скачать книгу бесплатно
Fury, hurt and longing clawed at him. Millie and Freddie had been his most cherished secret—the tenderest part of his heart. In the world where he came from, the son of an earl did not marry his mistress. Millie had been a lovely blend of several races. When her mother passed, she’d been virtually enslaved by her madam.
He’d rescued her from that way of life and built them a home on a secluded Caribbean island. There, Millie and sweet little Freddie were safe from stupid comments and vile gossip. Safe from people like C.C.—the spoiled, lazy, self-centered society women who messed up their own lives and then went to work on others for entertainment.
Swallowing against the lump in his throat, and the threat of falling into the black hole of grief, he concealed his pain with a mask of anger.
She looked down at her hands, her face falling.
Was that remorse in her expression? Did the woman even possess such a thing?
Rubbing her temple, she sighed, “I’m terribly sorry for bringing up such a devastating loss. Please forgive me for my insensitive bluntness.”
He clenched his fists to keep a hold on his temper. If there were anything that could humble him, cut right to the most vulnerable part of his being, it was the pain and guilt he felt over Millie and Freddie’s deaths. He now knew why people called C.C. unbalanced. She trampled convention. The woman was everything unnerving, even frightening.
Suddenly all business, she said again, “My mother, uncle and his children are all I have left on my mother’s side of the family in America. They’ll die if something isn’t done. I wish to hire you to command a ship going to Wilmington, North Carolina.”
“I said I’m retired.”
“You have a reputation for the most experience and success of any captain to have run the Union blockade. To hire the best, I’m prepared to offer more than twice the going rate. A certain acquaintance of mine is a shipbuilder in Liverpool. His latest vessel is on its way to the Azores. Investors have a similar desire to bring urgently needed cargo through the blockade.”
Beau only partially heard the rest. A conversation he’d overheard in London came back to him. Pay had gone up since he’d been in prison. Captains running the blockade now made five thousand dollars a round trip. The zeros on the doubled amount seemed to float like champagne bubbles before his eyes. Good God, he could make a fortune.
An impossible thought took root in his mind and churned out quick calculations. Added to the amount he already had, he could start the shipbuilding company he’d always dreamed of but thought beyond his reach.
Skepticism cooled his excitement. He gripped his hands behind his back, strode to the gallery’s mullioned windows and gazed out. Five thousand was a lot of money, and she was doubling it to ten?
What hadn’t she told him? Something too good to be true usually isn’t. The vertical molding between the glass panes seemed to grow more pronounced, reminding him of prison bars. He shivered, pivoted and marched back in her direction.
Her expectant gaze fixed on his. The intensity of it sent him whirling back toward the windows again. Gazing at her made thinking impossible. Could he even trust her offer?
Women didn’t assemble dangerous voyages into war zones and make rich bargains. This had to be another cracked ruse to toy with him, make him twist on her string. Still, her vehemence and chilling knowledge about him made it crazy enough to be real.
He glowered at her over his shoulder. In the dim light she almost looked like a beautiful angel—an angel who tempted him with a devil’s pact. Getting caught running the blockade this time could mean his end. If he had the bad fortune to cross paths with Rives, the bastard guaranteed it. But if Beau made it safely, he’d have enough to design ships or not work another day of his life.
Turning, he strode up to her and studied her expression. All he could discern was earnest resolve. He clenched his jaw, thinking, weighing the alternatives. “I’ll only do it if I’m paid in gold, half in advance and half on completion. And I’ll be allotted plenty of space for my own cargo.”
“It’s done then. I’m prepared to leave for London within the hour. You’ll accompany me to my man of business for your six thousand and further instructions for our voyage.”
“Wait a minute. That’s not double the going rate—”
“Six is half of twelve. I’m offering seven thousand over market. Do we have a deal?”
Beau rocked back on his heels, amazed by the richness of her offer. Gold gleamed in his mind’s eye, muting the warnings screaming in his ear. “Yes, but…you’re coming too?”
“Do not mistake me, Captain Tollier. This is business and time is lives. Gather your things, the clock is ticking.”
Chapter 6 (#ulink_22370142-4588-5cf3-b4ac-585203eb7f53)
In less than an hour, Beau made his apologies to his brother and sister-in-law and descended the front steps of Grancliffe Hall. A gleaming midnight purple carriage awaited. In front of it stood four sleek black coach horses with purple plumes and silver-mounted harnesses. Two drivers dressed in black, silver and purple livery attended them. This was how C.C. traveled? Good Lord, royalty couldn’t boast finer cattle or equipage.
Force of habit had him counting items as footmen loaded trunks and valises onto a heavier, more utilitarian carriage behind.
Grudgingly, Beau found himself impressed. He’d not seen any woman pull herself together in barely an hour, much less with two carriages, eight horses, four drivers, eleven valises, seven hatboxes, nine trunks of varying sizes, three female servants and two footmen. Yet everything had been loaded in a matter of minutes with exacting precision.
If he could get past the way she’d pressured him into this journey, he might even admire her single-minded determination. Not only had she compelled him to do her bidding, she’d gotten all of her people, horses and possessions on the road faster than any commander he knew—and she’d managed to change clothes.
She now wore a severe yet handsome chin-to-toe purple traveling ensemble. Three bold feathers sprouted upward giving balance to a purple hat that clung jauntily to the side of her head. Everything matched…everything. “Let me guess,” he said. “Your favorite color is purple?”
One side of her lips quivered. “You are most observant, Captain.”
Yes, indeed. Miss Collins had an impressive logistical capability. Clearly she could manage without a man. Yet her kisses in the pleasure garden were not the stuff of a coldhearted spinster. The teasing, erratic woman in the library was very different from the hard-nosed negotiator in the long gallery.
He’d witnessed her scene with Falgate, listened to the warnings about her instability and knew he needed to get to the bottom of it. She’d offered him a lot of money to do something he’d sworn never to do again. If she was as unstable as they said, her ship may be a lunatic’s dream and her family in North Carolina now ghosts calling to her from their graves.
In any event, he considered himself a fairly good judge of character. He should have her sorted out by the time they reached London.
A footman helped C.C. into the carriage along with her lady’s maid. Beau followed and sat in the seat across from them. Last aboard were the three little dogs.
The first dog handed in wiggled and squirmed out of the footman’s arms and bounded onto Beau’s lap, wagging her tail furiously. “Oh, hallo! Whose pretty little girl are you?” he cooed to the toy poodle.
“Her name is Jossette,” C.C. said.
The dog put her paws on his chest. Her little tongue flicked out to beg for a kiss.
“Are you a coquette, Jossette?” He sank his fingers into the dog’s soft fur and gave her a scratch.
C.C. smiled. “You seem to have found a friend.”
“French women always like me.” Beau gave C.C. a roguish grin and raised the little poodle to let her lick his face. “Yes, I can tell you and I will be good friends.” He placed the dog on his lap, and allowed her to get comfortable.
Expecting the other two dogs to be as friendly, the second dog handed in surprised him by growling the moment he saw him.
C.C. picked up the cantankerous little beast and settled him on her lap.
The third dog scrambled onto the maid’s knee, refused to sit and watched Beau with bright, beady little eyes.
When Beau moved his hat on the seat next to him, C.C.’s little hound began barking.
“Hush, Plutarch.” C.C. gave the dog a scratch. “Don’t mind him, Captain, he’s a little blind in his left eye. Probably mistook your hat for a strange animal.”
Plutarch? Interesting. Quite a bluestocking name for a little yapper. The dog continued to growl while Beau looked him over. “How old is he?”
“Ten.”
“I haven’t seen an animal like him since Canton. An ancient breed, I was told. The Chinese are loath to let those dogs leave their country.”
She cast him a sideways glance. “Very good, Captain. No one seems to know what to make of him. Are you acquainted with Canton?”
“I spent a few years in the South China Sea with the Royal Navy.” Was it possible she didn’t know that about him? She seemed to know everything else. He couldn’t resist asking. “How does a Chinese Lion Dog end up named after a Greek philosopher?”
She regarded him for a moment before quietly answering, “At the time I was reading Plutarch’s Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores.”
Now that put a different light on things. So she was a bluestocking. If she read Latin well enough to understand Greek philosophers, it indicated a certain studiousness and level of education he would not have expected.
Maybe it was because his first impression persisted of her as a lovely, ardent shopgirl. He gazed at her soft lips and idly scratched Jossette’s ears. The memory of how C.C.’s mouth felt under his made him long for another taste.
He cleared his throat and smiled. “Latin? I used to be quite good at Latin. Let me see if I can remember how to translate.” He took a moment to get the words straight in his mind. “Which are Worse: Diseases of the Soul or of the Body? Did you come to any conclusion on such a weighty subject?”
C.C. pursed her lips as she studied his face. “Yes. I learned…we are an imperfect lot and sometimes good friends are the best cure. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she seemed to withdraw into herself.
Her evasiveness nettled him. He gazed at her lips again. Good Lord, stop. Playing lackey to a beautiful, wealthy woman—one suspected of missing a few spokes in her paddlewheel—didn’t sit well. He was used to giving the orders and having his questions answered.
If she read the book ten years ago, that was about the time of her scandal and deep depression. “Sooo, did these good friends help with the melancholy?”
C.C.’s head jerked up. With a quick twitch of her eyes she shot a wary glance toward her maid and then back to him.
Ah, she didn’t want to talk in front of her maid. “And how about your friend—Sarah, was it? Could she also read Plutarch?”
She gave him a steady, questioning stare as she slowly scratched Plutarch’s ears. “Sarah did not read Latin. If she had, she might have avoided—” C.C.’s shoulders sagged and her gaze turned inward. A sheen of moisture added bleakness to her eyes. “She didn’t deserve what Falgate did.” Her words came out a whisper, and she quickly glanced out the window, as if something caught her attention.
Clearly, she grieved for Sarah. Thomas had said they were good friends and that Falgate had been implicated in Sarah’s death. It seemed a stretch to imagine C.C. had led the viscount on, but perhaps she saw an opportunity when he pursued her into the library, and exacted a measure of revenge.
“And what is this one?” Beau leaned toward dog number three on the maid’s knee and extended his hand for the dog to sniff.
The cur shot forward and bit him.
“Blast!” Beau yanked his hand away.
“Fosco! Down!” both C.C. and the maid chided together.
While the maid grabbed the snarling little bugger and held him tighter in her lap, C.C. continued her scold. “Fosco, you bad, bad boy! We do not bite our guests! I’m very sorry, Captain.” Her gaze dropped to the hand he was rubbing. “Oh, dear. Did he break the skin?” She set Plutarch on the seat next to her and scooted forward. May I see where he bit you?” She extended an ungloved hand over the legroom between the seats.
Beau eyed the dogs. He doubted either fur ball could jump that far for another bite. Still, he took his time before he laid his hand in her palm.
She closed her fingers around his.
He hissed in air through his teeth, as if it pained him.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Captain.” Concern filled her voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Her hands were warm and soft, and her touch so gentle. No wonder her little hounds quieted right down when she ran her fingers through their fur. She slowly turned his hand over.
He made another little hissing sound.
Her gaze shot to his, and this time he allowed himself to fall into her beautiful, dark eyes.
“Did he bite you here?” She pointed to a slight redness on the top of his hand—the scrape caused by his trunk latch.
The dog had only nipped his finger, but Beau liked how her soft fingers smoothed over his skin. The sensation of her gentle prodding sent a tingle up his arm. His pulse jumped as well. He was enjoying this too much to give her any reason to stop.
“The top of your hand is a little red. It doesn’t look like he broke the skin,” she said, turning his hand gently in both of hers. “I’m so sorry for his bad behavior.”
Beau gazed about her face as she continued to gently rub her thumb over his hand. “Fosco would need sharper teeth to get through my tough hide.” He could see when it registered in her mind that the dog hadn’t really done any damage.
A nostril flared. “You are a scoundrel, Captain.” She dropped his hand, sat back rigidly against the seat, plopped Plutarch back on her lap and gazed out the window.
She obviously knew he’d taken advantage of the situation, but Beau was just getting warmed up. He glared at the cantankerous little mongrel on the maid’s lap.
The dog growled back.
“I say, he rather looks like a Lion Dog mix. How did that happen?”
C.C. gazed coolly at Beau. “He’s Plutarch’s moment of indiscretion with Lady Whiting’s saucy terrier.” Turning Plutarch around, she smoothed the fur out of his large black eyes and whispered, “You were a bad, bad boy, weren’t you? Lady Whiting no longer receives us because of you.”
“A clandestine mating? It is said dogs often resemble their owners.”
Her eyes widened, and made another twitch toward the maid.
He’d not intended to hint at her visit to his bed at Grancliffe, but sometimes his tongue worked things out on its own, surprising even him.
C.C.’s lips thinned. “My dogs are not like me!”
“I beg to differ.” He pointed to each dog in turn. “Kiss. Growl. Bite.”
A rush of pink colored her cheeks. “Really, Captain,” she huffed. “That is absurd!”
“Will we be taking the train back to London?” Beau asked cheerily, enjoying irritating her. She’d made him plenty uncomfortable with their bargain, and he was going to feel even worse if he found out she truly was a nutter.
“No, Captain,” she snipped. “Dogs aren’t welcome with passengers on the train, and I can’t bear the thought of them being caged in some stuffy cargo car.”
Ferrying her mongrels back and forth had to cost a small fortune. Obviously, money didn’t concern her, or she cared a great deal for her dogs. “Will you be bringing your lap warmers to North Carolina?”
She didn’t answer immediately while she fished around in her reticule. Withdrawing a small hand mirror, she tweaked one or two hair coils around her face and checked the stability of her hat. “I’ll miss them terribly, but I’m afraid it would be too arduous for them. We’ll drop everyone off in London to stay at Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse, Amelia’s…I mean, Lady Grancliffe’s mother.”
“And you don’t think it will be too arduous for you?” He frowned as he gazed about her exquisite carriage, beautiful traveling ensemble, and flawless coiffure. “War is being waged where we’re headed. Do you have any concept of what that means: the dangers you’ll face—the lack of conveniences? Things are not like they are here.”
Mirror still poised in the air, she shrugged and said simply, “I know.”
Well, he doubted she had any idea what she’d be up against, but far be it from him to tell her. He dragged a hand through his hair. “So, what’s on the itinerary?”
“If all goes well, we should be in London by tomorrow evening.”
Tomorrow evening. Beau settled back into the plush squabs and gazed about the carriage. It was so new he could smell the conditioning oils in the seat and door leather. Flecks of silver sparkled in the dark purple upholstery lining the ceiling and walls. Silver fringe adorned the windows. It was magnificent if one liked purple, violet or lavender.
The springs were so well balanced they floated over bumps in the road. At least the trip back to London should be more comfortable than the train. He might even take a nap. Hopefully the compensations of traveling with a wealthy woman would outweigh the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his gut.
Not more than a quarter hour later they passed the entrance to Rockford lands. He’d done quite well forgetting unwanted memories, but some remained as sharp and vibrant as if they’d happened yesterday.
Beau’s lips turn down in disgust. Never had there been a more besotted young fool. At fifteen he’d fancied himself a man in love and had been as randy as a rabbit. That summer Lady Rockford, four years his senior and married to a man twice her age, had made several very specific and beguiling overtures. Her invitation started with a picnic and ended in the master’s chambers.
