скачать книгу бесплатно
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.”
Chapter Four (#ulink_91a2a9ae-be07-5256-9c82-9d553396db0a)
Preferring to spend as little time as possible in his suite, Garrett changed for dinner and retreated to the gentlemen’s smoking room where he plied a steward with silver for information. It took only a single clandestinely passed bribe to learn the direction of Winona Abbot’s stateroom, and that she represented the Shire family aboard the liner.
The news cheered him immensely, for it meant they met on far more equal footing. Both were not only financially comfortable, they were wealthy. Even though Deegan had handled the arrangements for their trip, Garrett’s nose for business had led him to make inquiries about the Shire Line before actually boarding the luxurious steamship. What he’d heard had impressed him. A number of shipping companies had folded when pitted against the sailing expertise of the White Star Line and Cunard, but the Shire Line had held fast, cutting a niche of their own in both the Atlantic trade and that of the Pacific. Considering that luxury liners had been making the crossing regularly since the Great Eastern launched in 1859, a good twenty years previous, he was rather surprised that the Nereid was the Shire Line’s first attempt to corner a share of the first-class passenger trade. Perhaps they had dallied, learning from the mistakes of their competitors. He wondered idly if the Shire and Abbot families had considered issuing stock, taking their shipping business out of the realm of a closed company, opening it to investors. A block of Shire stock would work well with his other investment interests. As soon as things were settled on his family’s lands, he’d, check into the matter, escape to London and—
Garrett nearly laughed out loud. Considering the way his associates in London treated him, London was anything but an escape. It would be little more than a brief reprieve from the oppressiveness of the Blackhawk estate.
That destination, thank God, was still more than a week away. A week in which he intended to immerse himself in the delightful pursuit of Winona Abbot. This would no doubt be the last time he could trust a woman to see him as simply a man rather than as Blackhawk of Hawk’s Run.
Unless, that is, his wretched reputation was known by someone aboard, which, considering a good many of the passengers enjoying the luxurious accommodations were British, was quite possible. It was only a matter of time before news of his past escapades buzzed in the plushly appointed saloons, flitting first in the men’s lounges before flying fleetly to that of the ladies’, where it would be tat-tered even more thoroughly. Perhaps even embroidered upon.
It certainly had been in the past.
Ah, his wretched past
When she learned who he was, would it change the way Winona Abbot looked at him? The memory of her darkly lashed deep green eyes lingered in his mind as strongly as the vision of her shapely form teased it.
It was only their first day at sea. Surely word would not spread this quickly. Surely he could remain anonymous for a brief while longer. Until she learned who—what—he was, Garrett intended to enjoy every moment he could steal with Winona Abbot.
It was a simple matter to lie in wait for her when it drew near to the hour for dinner. Fortunately, she was alone when she left her stateroom, rather than accompanied by her companion. The helpful steward had given him a name, but all Garrett recalled now was that the other woman was a widow, nothing more. She, after all, hadn’t been the subject that held his interest. He was relieved the widow appeared to be keeping to the cabin rather than join the company in the dining room, for sharing the blond beauty was not on his itinerary.
Winona didn’t notice him lurking in the shadows near the companionway. Her attention was on a contrary button on the wrist of her long ivory glove. Even with her head bent, Garrett found she was far more beautiful than his memory had painted her. No longer tossed by a sea breeze, her flaxen locks were upswept to a knot that spilled artful curls to tease her creamy shoulders. Delicate drop earrings danced as she moved, the cut of the crystal stone catching the light of each lamp she passed along the darkly paneled corridor, creating quickly flashed prisms of color. She wore no other jewels, but Garrett was too entranced to question why. His attention was drawn instead to the neckline of her bodice as it dipped low over a bosom that was both full and cleverly concealed by a swath of fine pale blue tulle. Silk a scant shade deeper molded to the rest of her torso, accenting her narrow waist, and swept in a shimmering apron around her generous, womanly hips. Fabric cascaded behind her in a graceful train, rustling with every gliding step she took. As he watched, she finished with the button and bent slightly to catch up her train before descending the stairs.
Garrett waited until she lifted her slimly cut skirts before he stepped forward. The delay allowed him a glimpse of her delicately turned ankles and high-heeled satin slippers.
He doubted there was another woman aboard to match her for beauty and grace.
She noticed him just as the ship dipped slightly, gently tipping the deck upon which they stood. Ever-alert to opportunity, Garrett took advantage of the situation.
“Good evening, Miss Abbot,” he murmured, slipping his hand beneath her elbow to steady her. The scent of her perfume teased his senses, a mixture of rose water that hinted of vanilla and clove. Its effect on him was erotic, titillating. And yet when she looked up at him, her very expression was one of innocence. “It is Miss Abbot, not Mrs.?” he pressed.
She didn’t pull away from him but paused, as if considering whether to accept his escort or not. Rather than answer his question, she posed one of her own. “And it is Baron Blackhawk, rather than Mr., is it not, my lord?”
Garrett grimaced wryly. Obviously he had been too wicked in the past to merit a respite from fate now. “Found me out already?” he asked as the deck righted once more.
Winona seemed little aware of the ship’s movement. “You needn’t feel flattered,” she said lightly, and proceeded down the staircase. “I did not go seeking the information, sir.”
Far from appalled at whatever rumors she had heard about him, she appeared to be far more miffed that he hadn’t told her of them himself. Garrett grinned to himself, pleased she cared that he hadn’t. “I am crushed,” he murmured.
“Yes, I can see you are,” she answered dryly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were titled, my lord?”
“Actually, it was to avoid having you call me my lord in just that tone of voice. I’d much rather hear you use my first name, which, if you recall, is Garrett,” he said.
She stepped away from the touch of his hand as they reached the bottom of the stairwell. The glow of the setting sun reached them through the glass of a nearby porthole, casting a pink glow around her, coloring her cheeks a warm, blushing peach.
She turned slightly to face him, her chin lifting in resolution. “I think not. I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression of me earlier on deck,” she said. “I really am not interested in a shipboard romance, or a brief flirtation. You would do much better to set your sights on another lady if dallying is your goal, my lord.”
“And if it isn’t?” he asked.
“Forgive me if I doubt your word, but what other reason might you have for lying in wait for me?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she smiled knowingly. “Believe me, sir, where men are concerned, I am far from an innocent as to their intent when they seek me out”
“You would convict me without a trial? My dear Miss Abbot, surely that goes as much against an American’s grain as it does an Englishman’s,” Garrett insisted. “Do you not believe that I enjoyed your company this afternoon and wished to continue our conversation?”
She shook her head slightly. He was pleased to note the corners of her mouth still curved upward in amusement. “What I believe is that you don’t enjoy taking no for an answer, my lord.”
The hatchway to the outer deck swung open. “Ah, my dear!” a voice greeted loudly, interrupting her. Although Garrett had only met the man once upon boarding, captain Kittrick’s gravelly baritone was quite distinctive. “Thought I’d come along to see you safe to our grand galley. I see someone else’s had the same idea, though, eh, Baron?”
Garrett held back a snarl of frustration. “Quite,” he agreed, allowing his voice to drop into the sarcastic drawl he had perfected in London a lifetime ago. “We shan’t have to duel over who wins the honor of escorting the lovely Miss Abbot, shall we?”
Winona’s eyes widened in surprise then clouded with a hint of confusion at his metamorphosis from determined flirt to bored aristocrat. Garrett couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t even been conscious that he was doing it. Donning the role on cue had become so natural over the years.
Kittrick chuckled as if he’d heard a great joke. “A duel? By George! You’ll find me quite game—ha-ha. What shall we use? Shuffleboard cues? Ha-ha.”
Before Garrett could respond, Winona slipped her gloved hand onto Kittrick’s proffered arm. “Nonsense, Captain,” she insisted lightly. “Lord Blackhawk was merely asking for directions to the dining room. I’m sure he won’t mind tagging along behind us.”
She glanced back at him over one shoulder, issuing him a steady green-eyed challenge. “Will you, my lord?” she purred.
Although Hildy and, no doubt, the captain believed Blackhawk was wealthy, Wyn maintained her belief that he was nothing more than a fortune hunter and thus a cad. She had surmised it earlier, and had seen no evidence that he was anything else yet. But he was an awfully attractive one. She only hoped that Hildy would see past his hand-some exterior to the true man beneath. That she would realize he was not the man she had hoped he would be.
Such would not be the case, though. Her friend’s breathing would be just as erratic when Blackhawk was around as her own was at that moment.
If only he weren’t so…so…
Dangerous.
Yes, that was it. There was nothing in his appearance that could not be found just as attractive in a dozen other men aboard. It wasn’t the way the midnight black of his evening wear fit him. It was obviously the work of a master tailor. It wasn’t the breadth of his shoulders or the leanness of his build that pulled her eyes to him so often. Other men were as well of feature and form. No, it was something else. Something she had simply not managed to isolate as yet to explain why she thought him splendid.
He was most definitely that. The color of his coat and trousers was a continuation of his natural coloring, adding to the illusion that he was a reflection of his namesake, the black hawk. Was it simply his superficial resemblance to a hawk that gave him the aura of a predator himself, inclining her to believe he was as dangerous to court as would be the predatory bird?
Wyn was not surprised when Blackhawk chose to pick up the verbal gauntlet she’d tossed. “I would be honored to arrive on your heels, Miss Abbot,” he vowed, his deep voice still harboring the newly acquired sardonic edge. Rather than trail behind though, he fell into step at her side. “However, I find it very inhospitable of the good captain to keep you all to himself.”
Kittrick chortled. “Jealous of me, are you, Baron?” He patted Wyn’s hand on his arm. “Well, you see, I have first call on this lovely lady. She’s my chosen belle for the voyage.”
“Not an easy choice to make, I’ll wager,” Blackhawk said. “There are so many other lovely ladies aboard.”
“That there are,” the captain agreed readily. “But I’ve an eye for the special ones.”
“You do at that,” the baron murmured, casting Wyn another glance of approving admiration.
She laughed softly. “Thank you, my lord, but I can do without blatant compliments. You had best find another ear in which to feed them.”
