She cleaned his raw hands, wincing herself when Rhys gritted his teeth as she poured alcohol on the open cuts.
“I can see the tour was helpful,” he said while she wrapped his hands. “You seem to know where everything is.”
“It was enlightening. Did you know there is a red deck where the guns are kept?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why it’s red?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Rhys. War is appalling. How could you have spent so many years fighting in Portugal and Spain?”
“How could I not? I was needed.”
His simple explanation only lodged the lump in her throat more firmly. She remembered the cruel words she had spoken to him at Dunnelly, accusing him of trading on his heroism to gain the affections of Nick and Victorine, and worse, she had called him a traitor. She lifted his bandaged hands and pressed a kiss into each palm.
Rhys felt as if she had touched his soul. “Kenna.”
She shook her head, begging him not to say anything. It was too soon and she didn’t know her mind or trust herself. “Will you have lunch with me?”
He held up his bandaged hands and wiggled the tips of his free thumbs. “I’ll have to. I wouldn’t dare ask anyone else to feed me.”
Actually Rhys managed quite well with a spoon. Kenna was glad. Feeding Rhys would have been…intimate, she thought, and she was ill-prepared to do such a task. He seemed to sense her discomfort in sitting directly opposite him at the table because after a few bites of stew he declared he wanted to put his feet up. He moved to one end of the table so that now they were seated at a right angle and promptly rested his feet on another chair. Kenna enjoyed her meal after that.
“Do you know,” she asked, “I didn’t realize we were going to the United States until this morning?” She pointed toward the window seat. “I sat there and watched the sun come up and it slowly came to me there was but one direction we could be going.”
“What did you think?”
She broke a chunk of bread from the loaf on the cutting board between them and offered him some. “I don’t know that I thought anything. I was confused, a little frightened, and perhaps angry with you.”
He nodded. “And now?”
She dipped her bread into the stew. “I’m numb.”
Rhys almost wished she would lie to him. “That’s understandable.”
“How long will we be staying in Boston?”
He nearly dropped his spoon in surprise. Didn’t she know? Rhys thought to avoid the truth, then decided against it. “For the rest of our lives, I suspect.”
Kenna’s spoon clattered to the tabletop. Her astonishment was complete. “You don’t mean that,” she said, even while the implacable expression in his eyes told her he did.
“I’m the head of Canning Shipping now, Kenna. There are many people who are depending on me for their livelihood. I have to be in Boston.”
“But what about me? You, at least, are American. My home is in England!”
There were probably more tactful ways to approach this issue but Rhys wanted to have done with it. “Your home is with me now. You’re my wife, Kenna.”
“Let us finish with that piece of fiction, Rhys. It is all very well to tell the others we’re married to save my reputation, but it is of no account between us.”
Rhys’s loss of appetite was immediate. He pushed away the bowl of stew. “It’s no fiction,” he said, gauging her reaction watchfully. “We are married. Don’t you remember?”
“If I remembered I wouldn’t be speaking of inane things, would I?” She picked up the napkin on her lap and tossed it on the table, her mind working furiously as she tried to recall the event.
“I have our license.”
She further surprised him by saying, “I don’t require proof, Rhys. I believe you. I simply don’t know how I allowed such a thing to happen.”
“You had your reasons,” Rhys said. “You tossed them overboard this morning.”
“I see,” she said thoughtfully. She looked down at her dress. “Was I wearing this when we were married?”
“Yes.”
“This morning…it seemed familiar,” she told him slowly. “Did I want to marry you?”
It was an odd question but Rhys answered it honestly. “You wanted your medicine, as you called it. You would have done anything to get it. You offered your body. I offered marriage.”
“And I accepted.”
“Without hesitation.”
“You used my illness to get what you wanted.”
“Yes.”
Kenna searched Rhys’s face. “Why was it so important that we marry? Did you know I was carrying your child?”
Rhys paled slightly. “No. I didn’t know.”
“Then why?”
After a brief pause, he said, “Because it seemed the best way to protect you.” He could not lay himself open to more hurt at Kenna’s hands. “When I found you at Polly’s, everyone at Dunnelly was already mourning your death. Taking you back there would have only meant another attempt on your life. I had to go to America and it struck me that your safety depended upon you being with me.”
Kenna felt a heaviness in her breast as she listened. He talked of protection and safety, never once of love. It was as Victorine suspected, Rhys was sacrificing his own happiness. An image came to Kenna of another woman. She was petite, with platinum curls and an abundance of feminine curves, not so different
from Victorine. Vaguely she could recall Rhys holding this woman in his arms, kissing her full on the mouth. There was a sadness in their parting and Kenna wondered about her, wondered if this perhaps was the woman Rhys loved.
Suddenly Kenna wanted to be alone, to think, to plan. She could not bear a marriage to Rhys that was prompted out of some misguided noble kindness. “Could we speak of this another time?” she asked. “It’s difficult to manage so much in my mind.”
Rhys supposed that it was, but he hardly rejoiced at Kenna’s withdrawal. He stood and pushed back his chair, placing his hands firmly on the top rung. “Before I go topside, Kenna, there is something else you must know.”
She raised her face to him. “What?” Surely everything had been said.
“There will be no divorce.” Before she had time to respond to his announcement Rhys left the cabin.
How could he have known the direction of her thoughts and then put a period to them? What sort of marriage could they possibly have? It was hardly one of convenience, for it convenienced no one. Kenna thought rather forlornly that she was bringing nothing save trouble to this union. She stared at her naked hands. Rhys had not even given her a ring. If she had been drugged when she accepted his offer, he must have been foxed when he made it.
Dinner was a very quiet affair. Neither of them mentioned what had passed at lunch. Kenna could not recall feeling more miserable and Rhys took her reticence as a sign of her unhappiness.
“I see you found the material and fashion book,” he said, lifting his chin in the direction of the bed. A bolt of pale blue muslin lay on top. Scattered next to it were scissors, needles, pins, and thread.
“Yes. It was kind of you to think of me.”
Her stilted reply bothered Rhys and he wished he were not so sensitive to her every word. A simple thank you on her part would have sufficed. She had a way of expressing herself that made him feel as if his thoughtfulness surprised her.
“The material is lovely,” she added a moment later when he made no response.
“I’m glad you like it. The modistes were certain they could not fail to please you.”
Kenna felt deflated. She had hoped he had chosen the fabric himself. What a pea-goose she was. She came out of her self-pitying contemplation when Rhys’s chair scraped jerkily against the carpet.
“I’m going to find Captain Johnson,” he said. “There are some matters I must attend.”
Kenna gave him a brief nod, biting down the questions that came to her lips. Was he going to climb the rigging again? Could she walk with him on deck? Why was he seeing the captain? What sort of matters did he concern himself with? Could she help? Above all, where did she fit in his life?
After the kitchen assistant cleared away the remains of their dinner, Kenna laid out the blue muslin again and began cutting the pattern she had chosen. She worked on the dress for two hours before the confinement of the cabin became more than she could bear. Taking out her redingote, she draped it over her shoulders and went on deck.
The night was clear and colder than she first imagined, but she was determined to stay topside even if her fingers and nose turned blue. She glanced around, looking for Rhys, and when she couldn’t find him she decided to stroll the deck on her own. It was not long before she had two escorts, one on each arm, and several men following her at a respectful distance. Her entourage was unfailingly polite and Kenna realized they were starving to hear a woman’s voice and share her company. She chatted gaily with them, forgetting her own concerns as they let her hold the great wheel of the ship and teased her about sailing the ship into the treacherous North Atlantic icebergs. She asked about their families and their homes, about life in Boston, and she listened thoughtfully to their replies. Without consciously setting out to do so, Kenna conquered the men with her genuine interest in everything that touched their lives in America. When she finally insisted she had to return to her cabin their long faces told her clearly how much their time together meant to them.
The companionway outside her cabin was crowded with men bidding her good evening and Kenna had to slip quickly through the doorway before she found herself inviting them in for tea. She turned away from the door when she heard them shuffling off and smiled to herself.
“I take it you’ve finished holding court,” Rhys said dryly. The secretive, dreamy smile on her face taunted him.
Kenna gasped softly at the sound of his voice, never suspecting until he spoke that he was even in the cabin. Rhys was sitting in a copper hip bath near the stove calmly soaping his chest and shoulders while his head rested against the rim of the tub. His eyes were nearly closed though Kenna could see he was watching her. She wondered what he was thinking. There was a weariness inherent in his posture that tugged at Kenna and she walked over to the tub while the mood to offer some small comfort was upon her. She took off her coat and set it on the back of the chair, then knelt beside the bath.
She held out her hand for the sponge. “I’ll do your back,” she said.
Rhys’s expression turned wary. Could he stand it if she touched him? Could he stand it if she didn’t? He gave her the sponge and sat up a little, leaning forward so she could reach his back.
Kenna inched forward on her knees, avoiding Rhys’s eyes as she took the sponge. She dipped it in the water then squeezed it over his shoulders, watching the rivulets of warm water run over his smooth back. “I wasn’t holding court, you know,” she said as she touched the sponge to the top of his spine. “I went on deck to look for you.”
“I was in the captain’s cabin.”
“I realized that later. The men…they were very kind. I didn’t think it would be wrong to speak with them.”
The gentle circles she drew on his back were sweet torture. His eyes closed completely. “It wasn’t wrong.”
Kenna let out her breath slowly. “I’m glad. I thought you were angry.”
Jealous as hell, he thought. Didn’t she know? “No, I’m not angry. I shouldn’t have left you alone for so long.”
“It’s all right,” she lied, not wanting to be demanding of his time. “I understand you have responsibilities.”
Did she have to be so gracious? The muscles in his back bunched and he realized he was in danger of instigating a fight with her simply to ease his tension. “Give me the sponge,” he said abruptly. “I can wash myself.”
Kenna tried not to show her hurt. What had she done wrong? She gave Rhys the sponge and scooted back from the tub, curling her legs beneath her. Out of habit she reached for her hair, trying to draw a strand of it through her mouth as she had done as a child when she was worried or upset. The cropped curls thwarted her and she sighed.
“It will grow back,” Rhys said.
“I suppose so.” Her hand dropped to her side. “I do not mind the shortness of it as much as I mind the color. Mason ordered Sweet to chop it but it was Mrs. Miller who dyed it. I couldn’t stop them.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” he replied. “But I’ll wager you gave them pause about doing it to someone else.”
Kenna smiled faintly. “I hope so. I fought as much as I was able. I like to think they could not have done it without the drug.”
Rhys lifted one leg and began soaping his calf. “Tell me,” he said casually. “I know Sweet and Mrs. Miller, but who is Mason?”
Kenna stared unabashedly at Rhys’s leg until she saw amusement in the lift of his lips. She dropped her gaze quickly and studied the pattern in the carpet instead. “He’s the man who abducted me from Robinson’s. Didn’t you know?”
“Mason Deverell,” Rhys said slowly, tasting the name on his tongue. “It must be.” He rinsed one leg and began on the other. “No, I didn’t know his full name. I knew of Sweet. There was another one who helped, wasn’t there? Jeb Thompson?”
“Yes. I suppose that’s the one. I only heard his first name mentioned.”
Rhys was thoughtful. “They were very certain of themselves, weren’t they? It didn’t occur to them that you co
uld ever name your abductors.”
Kenna nodded. “Mason was the one who was certain. He was the leader. It was his idea, I think, to take me to Mrs. Miller’s.” She shivered slightly at the fleeting memories of her time there. “Who do you think sent Mason and the others to the ale house?”
“I don’t know, Kenna.”
“Do you really think that somehow I know the answer.”
“Yes.” He stretched out an arm and touched her face, willing her to look at him. “Yes, I really think you do. But as long as you are with me, as long as those at Dunnelly think you’re dead, you’re safe. It doesn’t matter if you ever stumble upon the truth, or even if you believe me. The only thing of importance is that you are protected now.”
Kenna wanted to hold his hand to her face but she was afraid he would pull away. She leaned away from his touch and got to her feet, not realizing that it was she who had pulled away instead. She hung up her coat in the wardrobe and found her nightgown. “I hadn’t realized everyone thinks I’m dead. It doesn’t seem right somehow. Not everyone at Dunnelly is guilty in this.”
While Kenna’s back was turned Rhys got out of the bath and toweled himself dry quickly. “It cannot be helped,” he said, shrugging into his robe, “It would be dangerous to trust any one person.”
Kenna turned just as Rhys was belting his robe and a warm flush spread across her cheeks. “But Nick…” Her voice died as Rhys shook his head firmly and his mouth thinned warningly.
“Not even Nick must know.”
“It couldn’t be Nick,” she said, more to herself than to Rhys. “He’s my brother. He loves me.”
Rhys crossed the room and stood in front of Kenna. His large hands gripped her upper arms as if he would shake her, then there was a hesitation and they simply glided to her wrists and held her loosely. “He is my dearest friend, Kenna. It is not that I don’t want to trust him, but simply that I cannot. Love is no indicator of innocence here. Someone wants you dead.”