Читать книгу Reckless - Beth Henderson - Страница 11

To Pierce Abbot Shire Shipping Line San Francisco

Brother dear,

You may run up the flags and pop the champaign. Loath as I am to admit it, you win our wager. The Boston relations are indeed deadly dull. How a social butterfly like yourself ever managed to retain your sanity in their company for an entire month is quite beyond comprehension. Undoubtedly they were the true impetus that kept your nose to the proverbial grindstone.

Hildy and I did enjoy one bit of excitement during our blessedly brief sojourn. Someone nipped off with the family sapphires.

My own modest cache of gems remained untouched, possibly because it is so modest. No, I don’t regret selling off the better stones at the last minute to keep you flush with the bank. I believe in your scheme as I always avowed.

Besides, the boat is quite a delight and I will enjoy the profits more than an untouched dowry or all the gemstones in the world.

The captain made us quite comfortable. I’ve been proclaimed the reigning BELLE for the maiden voyage—who better qualified than this confirmed old spinster?

Shall report all the dazzling details of the trip upon docking in Liverpool.

Your loving sister,

Wyn

Aboard the Shire Liner Nereid

Boston Harbor

Eve of Departure

Garrett stood at the ship’s rail, sable wings of hair whip-ping to blind, his sight as he stared out over the vessels bobbing in the sun dappled bay. The majority of passengers lined the Nereid’s rails, where they could wave excited farewells to friends and relatives. He had taken a stance away from them, savoring his privacy for a brief while longer. Soon the ocean liner would ease away from the pier, leaving the tainted city skyline far behind. However, the social conventions that it represented would sail with them, the state preserved intact, neatly compartmentalized by the price paid for a ticket. His own place among the elite was guaranteed, if not by the location of his state-room, then by his name and the honored invitation he had received to dine at the captain’s table.

He had Deegan to thank for that. Garrett grinned grimly. He would have his revenge on his friend later. For now he was content to stare out to sea, his companions limited to the squawking gulls. His loyal and determined Patroclus was no doubt among the first-class passengers making up to yet another heiress.

There was an autumnal bite in the breeze. It wafted inland off the choppy waters calling to the primeval core of a man and drawing forth the memory of ancient passions in his blood. Although the New England air carried a different scent and taste on its currents, Garrett remembered having felt this particular call before. It had been when he’d taken ship from the shimmering, parched sands of Egypt, running from the fears and impotency he’d felt there. He had stayed at Sybil’s side for three long, sleepless days as her spirit lingered in her fevered, emaciated body. The day he left Sybil and North Africa behind, there had been a pleasant Mediterranean breeze filling the ship’s sails, healing his battered soul with a promise of hope. Back then the world had lain open and new before him, a host of untasted adventure available, and his for the sampling. This time Garrett felt as if Neptune’s wind had snatched away that brief hope, and was searing his soul rather than healing it

He’d kept his mind on other details in the weeks since receiving the wire from home. Consulting with bankers, he’d arranged backing for the mine he’d visited in Brazil and the railroad he’d helped survey in Mexico. Deegan had pitched in, making travel arrangements, writing letters, to all intents and purposes assuming the duties of a secretary. But, although he was doing the work of one, Galloway refused to officially accept the post when it was offered once more. He preferred to remain a companion, albeit a nearly constant one. Within a week, they’d been on a train bound for Wyoming Territory, and from there, along the steel rails to Boston town.

In all, it had taken seven weeks to put his affairs in order. Garrett wished it had been longer. He still wasn’t prepared to face a life at Hawk’s Run.

Perhaps he never would be.

Once he’d thought of this voyage as his last reprieve. The final chance he would have to be the man he wished to be. The arrangements Deegan had made destroyed that hope.

“Damn, but you live under a lucky star,” Galloway had announced upon their arrival days earlier in Boston.

Having nursed depression over his future with the better part of a bottle of whiskey the night before, Garrett hadn’t felt particularly lucky. He’d managed to crawl out of bed and dress, but the drapes in the hotel suite remained tightly closed against the light of day. He barely squinted at his friend before closing his eyes again and covering them with his arm. “I’m quite sure that star fell on me last night,” Garrett said.

“So happens I’ve got a friend who runs a shipping line,” Deegan rambled on enthusiastically. “I checked in with Pierce’s office here and they’ve got berths available on a steamer pulling out on its maiden voyage.”

“Just what I deserve. A coffin in steerage,” Garrett groaned.

Deegan went to the window and threw the drapes open to let the sun spill in, bringing with it glorious pain to Blackhawk’s already throbbing head. “Hell, no,” Dig had insisted. “I told them who you were and got the Shire Line’s equivalent of the President’s Suite.”

His destiny was beyond recall now. His trunks had been delivered aboard the Nereid earlier that day and were resting untouched in the elaborately decorated stateroom. Rather than enjoy the comforts his station in life afforded, Garrett had opted for an isolated corner of the deck in the hope that the breeze would renew his spirit.

Since it had turned traitor, he watched a pair of gulls ride the wind currents.

They looked stationary, as if they were toys suspended by strings, their wings spread wide, their bodies dipping occasionally as the master puppeteer manipulated wires to give them a semblance of life.

Fate was his puppeteer, Garrett mused. Deegan was the current stage manager, pushing him to assume the mantle he had shunned in the past. The estate itself would complete the transition, closing all doors behind him. There would be few moments like this in the coming days, the coming years. He had a part to play. His lines were rusty from disuse, but he’d been born for the role. Bred for it. The richly appointed stateroom, the hand-tailored clothing, the seat at the captain’s table—they were the props, they set the stage. From this day forward he was no longer a man like any other, he was Blackhawk of Hawk’s Run.

The gulls tired of their game. One folded back its wings and dove into the water only to emerge with dinner in its beak a moment later. The other bird fluttered out among the anchored fleet of merchantmen and soon disappeared from sight.

The steam-powered engines had come alive during his reverie, Garrett noticed. They sent a thrumming through the ship that translated itself through the boards of the deck. There was no turning back now. No chance to lose himself. He was committed as never before.

The crowds at the rails nearest the dock sent up cries of excitement, of pleasure, of farewell. With the roar came a shift in the air. The weight in his soul lightened briefly. He’d misjudged Neptune after all. Perhaps if he stayed on deck long enough, the breeze would continue to offer his heart this temporary surcease.

If the brief miracle was the providence of the wind, that is.

Underlying the tide of distant, raised voices was the soft, nearby whisper of silk. The pungent aroma of the bay was replaced by the subtle scent of spring flowers.

Even without the sensory clues, he was aware of the woman’s presence. He had felt her arrival.

She stood the length of two deck chairs away, her stance nearly a replica of his, her forearms resting on the ship’s rail as she gazed out at the dancing waters. A ridiculously flamboyant Gainsborough hat was pinned securely over her spilling flaxen curls. The stiff breeze had spun out a few strands so that they tossed like loose ribbons around her shoulders. She was tall and slender, her figure enhanced by the narrow cut of her suit, the fitted jacket, long waistline, draped apron and green-striped fabric all obviously chosen to draw a man’s appreciative eye.

She sighed with obvious pleasure when the ship pulled away from the dock.

Her eyes were closed when she lifted her face toward the bay breeze. Bright, wind-whipped color touched her cheeks, her lips parted as if she anticipated a lover’s kiss. She breathed deeply a moment, savoring the taste of the air. And with her action, his interest was further pricked.

It had been weeks since he’d indulged his carnal appe-tites and the matter of selecting a willing partner had al-ways been a most enjoyable part of the game. A journey of eight days lay ahead of them. Dalliance with a lovely woman would ease the despair in his heart. Or at least keep it at a distance until they reached England.

This one was a remarkedly beautiful woman. Incredibly long, dark lashes lay like unfurled ebony fans against her rice paper skin. They were exotic and at odds with her breeze-tossed blond tresses.

When her lashes lifted, it was to reveal eyes the shade of thickly wooded pine forests, mysterious, shadowed and intriguing. They widened in surprise, clouding with confusion, when she realized Garrett was staring.

“I hope I haven’t intruded on your thoughts or disturbed your solitude,” she said.

Her voice was cultured, her accent that of the western American coast rather than the eastern from which they sailed. There was a faint throaty purr in her tone that reminded him of a contented feline. Or a satisfied mistress.

‘’Not at all,” Garrett assured. “My official claim on this section of decking has yet to be filed at the assay office.”

Her amused smile started a pleasant tightening sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“My appearance was timely then,” she said.

“Most, from my view,” Garrett agreed. “My own company was becoming a bit of a bore.” He nodded toward the hallooing of the crowd. “No one to see you off?”

She shrugged and stared out over the water again. “It’s doubtful they could even find me in the crush.”

Because she wore gloves he had no inkling as to whether she wore another man’s ring. He guessed that she was traveling without a male escort, for any man would be a fool to let this beauty out of his sight.

“Besides,” she added, her voice growing nostalgic, “I’m one of Trident’s hedonists. My grandfather was a ship’s captain and I seem to have inherited a love for the feel of the wind on my face and the taste of the sea on my tongue.”

She was a most unusual woman, Garrett mused.

There were many lovely ladies littering his past. His success in London had not been tied solely to financial transactions. Before he’d gone to Egypt in Sybil’s wake, he’d cut a bold swath through the ballrooms of the elite, seducing many a lovely guest or sultry hostess during the movements of a dance, rutting amongst many a cuckolded peer’s lace-edged sheets. There had been little pleasure in any of the affairs. He’d been labeled the black-hearted Blackhawk before his arrival and had merely played each scene as it was written.

None of the beauties in the past could be compared to the lovely, disheveled woman who dallied with him at the ship’s rail, not even Sybil.

The wind drew a long strand of her flaxen hair across her face. It brushed her cheek, teased her nose, caressed her mouth. When it eluded her grasp, Garrett took the opportunity to close the distance between them. Without asking her permission, he trapped the errant lock between his fingers.

It was the texture of finely spun silk threads and glistened with a sheen more akin to moonlight than sunlight. Her hand grazed against his when they both moved to secure the curl beneath her hat.

“Perhaps I’d better do this,” she said.

If they’d still been alone, he would have been tempted to rip her ridiculously large picture hat away, to free her pale golden tresses so that they entangled in the wind. Then he could bury his hands among the glorious strands and turn her face up to his. But they were no longer alone. The Nereid was nearing the mouth of the bay and other passengers were strolling the decks, invading what had once been his preserve alone.

His alluring companion tucked the tangled curls back beneath her hat. White, even teeth worried a corner of her bottom lip as she worked. Despite the crowds, Garrett nearly gave in to the compulsion to draw her close and kiss her. Savor her.

“There. Much better,” she announced brightly. “Thank you for coming to my aid, sir.”

“It was an honor,” he avowed, forcing himself to look away from her lips. “But the name isn’t Galahad, it’s Blackhawk. Garrett Blackhawk.”

Galahad. Wyn paused as the name sounded an unwelcome echo in her mind. Deegan had dredged up that particular knight of the Round Table in conjunction with his courting of Leonore Cronin. The Galahad of legend had been pure, noble and unselfish. That description hadn’t fit Deegan and she doubted the high-minded ideals would settle any easier on Mr. Blackhawk’s broad shoulders. At least he had disclaimed any resemblance to the knight.

He was attractive, too, although perhaps a bit forward. When his eyes had lingered on her lips, she’d felt breathless. There had been a singing in her blood, and an excited fluttering beneath her ribs that she hadn’t felt since Deegan Galloway had enthralled her senses.

Garrett Blackhawk made her feel that way with nothing more than a look.

What a frightening and thrilling sensation!

And how comforting to know that she no longer had money with which to tempt the man. No doubt he had recognized the expensive tailoring of her clothing and equated that with wealth, which she would have again if each voyage the Nereid made was profitable. That was in the future though. For now, she felt safe.

“It is a pleasure to meet a fellow traveler, Mr. Black-hawk,” she declared. “I’m Winona Abbot.”

She offered Blackhawk her hand and was faintly disappointed when he didn’t play the gallant and place a kiss on her wrist or on the back of her gloved hand.

Instead his fingers curled around hers, his grip firm and businesslike. It lingered long enough for her to experience another delightful chill of awareness.

“Winona,” he repeated, his voice appearing to caress each syllable of her name. “It’s quite unusual and beautiful. Like its owner.”

Wyn smiled to herself. Oh, yes, he had definitely staked a claim. There wasn’t a man alive who could deal with a woman honestly. They felt the need to flirt, to cajole, to compliment. Well, this time she would enjoy the experience but she wouldn’t be hurt when he was revealed as a cad.

If only she didn’t find these roguish bounders so attractive.

“In the language of the Sioux Indians, Winona translates to firstborn daughter,” she explained. “Or so I’ve been told. And what about you, Mr. Blackhawk?”

His smile was rakish but perhaps she only thought so because his coloring was so dark, his skin so warm, his eyes so bold. He was as tall as her brother Pierce, a fact that appealed to her. Due to her own above-average height, she often met men eye-to-eye. With Blackhawk her eyes were level with his lips. It had to be the reason her gaze returned to linger on them so often.

“The Blackhawks are Saxon rather than Sioux, despite certain similarities in name imagery,” he said. “We had a strain or two of Celt creep in before the Conquest but there hasn’t been much culling from other bloodlines since then.”

His voice was a pleasant baritone, yet not overly deep. It was the crisp way he pronounced some words and yet seemed to linger over others that drew her. It wasn’t just that his tone differed from that of American men. A host of English men materialized each season in San Francisco, many on the lookout for wealthy wives. Blackhawk’s voice was similar to theirs and yet it wasn’t. Perhaps the difference was that his words were more a caress than a sound.

What a fanciful thought!

“Would you care to tour the deck with me, Miss Abbot?” he asked.

Fanciful or not, his voice was blatantly sensual. She felt it to the tips of her toes.

Wyn shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I already have an engagement.”

“Later, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

When she made no immediate move to leave, he closed the scant space between them even more until the hem of her skirt brushed the toes of his boots. He took her gloved hand and raised it in his. Wyn was barely conscious of her surroundings when at long last his lips brushed audaciously over her fingertips.

The breeze was fresher now that they were at sea, but the passion in Blackhawk’s eyes held the chill at bay, and warmed her. His hair was as dark as his name implied and lay in tumbled splendor over his brow. She recognized the work of a master tailor in the cut and fit of his dark suit, and of an artist in the design of his boots. Deegan had dressed as dapperly, though. Clothes were part and parcel of a fortune hunter’s trade.

“What are you thinking, Miss Abbot?” Blackhawk asked, recalling Wyn to the present.

She gave him a considering look. “I was wondering, Mr. Blackhawk, if you play whist.”

Hildy was busily sorting through her belongings when Wyn returned to the suite of staterooms they shared. With her new status as a Shire Line stockholder had come the privilege of boarding the ocean liner the evening before. Wyn had thought she and her friend already settled, their trunks unpacked, their gowns hung neatly in the clothes-press, the few personal belongings they’d brought scattered around the trio of linked cabins.

“Have a nice stroll?” Hildy asked, without turning her head. A number of her new gowns were tossed negligently aside, covering divan, chairs and ottomans in the parlor. She held a gown decorated with silver tissue before her and considered her reflection in a cheval mirror.

Wyn closed the hatch, carefully securing it behind her. “There was a lovely breeze off the port side,” she said. “Since the captain was occupied with putting to sea, I managed to enjoy myself without his running commentary.” Of course, she admitted silently to herself, the encounter with Mr. Blackhawk had greatly enhanced the minutes she’d spent on deck.

“That’s the burden you must bear for being the lady of his choice this voyage, dearest,” Hildy reminded. “You yourself told me there is always a belle on the voyage. If I didn’t have other plans, being fawned on by a man in uniform would appeal strongly to me.”

Wyn walked through the archway that led to her sleeping quarters, unpinning her. hat as she went. Two long strands of hair dangled over her shoulders. She touched one briefly recalling how Garrett Blackhawk had rescued it from the wind, imprisoning the contrary lock between his long, elegantly tapered, masculine fingers. Rather than refix the knot at the crown of her head, Wyn pulled the rest of her hairpins free and let the curls spill loosely down her back. “Plans? What sort of plans?” she called out to Hildy.

Her friend appeared in the hatchway, an elaborate gown over each arm. “In which of these do I look the most attractive?” she demanded. “The silver or the deep lavender?”

Hair brush in hand, Wyn glanced back over her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you have a new prospect in mind already?” In Hildy’s vocabulary, a prospect meant an available, marriageable man.

“I cornered the purser while you were communing with nature,” Hildy said. “I gushed compliments about the ship until he regaled me with a list of viable names.”

Wyn sank onto the stool before her dressing table and worked at the tangles in her hair, half envying her friend’s single-mindedness. Perhaps she should adopt it. If her requirements in a husband were only half as mercenary as Hildy’s she would soon have a home of her own, then children about her skirts.

And a lifetime of winter in her heart.

It was better to remain alone.

“By all means, make it the lavender then,” Wyn advised. “It nearly gave the meat packing magnate in Chicago apoplexy when you wore it to dinner at the hotel.”

Hildy held the dress against her curvaceous form and peered past Wyn to her reflection in the ornately framed mirror that hung over the dressing table. “Quite a staid little man, wasn’t he?” she mused. “Hopefully I’ll have better luck this time. The steward tells me we have a member of the British aristocracy aboard and he will be eating at the captain’s table with us tonight.”

“A duke perhaps?” Wyn suggested.

“A baron. Not a very exalted rank, but I understand he’s wealthy.”

“Perhaps he knows your brother-in-law. You could ask him as a conversational opening.”

Hildy exchanged the lavender for the silver gown and considered her image in the glass a second time. “And totally destroy the good baron’s interest? The Loftus family connection is the last thing I should mention. You’re right about the lavender. Lord, I hate being in mourning, even half mourning. Are you wearing the terre-verte?”

“Not if I’m going to stand near you,” Wyn said brushing through another wind-born tangle. “Besides, I have no need to dazzle anyone. As the only Shire Line family member aboard, I’ll have the captain’s undivided attention even if I dress in sack cloth.”

“Well, you are the Belle,” Hildy said. “Oh, but I did learn a bit of distressing news.”

Thinking the ship had developed a problem, Wyn put her brush aside and turned to face her friend. “Don’t tell me one of the grand saloon chandeliers is loose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hildy scoffed. “The ship is perfect. It’s the quality of the passengers that is at fault.”

The rakish dark face of Garrett Blackhawk flashed in Wyn’s mind. He was probably only one of many fortune hunters aboard. Hildy surveyed her reflection a last time, considering how to make her conquest. Yes, Wyn reflected, there were a good number of mercenary passengers aboard, and they were not all male.

Hildy tossed her gowns over the end of Wyn’s bunk and perched on the lid of her largest trunk. “If I’d discovered he was aboard before we sailed you could probably have had him tossed off,” she said and assumed a thoughtful expression. “Do they still keelhaul people?”

This was serious indeed. “Not aboard a Shire ship,” Wyn answered, “and never to a paying customer.”

Hildy sighed. “Well, perhaps Deegan didn’t pay for his pas—

Blood rushed to Wyn’s face. “Deegan? Deegan Gallo-way?” she demanded in a tight voice.

“I don’t believe he noticed me,” Hildy admitted. “He was engaged in conversation with a very pretty girl and a mountainous woman whom I took to be her mother.”

Not only was he aboard, he was dallying with another heiress! Wyn surged to her feet, fuming and confused at the tumult of emotions his name raised in her breast. Had Pierce arranged this? She recalled clearly that he’d placed a wager on Deegan’s success in winning her. Pierce’s disreputable conduct in the past lead her to believe in the likelihood of the scheme. He’d probably sought Deegan out before leaving San Francisco months ago and arranged everything.

Well, he’d read her heart wrong if he believed she would fall readily into the perfidious Mr. Galloway’s arms again.

Wyn strode angrily around the cabin, unaware that Hildy was unnaturally quiet.

Had Pierce actually used her eagerly offered money to appease the bank during construction of the ship, or had he merely told her that he had? If it was still nestled in the vault of the Bank of California, she was going to cheerfully murder her older brother.

“I wonder what he looks like?” Hildy murmured.

No, she would torture Pierce first. She would see about acquiring thumb screws from a moldering dungeon and—

“What?” Wyn snapped, halting in mid stride.

Hildy looked up, her face still contemplative. “I was just wondering what the baron looks like,” she repeated.

“Fat and balding probably,” Wyn said, her voice bordering on a growl. Didn’t Hildy realize the complications Deegan’s presence presented?

Hildy shivered theatrically. “Oh, I hope he isn’t,” she said with a sigh. “I’d enjoy an improvement over Oswin, in looks, age, and money.”

Especially money, Wyn thought ruefully. It had come as a nasty shock to Hildy to find the man she’d married for his wealth had died nearly a pauper. Apparently her friend had yet to learn her lesson. There were other things in life that mattered more than a healthy bank account.

As if reading her thoughts, Hildy sighed again. “I do wish I had my diamonds rather than the paste copy to wear. The baron will probably notice the difference. Those of noble birth tend to be more educated in these matters than Americans are.”

Spoken like the true snob Hildy was, Wyn decided with disgust.

“What do you think the baron will think is my most attractive asset?” Hildy asked seriously.

In resignation, Wyn sank back down on the dressing stool. She had suggested Hildy accompany her on the voyage to restore her widowed friend’s spirits. Deegan Galloway could be dealt with successfully later. For now, it was Hildy who needed her whole attention.

Wyn pasted a bright smile on her face. “Your charm,” she declared staunchly. “It will stand you in good stead once you are a baroness.”

Hildy laughed softly and leaned forward to hug Wyn. “You’re lying but I love you for it,” she said.

The porthole framed a portrait of early evening. Flamboyantly painted shadows in various shades of purple appeared like bold brush strokes across the eastern sky. The stateroom suite was located on an upper deck and, to Wyn’s mind, afforded some of the most spectacular views available. How lovely it would be to escape to the bow of the ship and watch night gather. The heavens would sparkle in their full glory and, when the moon rose, the ocean would metamorphose into a gleaming reflection of the vast universe above.

But as an Abbot aboard a Shire ship, she had responsibilities.

“Perhaps we’d best change for dinner,” Wyn suggested. “You wouldn’t want another lady to attach your baron before we arrive.”

“If another woman so much as looks at him, promise me you’ll help me toss her overboard,” Hildy said, her tone of voice making Wyn wonder if her friend was actually serious rather than theatrical. Obviously, bringing a man with a title up to scratch meant a lot to Hildy. If that was the case, Wyn vowed silently to do whatever it took to make Hildy happy once more. Perhaps in doing so it would mollify her conscience over the way her blind attachment to Deegan had inadvertently hurt Leonore Cronin in San Francisco.

“I do wish the purser had been able to give me a few details about the baron’s appearance instead of being insidious,” Hildy said as she gathered her gowns from the bed.

Wyn began working loose the buttons of her form fitted jacket “Perhaps he hasn’t met the man,” she offered.

The fabric of Hildy’s evening gowns rustled softly, brushing against the flounces of her day dress as she crossed the room. “No, he said he met all the truly important passengers as they came aboard. But all he would tell me was that the baron’s appearance was quite appropriate to his name.”

Wyn turned her attention to the fastenings of her cuff. “What is his name?”

“Nothing spectacularly strange sounding.” Hildy paused in the doorway a moment. “It’s quite plain and distinctly Anglo-Saxon really. It’s Blackhawk.”