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“It’s indecent.”
He parked their shoes on the bench. “You’re not going to start that again. I won’t allow it.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s walk.”
She took three steps in the warm sand and stopped. “Oh, dear.”
“Now what’s wrong?”
She looked down at her shockingly bare feet, buried to the arches in silken sand. “This is the most sinfully delicious sensation I’ve ever felt.”
He laughed. “Oh, love. You have led a sheltered life.”
They walked on, passing Sugar Loaf Rock. Beyond the rock, they found a deserted spot where cliffs towered over the shore and the waves stole onto the beach. Without hesitation, Ryan led her directly into the surf.
“We mustn’t,” she said. “This is—”
“Don’t squeak and squawk at me, Isadora,” he said with excessive patience. “It’s so tiresome when you do that.”
The surf was creamy and sinuous as it rushed to the shore, swirling around their ankles. “It’s warm,” Isadora exclaimed, “and I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“This is the most sinfully delicious sensation I’ve ever felt.”
“No,” he said, pulling her against him. In that one movement she felt the multiple pressures of his thigh against hers, hip to hip, chest to breast. “You are.”
Fifteen
Oh Lord! If you but knew what a brimstone of a creature I am behind all this beautiful amiability!
—Jane Welsh Carlyle
(1836)
“Why are you scowling at me so?” Isadora asked, holding the running strap of the carriage.
Ryan deepened his scowl, peering at her in the dim light of the coach lamp that shone through the window. “I was wondering if Senhor Ferraro will believe my supper companion was the same laughing, carefree girl he met at the marketplace yesterday.”
“Not all men put such stock in a person’s appearance,” she said, shifting her gaze out the window.
Ryan had a devilish urge to grab her, muss her hair and clothes, to make her sorry she’d attempted to crawl back into her proper Bostonian shell. She wore the black-and-brown dress he’d hated from the start, the drab skirts belled out over multiple crinolines. She’d scraped her hair away from her face, though he was pleased to see the wavy stray locks retained a golden vibrance imparted by weeks of exposure to sun and sea.
But far more alarming than her sober mode of dress was her attitude. She had once again adopted a cowed and apologetic demeanor, holding her shoulders hunched and her chin lowered almost to her chest. This was the way Isadora Peabody of Beacon Hill had presented herself to the world: as a woman who had absolutely no sense of her own worth.
“You look as if you’re dressed for a funeral wake,” he grumbled.
She turned from the window, let her gaze flick over him, taking in the yellow waistcoat and turquoise jacket. “You more than make up for my lack of color.”
“Could you at least try not to look as if you’re on the way to the gallows?”
“I am not fond of social engagements. I never have been. You should have come without me tonight.”
Somewhere along the way, life had taught her that social engagements were painful. She had learned to gird herself for the ordeal like a soldier arming for battle. A tough corset and a servile attitude became her shield and her sword. Once again, she’d bitten her fingernails ragged, a habit he’d hoped she’d conquered on shipboard.
Why do you do this? he wanted to ask her. But he didn’t. Criticizing her lack of poise was dangerous. Because as soon as he let himself worry about her, he’d start to care, and that could be deadly, could distract him from his cause. He needed to marshal all his reckless nerve in order to do what had to be done about Journey’s wife.
The coach delivered them to a fashionable address in the Botafogo section of Rio. Turning in from the broad brickwork lane lined by carabba trees, they passed through a massive gate of wrought iron. Family crests bearing ships and lions hung from the bars of the gate. The conveyance followed a cobbled circular drive with a lighted fountain in the center.
The Ferraros’ home was a multilevel mansion lit by torches ensconced in the walls. A houseman, smiling hugely, conducted them into a salon decked in gauzy draperies and carved wooden screens, potted palms in the corners. Turkish divans and ottomans overflowed with large, soft cushions. The atmosphere of luxury and sensuality enclosed them like a seductive embrace.
Ryan looked at Isadora to see how she was taking it all in. She was biting her nails, he saw with a heated rush of annoyance. He put his hand on hers. “You have such a sweet mouth, Isadora,” he whispered. “I can think of a much better purpose for it than nail biting.”
She slapped his hands away. “I wish you wouldn’t speak to me in such a suggestive manner.”
“Why not?”
“It’s…improper. No, it’s worse than that. It’s insincere.”
“How so?”
“I say so.”
“And you would know.” He cupped her blushing cheek in the palm of his hand, lightly rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip, marveling at how soft it was, remembering how it had tasted when he’d kissed her. “You are no expert on men, Isadora. And you’re especially no expert on me.”
She jerked away, blinking fast as if on the verge of tears. “Captain Calhoun, I am not well suited to teasing.”
The stark, honest hurt in her expression bothered him. Although she had no idea about the depths of his interest in her, she was right about one thing. Unless he could offer her something more than flirtation, he should keep his distance. Except that the flirtation was so damned fun.
“After yesterday, I thought our friendship had progressed to a toleration of teasing.”
“Yesterday was…yesterday.” Isadora made a turn around the room, gingerly exploring the rich surroundings. “It’s not much like Boston, is it?”
“Do you disapprove?”
“Heavens, no. It all looks so wonderfully comfortable. Quite decadent.”
“And decadence meets with your approval?”
“Senhor Calhoun! Senhorita Peabody!” Ferraro bustled into the room. He wore an elegant coat and trousers made of fine black fabric with a red sash around his middle. “Welcome to our home!”
At his side stood a plump, smiling woman in a flowing pale dress. “May I present my wife, Amalia.” Though she was well past middle age and clearly no raving beauty, Doña Amalia’s dark eyes shone with affection for her husband and welcome for her guests. Her affable look drew Ryan in, and he found himself warming to her instantly.
“Welcome to Rio,” she said, holding out both hands to Isadora.
Maurício cocked his head to one side. “You are looking very formal, senhorita.” He winked. “And the two of you—are you affianced?”
“Absolutely not!” she burst out.
Ryan was offended by her vehemence.
“An idle question,” Maurício said. “Come now. We will cure that with some food and wine!”
The four of them went in to a supper of melon and shellfish, sherried mushrooms, a salad of fruit and greens, beefsteak and stewed vegetables and goiabada made of guavas and sugar. An array of wines and cordials accompanied each course.
“I have heard much of Boston,” Amalia said, sprinkling shredded manioc root on her husband’s salad. “Your native city is a great center of learning, yes?”
“Indeed it is,” Isadora replied. “People from Boston place a high premium on education.”
“And scholarship has always been important in your family?”
“Oh, yes. Though never quite so important as…” She caught herself, flushed and looked down at her plate. “As other things,” she finished vaguely.
Ryan had an idea that those “other things” had to do with being witty and entertaining at parties, snagging the proper husband and resembling a silver-gilt ornament on a rich man’s arm. He took a deep drink of wine, scowling into his goblet.
“How did you enjoy your sightseeing yesterday, senhorita?” Ferraro asked.
“I found it all quite stunning. Your city is so incredibly rich in things to see and do.”
“Then you must do it all,” Amalia insisted.
“I wish I could, but that would take a lifetime.” She glanced at Ryan. “We have only a short time here, isn’t that so, Captain?”
“Sadly, yes,” Ryan said.
“I wish I could spend longer,” Isadora said.
The Ferraros beamed. “That is Rio. Though your home might be elsewhere, Rio takes your heart, always.” They joined hands, and Ryan found the gesture oddly touching, for it was so open and unconscious.
What would it be like, he wondered, to have that? To have someone you could reach out and touch, knowing she’d always be there? To have someone who knew without asking how you liked your salad?
An old yearning tugged at him, a wish he’d had for many years. It was a simple wish, really. He wanted to share his life with someone the way the Ferraros shared theirs. In his travels, he’d seen wonders beyond imagining, he’d faced moments of danger and triumph, but it all added up to nothing because there was no one to tell about it, no one to listen to his hopes and fears and dreams.
Ryan set down his empty goblet. Damn. He’d had too much wine.
“You must miss the familiarity of your home,” Amalia said, motioning for a servant to refill Ryan’s cup.
“Not too much.” Isadora ducked her head guiltily. “I mean no disloyalty, but my life in Boston was quite settled and predictable. I imagine I could be away for years and find everything unchanged upon my return.”
Amalia laughed. “Surely your friends and family would not want to be deprived of you for too long.”
A blush misted Isadora’s cheeks. “How very flattering to think there are those who would miss me.”
“Of course there would be. Perhaps even a special gentleman—”
“Dear heaven, no,” Isadora said, almost in a panic. Her hand went to her bosom as if her heart were trying to pound its way out of the cage.
Senhor Ferraro laughed with delight. “When a lady protests so vehemently, it is always because of a special gentleman.”
Isadora shut her eyes and smiled ruefully. “I am so unforgivably predictable.”
Their hosts shared a knowing look.
Ryan slammed back his wine. Chad Easterbrook again. What did she see in that vacant-headed epiphyte?
With their cheery conversation and their pride in Rio, the Ferraros eventually put Isadora at her ease. At the end of the meal, Ferraro got Ryan’s attention. “We must go outside for our cigars. Amalia will not abide the odor in the house.” He bent and kissed his wife’s hand. “Can you do without us for a few moments?”
“Of course. We’ll enjoy our coffee together,” Amalia said.
Ryan followed his host onto a verandah bordered by an ornate plaster balustrade.
“We should have no trouble getting you a cargo for Boston,” Maurício said. “You are days ahead of the winter fleet.”
“Mr. Ferraro, I’m glad you brought up the cargo. I know this isn’t in the consignment agreement, but I won’t accept anything produced by slave labor.”
The merchant gave a low whistle. “That leaves out a lot of the best coffee in the world.”
Ryan nodded. “It almost ruined me on my last run to Havana, but I managed to find a tobacco and sugar factor who represented nonslave interests.”
“I can help you,” Ferraro said after a moment. “I know a number of growers who employ paid labor.”
Through the window they could see the ladies sipping their coffee and chatting. Ferraro lit the cigars and studied them through the threads of smoke. He probably had no idea that he was grinning like a lovestruck idiot at his wife.
Ryan took a shallow puff of his cigar. “You’re a lucky man,” he said. “Life is sweet for you.”
“God has seen fit to bless me,” he agreed, smiling even more as Amalia tipped back her head to laugh at something Isadora said. “I have the most beautiful wife in the world.”
The heartfelt declaration resonated strangely through Ryan. Amalia Ferraro wasn’t slender. She wasn’t young. Her features were not arranged in any particularly breathtaking fashion. But Ryan had no doubt that in Ferraro’s eyes, she was a gift from heaven.
“You’re a man who enjoys his blessings,” he said.
“And you are not?”
“I’m a man who has obligations,” Ryan admitted. “The blessings—I can always hope—will follow.”
Ferraro nodded. “That is something an impatient young man would say.”
“You don’t agree?”
Ferraro studied the ladies, Amalia in her flowing white and Isadora in her stiff black-and-brown dress. “What you, like most impatient young men, fail to understand is that sometimes the sweetest blessing of all is right before your eyes.”
Isadora decided that Christmas in the tropics was vastly preferable to Christmas in Boston. The days leading up to the feast day were warm and balmy, the people cheerful as they went about their chores and visits. In Boston there would be caroling parties and sleigh rides and fevered preparations, and aside from seeing Chad at these functions, she gladly did without them.
Rose insisted that there was not much in the way of gift-giving in her household. On Three Kings Day people exchanged trinkets and fruits and nuts, perhaps a round of visits with neighbors and relatives and a parade of sail in the harbor.
Isadora felt an odd calm settle over her as she drifted through the days at Villa do Cielo. Ryan stayed busy with matters of commerce, seeing to the discharge and sale of his cargo and securing goods for the run back to Boston. Though she rarely saw him, she caught herself wondering about him often.
You are no expert on men, Isadora. And you’re especially no expert on me. He had all but said she didn’t know him, couldn’t even begin to know him. She knew she should be ashamed of her curiosity about him. Yet when she did think of Ryan, she didn’t experience the cold sweat and knotted stomach that thoughts of Chad inspired in her. Instead she felt…comfortable. Alive. And unafraid that the next step she took, the next word she uttered, would lead to disaster.
Very slowly she was coming to realize what was happening between her and Ryan.
