Captain's Bride (13 page)

Nicholas Blackwell snuffed out the lamp beside his
bed. Resting on top of the sheet clad only in his breeches, he
shoved his hands behind his head. The creak and sway of the ship,
which usually lulled him to sleep, only grated on his tightly
strung nerves. For the past two hours his mind had replayed the
scene in the passageway and each time he remembered, he felt a
little more rotten than before. Not that he’d had any choice, he
reminded himself. Gloria Summerfield was as stubborn a woman as
Nicholas Black-well had ever had the misfortune to meet—and damned
naive, if he read her right.

At first he’d thought she was teasing the men on
board in an attempt to stir up trouble. After he’d kissed her—
pawed her would be more like it—he’d spent hours sorting out his
thoughts. Now he believed the girl didn’t know enough about men to
realize the danger she was putting herself in. Oh, she’d had more
than enough male admirers. Men like Eric Dixon, who’d probably done
little more than hold her hand. To Glory, Nicholas was sure, her
flirtations were nothing more than a parlor game: She was just
playing by the same rules she’d been taught back home on the
plantation.

But his crewmen weren’t. Every time she smiled at one
of them, or even at Josh, they read it as an invitation. When he’d
found her in open conversation with Jago Dodd, Nicholas’s stomach
had tightened into a worried knot.

He’d had to do what he did; her safety was more
important than her pride. And after the way he’d manhandled her, he
had no doubt she’d finally gotten the message. But he would never
forget the look of utter betrayal on her face. She had come to
trust him, he knew. Too much. She seemed to trust every man she
met, and for a woman traveling with only a servant to protect her,
that could only mean disaster.

He turned on his side and punched his pillow,
determined to get some sleep. He wondered what he would say to her
on the morrow, if she would understand why he’d done what he did.
At least he had accomplished one thing—he wouldn’t have to worry
about getting too deeply involved. From now on Gloria Summerfield
wouldn’t give him the time of day. He wondered why the thought of
her scorn made him feel so bad.

Glory awoke to a sticky, humid dawn that only added
to her dismal mood. The hot weather had been building since they’d
left Charleston. Today looked to be the hottest yet. Glancing out
the porthole, she saw the ship was anchored just off the coast.
Tall pine forests reached nearly to the water’s edge, and short
stiff marsh grass dotted the shallows. Several dinghies heaped with
so much cargo they nearly hid their four-man crews made their way
back and forth to the shore.

Slipping down from her bunk, Glory washed her face
and brushed her hair, then swirled the gleaming mass into a tight
knot at the back of her head. She felt restless and more than a
little melancholy, but she approached the day with a quiet resolve:
She would do just as the captain suggested—remain in her cabin for
the balance of the trip. She wasn’t about to face him. She wasn’t
up to his dark mocking looks or the smug expression she was sure to
see on his face. Instead, she picked up the new book of poems she’d
brought along, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s
Voices of the
Night
, and sat down in the cabin’s single tiny chair. Rosabelle
stirred in the bunk beside her.

“Mornin’, Miss Summerfield,” she said, stretching her
chubby arms above her head.

“Why don’t you call me Glory?”

“Glory. That’s a pretty name. It sounds like a
sunrise.” Glory smiled. “Rosabelle’s a pretty name, too. It almost
rings when you say it.”

The younger girl giggled. She sat up on her bunk a
little too quickly and the color drained from her apple-round
cheeks.

“Are you all right?” Glory asked, standing to assist
her.

“I’m fine. Just a little dizzy. Got a touch a mornin’
sickness.”

“You mean because we’re anchored?” As they sat
anchored in the shallow waters of the coastal inlet, the roll and
pitch of the ship was more pronounced.

“No, because I just get sick in the momin’.”

Glory nodded, but she still didn’t understand why the
girl would be sick only at one particular time of day.

“I’ll be all right once we git to the Cape. Cap’n has
friends there, a place where I kin have me babe.”

Glory’s bright eyes widened. She stared hard at the
girl on the lower bunk. “You’re going to have a . . . a baby?”
Rosabelle giggled again. “I ain’t got a whole lotta choice.”

When her eyes flew from the girl’s round face to the
plump mound beneath the thin muslin cover, Glory saw that Rosabelle
was indeed with child—very with child. She licked her lips, which
suddenly felt dry. “Captain Black-well is helping you?”

“He’s a good man, he is.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since I was fourteen, near as I kin recollect. He
was one o’ me first.”

“Oh, my God,” Glory whispered. Her face paled, and
she sank back down on the small oak chair beside the bunk.

“Cap’n says he’ll make sure I’m taken care of. Says
he’s proud o’ me for wantin’ to keep the babe.”

“He’s being awfully kind,” Glory said softly. But her
mind said the babe might be his. In fact it
must
be his! The
hard man who had assaulted her in the passageway last night
wouldn’t be that generous. Nicholas Blackwell was transporting the
mother of his bastard child, dumping her in some unknown place, and
the poor illiterate girl seemed grateful. Oh, Lord, it was the most
sinful thing Glory had ever heard. How could he!

While Rosabelle performed her morning ablutions,
Glory pretended to read. It was all she could do to keep the paper
from trembling as she sightlessly turned each page. When Rosabelle
had finished, she smiled wanly at Glory and fled the room for the
fresher air up on deck. Glory didn’t blame her. But she’d be damned
if she’d face Nicholas Blackwell now—or ever!

Glory spent all of that day and half of the next in
the confines of the cabin. She sent Rosabelle in to the dining room
with myriad excuses ranging from headaches to seasickness. Joshua
Pintassle had stopped by to see her, but Glory refused to open the
door. Only Rosabelle was allowed entrance. And Cookie, the whiskery
old cook who brought down her meals. And of course Nathan. He’d
stopped by when he heard she was ill. She assured him it was just a
bout of seasickness.

“Are they still treating you all right?” she asked,
during their few moments alone.

“Good enough. Mostly they ignore me, and that’s just
line with me. Scuttlebutt has it that most of the regular crew took
sick with malaria. The captain picked this bunch up in Barbados.
They’re a scurvy lot.”

Glory smiled. “You’re beginning to sound like a
sailor yourself.”

Nathan grinned, his handsome face taking on a
winning, boyish expression. “I’ve been spending most of my time
with Cookie, helping him with the meals, that kind of thing. Helps
to pass the time.”

“We’ll be in New York before long, thank God.” She
rolled her eyes skyward.

Nathan watched her with a bit of suspicion. “You sure
there’s nothing else wrong with you? Besides being seasick, I
mean.”

Glory glanced away. “I’ll be fine in a day or
two.”

“And Captain Blackwell?” he pressed. “He’s behaving
himself? I’ve heard rumors about him. The men say he’s quite a
ladies’ man.”

“Nathan, I told you, everything’s fine.” A sharpness
she hadn’t intended had crept into her voice.

For a moment Nathan looked as though he didn’t
believe her; then he turned toward the door. “I’d better get back
up on deck before they think something’s amiss. Mos’ us darkies,”
he drawled in his thick black accent, “don’ spen’ much time alone
in da missy’s cabin.”

Glory stifled a grin, rose from her chair, and kissed
him on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she assured him as he
ducked through the low wooden door.

Three hours later, Glory was lying on her bunk
wishing they would get to New York when she heard an insistent
pounding on her door.

“It’s Mac, lass. Let me in.”

“I’m . . . I’m not feeling well, Mac.” By now she
really wasn’t. The confines of the cabin combined with the now
stifling heat and the roll and pitch of the ship had her stomach
rolling as well. She cursed Nicholas Blackwell for the hundredth
time that day.

“You’ll let me in now, lass, or I’ll have this door
broke down!”

Glory leaped from the chair. In two quick strides she
reached the door and swung it open. Mac stood in the passageway,
his ruddy face split by a white-toothed grin.

“Now, that’s better. It’s fine ye be lookin’ to me.
All ye need is a little sea air, and I mean to see ye git it.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it
shut. They were still a long way from New York, and Mac was
right—she needed some fresh air. Badly. As long as Mac was with
her, she rationalized, she’d be safe from Nicholas Blackwell.

Mac eyed her from head to toe, taking in the long
leg-of-mutton sleeves of her dress and her full black skirts. “And
git rid o’ them petticoats. It’s too blasted hot fer ’em. Sometimes
ye women got no sense at all.”

Glory looked down at her very proper day dress. Mac
was right. How much cooler she would be if she shed her mass of
petticoats. She grinned up at him. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Mac waited in the passageway. When Glory had
finished, she opened the door wearing a grateful smile and fewer
petticoats. She accepted his arm, and they swept from the cabin.
The cooler air brightened her mood—and her constitution—the moment
they arrived on deck.

“Oh, Mac,” she said, realizing how good it felt to be
out-of-doors again. “Thank God you came.” The wind blew wispy
strands of pale hair that had escaped from her chignon, and Glory
felt reborn. She’d been a fool to let Nicholas Blackwell intimidate
her. The man was nothing more than an ill-mannered lout. She
wouldn’t let him bother her again.

They walked along the deck, and despite herself,
Glory found her glance searching for the tall figure of the man she
was determined to dislike.

“He’s below,” Mac said, and she blushed to know he’d
read her thoughts. “You two must’ve had some spat. I never seen him
like this in all the years we been together. He might fool the
others. They just think he’s in a mean temper. But he kinna fool
me; I’ve known the lad too long.”

Though she’d vowed to hate him, Glory’s spirits
soared. “You really think he’s upset?”

Mac nodded, a lock of sandy hair tumbling across his
ruddy brow. “Downright miserable. Want to tell me about it?”

Glory shook her head. How could she ever explain to
Mac what Nicholas had done to her?

“I be thinkin’ I’ve a fair idea,” he said, and
Glory’s cheeks pinkened again. “You’re a nice girl, Glory. I could
see that the minute ye come on board the
Spider
. But the
others—the crew, I mean—they don’t care nothin’ about how nice ye
be. All they see is a lass in pretty skirts. Captain was real
worried ye’d get yerself in trouble. He can’t be there to watch ye
all the time.”

Glory bristled. “I can take care of myself.”

“Way the cap’n tells it, there’s plenty o’ things ye
kin do, but I don’t think that be one o’ them.” He watched her
closely. “Seems to me, livin’ on that big plantation and all,
somebody’s always been ’round to look out for ye.”

Glory sighed. “Yes, I guess that’s so.”

“Nicky thinks a lot o’ ye, lass. I never seen him in
such a temper as when ye wouldna come outta yer cabin.” Glory
stared at the deck. “He just wanted to embarrass me.”

“ ‘Tis not so, lass.”

They strolled along the deck to where a pile of
lumber formed a natural barrier against the wind. “There’s
something in yer eyes, lass. Somethin’ tells me I kin trust ye— and
so kin Nicky.” He squinted his own eyes against the sun as if
making some momentous decision. “The cap’n’s had a hard life. His
mother run away and left him when he was only a little boy. His
father never got over it. He married again, more to give Nicky a
mother than anythin’ else, but it didna work out—not for Alexander
nor for Nicky. He run away to sea when he was twelve. That’s when I
met him. He was the hardest-working lad Id ever seen.

“Time he was twenty-one he’d made first officer.
About the same time his father died. When Nicky left home,
Alexander Blackwell owned the biggest fleet o’ vessels on the
eastern seaboard. When he returned, there was just one old harbor
scow left. Nicky took over the company. Worked eighteen hours a day
to build it into the fleet o’ ships it is today. He’s built his own
fortune along with it.” Mac patted her cheek and glanced out to
sea. “But he needs a lass to share it with. One he kin trust—and
learn to love. One who’ll love him in return.”

Glory felt a stab of bitterness. “From what I’ve
heard, Nicholas Blackwell gets more than his share of
love
.

“Oh, he’s got plenty o’ women, if that’s what ye
mean. But it isn’t hardly the same.”

“He could have a wife and child if he accepted his
responsibilities and married Rosabelle.”

“Rosabelle!” Mac seemed incredulous.

“How can he stand to let someone else raise his
child?” Glory’s blue eyes snapped with angry fire.

“I don’t know what that little lassie in yer cabin’s
been sayin’, but the cap’n had nothin’ to do wi’ that. He felt
sorry for the lass is all. He’s done his best to see that she’s
cared for, but not because o’ his conscience. He’s just that kind
o’ man.”

Glory heard the truth in his words. She felt as if a
weight had been lifted from her chest. The breeze seemed suddenly
fresher, the sun a little brighter than before. “Thank you, Mac,”
she whispered. “Thank you for helping me understand. You won’t be
sorry.”