Day Dreamer (12 page)

He cursed and lunged for her, forced to grab her bunk to keep himself from sliding back into his room when they dove down a wave. He shoved the trunks aside. A small, barrel-shaped carrying case rolled past him and rumbled all the way to the far end of the other cabin, where it hit the wall and popped open. His personal possessions went flying.

“Celine?”

He took her by the shoulders. Her skin was cold and clammy. Cord shook her. When she looked up at him, he saw nothing to relieve his anxiety. The light in her eyes had been extinguished by fear.

“I’m dying,” she whispered.

He was able to read the prediction on her lips.

“I should be so lucky,” he jested.

She didn’t smile. He waited until the ship righted itself between onslaughts and then stood, pulling her up against him. She was trembling so hard she could not stand on her own.

He held her alongside him as he struggled into his cabin. There, at least, the bed was dry. He whipped back the bedding and urged her down.

“Take off your gown,” he yelled.

She looked up at him and shook her head forlornly. “Not now, Cord. Please.”

“Don’t be absurd. Take off your gown. You’re soaked through.”

“Will it matter once we’ve capsized and I’m drowning?”

“You aren’t going to drown.”

“My mother—”

“Your mother was buried at sea. Spare me the details.” Cord reached out and grabbed the front of her gown. It was so sodden it had nearly slipped all the way off her on its own. Rather than waste time struggling with it, he gave a quick tug and ripped it off.

She did not protest at all.

“You’re worse off than I thought,” he mumbled.

She had black-and-blue marks all over her shoulders, breasts and ribs. As he whipped the wool blanket from his bunk, he shouted, “What in the hell happened?”

“I kept falling off the bunk,” she said, taking no notice as he wrapped her in the wool cocoon. “I gave up being tossed around and barricaded myself behind the trunks. I’m so tired. Are you tired?”

“Lie down,” he said, gently pushing her back onto the bunk and sliding her up against the wall. He was too tall to stretch out comfortably in the small space, but now his height served him well, as he braced his boots against the wall at one end of the bed and his shoulders against the other. Wrapped around her, he could hold her against the sea wall so that she would not go flying off the bunk.

He felt her trembling against him and found it hard to believe that this was the same woman who’d been brave enough to face down a pirate crew. To calm and reassure her, Cord began to stroke her head. Within minutes he found his own anxiety beginning to seep away.

“Tell me about St. Stephen,” she whispered against his ear. “I want to imagine what it will be like if we get there.”

“We’ll get there,” he promised.

Her breath was warm. It teased his neck. Cord found himself nuzzling her cheek before he realized what he was doing, and immediately stopped. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back. All the years he was in Louisiana, he’d never spoken of his island to anyone. No one had ever cared enough to ask. Not even Alex.

“Sunshine and rainbows,” he began. “The air is warm and balmy, perfumed with the scent of flowers.” He smiled to himself in remembrance. “I never wore a pair of shoes before I was eight.

“We lived charmed lives, island lives. My mother was English. She had inherited the Dunstain land on St. Stephen from a childless aunt and uncle. She met my father and fell in love with him. My father ran things and kept mother happy. They lived like the other landed gentry, but he was always considered an outsider and less than they because he was only a Creole from New Orleans, while they were a titled set. It never bothered him. He didn’t really care what any of them thought, only that my mother was happy.”

Cord braced himself when the ship shuddered after a particularly hard hit. Celine slipped her arms free of the blanket and wrapped them tight around his ribs. He glanced down. Her eyes were closed. Her cheek was pressed against his heart. It was strange, this new sensation, this need to protect and to comfort her.

“The house,” she whispered. “Tell me about the house.”

“It isn’t like any plantation house in Louisiana. It’s as large, but not all that grand. My mother’s gardens are filled with plants that bloom every color of the rainbow. There is fruit ripe for the picking anytime you want it. On the hillside below the main house there is a sugar mill and distillery. The slave village is nearby. The hills and valleys are covered by acres and acres of sugar cane, a waving sea of rich emerald green.”

Celine lay with her arms wrapped tight around him, her mind capturing not only the sights and sounds he painted with words but those that swirled and eddied about him like a mist of tangled dreams. Since childhood, she had never clung to another living soul. Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, pressed full length against him, her unguarded mind feasted at a banquet stocked with a cornucopia of memories.

No place on earth, she thought, could be as beautiful as the visions of the island locked forever in Cord’s mind. She saw the tableau as he set the stage for her, and she could see the players as well.

Foster and Edward. Younger. Caring for the young boy and his family. Alyce Dunstain Moreau. Cord’s beautiful mother. The lady who danced by starlight
.

A sudden chill. A rush of anguish. Hurt and betrayal. Black crepe. A man who looks like Cordero. A view from the foot of the bed. Half his head swathed in bandages. Terror and loss. Cord listening, paralyzed with grief. Too numb to cry anymore
.

“
Your mother died in the accident. She’s never coming back. Eight-year-olds are too old to cry. You will be leaving tomorrow
—”

The dark pain was suddenly cut off. Somehow, Cord had managed to force the feelings into some place inaccessible to both of them. Celine stirred. She realized how deeply Cord had buried his pain, how strong a will he must have created in himself to do so. He had perfected hiding the hurt, even from himself, over many, many years. She hurt for him, and closed her eyes again.

The island was safe for him; that was why he went there so often in memory. She saw the place again the way he had seen it last. She walked with him along a shore with sparkling pink sand, dove beneath foaming sea green waves.

She let his thoughts and the words he whispered against her hair slowly allay her fear of the roaring wind and pounding sea. She let herself take refuge in his arms and felt safe for the first time since she had run from the sight of Jean Perot’s blood pooling on the cobblestones in his courtyard.

She let herself dare to hope that the horror of that night was truly behind her. She swore to the Infinite Power behind all life that if they should come through the storm alive, she would do everything she could to be a good wife to Cord. She would offer unconditionally the one thing he had never been able to hold on to: She would offer him love. She would give him her loyalty. She would make him believe in life again.

She felt his arms tighten around her as he braced himself in the bunk. The warmth of his strong, hard body seeped into her. The slow, steady beat of his heart against her ear lulled her to sleep.

Cord knew the minute Celine fell asleep. She was too exhausted to fight her fear any longer. At the same time, almost imperceptibly, the storm had started to weaken. The ship no longer shuddered down every swell, the timbers no longer screamed with every gust of wind. He let himself relax, but remained alert in case the gale picked up again.

With one arm tight around Celine, he continued to stroke her glossy black hair. Holding her close had been an act meant to comfort her, but slowly it had become something else. A pervasive calm had settled over him from the moment he had taken her into his arms.

When she had asked him to describe St. Stephen, he had almost denied her innocent request, fearing the pain lodged with the memories. But once he’d begun the telling, sharing it with her had seemed natural. He’d no longer been alone with his pain.

He gently worked the tangles out of her hair until it slipped like ebony silk between his fingers. He pressed his body closer to hers. He was fully aroused, and had been for too long to deny it. It was a stolen pleasure. He smiled as he imagined what Celine would say if she knew.

From the moment he had laid eyes on her, she had surprised him at every turn. Her outrageous confrontation with Dundee had not only scared the hell out of him, but had amazed him as well. Her quick humor amused him more than anything had in a long while. They had been bound only by an agreement made between two old men, but she had trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms.

He felt something inside of him tighten, a stirring he had not allowed himself in years. He warned himself not to care for her, not to become attached to this slip of a girl who kept denying her true identity, who kept claiming to be part gypsy.

Everyone he had ever let himself love had abandoned him. Why would she prove any different? If the situation at the plantation proved impossible, and Celine was miserable, he would let her go.

If she chose to stay, perhaps in time they could at least learn to give each other mutual satisfaction. It wasn’t an impossible idea. Most of the men he knew had wed through arranged marriages, and many had made the most of it. Chances of finding a love match like his mother and father’s were one in a million.

There was absolutely no need to risk falling in love with Celine. He could not allow her to walk off with whatever remained of his heart.

It was bad enough that she had already made him realize there might be a bit of it left after all.

Nine

C
eline knelt on her bunk at the porthole watching glittering moonlight kiss West Indian waters. The moon seemed close enough to touch. She never slept well during a full moon, and tonight was no exception. The
Adelaide
sliced through the calm sea, her sails proudly billowed and straining, as if the ship itself, as much as her passengers and crew, anticipated reaching St. Stephen on the morrow.

Celine slipped a mint green day dress over the shift which had doubled as a nightgown ever since Cord had destroyed the other. As she smoothed down her skirt and opened the cabin door, she was surprised not to find Cord in the saloon. After the way he had been drinking at dinner, she decided he must surely have passed out at the table.

He had been drinking heavily since the night of the storm, and in part she blamed herself. If she had not asked him to describe St. Stephen, he would not have tapped into the past he kept locked so deep inside.

Celine left the saloon and walked along the rail of the main deck, grateful to be up and about. Now that there were only a few hours of the voyage left, she had finally found her sea legs. She reached up to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear and then paused to lean against the rail and stare out at the midnight blue water. Moon-glow backlit the clouds an eerie blue-white. The breeze was balmy, tinted with a hint of fragrant blossoms. Somewhere out over the water a seagull cried. Land was near.

A sailor carrying a heavy coil of rope passed without a glance in her direction. The crew had given her a wide berth since she had pretended to curse Captain Dundee. Foster told her that the sailors half believed she truly had put a curse on Dundee. They were a superstitious, uneducated lot, he said, and it served them right if they wanted to think that a slip of a girl like his mistress was capable of black magic.

She had seen more of Edward and Foster since the storm than she had of Cord. His visits to her cabin had been restricted to quick, carefully polite inquiries about her health. When they reached calm waters, she had half expected him to approach her with his original request, but he never again demanded she sleep with him. Nor did he ever show the level of caring he had during the storm. He was reserved, almost cautious in her presence, watching her when he thought she was not aware.

As she stood alone in the dark, she quickly discovered there was a magical quality about the ship at night, with its green and red lanterns mounted as running lights along the port and starboard sides. The slick teak rail felt as cool and smooth as glass beneath her palms.

Celine raised her face to the heavy moon, shook out her long hair and let it sway against her back. She took a deep breath of the salt air. It was good to finally be free of the stifling four walls of the cabin. She would be glad to touch land.

As she stared at the ribbon of moonlight playing on the water, she recalled the image of Cord’s mother, Alyce, as she danced beneath the night sky. His love for the beautiful woman was only one of the memories she had stolen from him during the storm. Still unsettled, Celine left the rail and strolled back to the ladder that led to the poop deck. She had expected to see a helmsman at the wheel, but it came as a surprise when she found Cord on the deck as well. He stood alone at the upper rail, an imposing figure cast in moonlight and shadow, staring down at the water. His full-sleeved shirt billowed as blue-white as the clouds. His arms were spread wide and his hands gripped the rail.

She walked up behind him, the rush of the water and the crack of billowing sails masking the sound of her steps.

“Do you feel like dancing beneath the moon?” The moment she asked, she realized she had made reference to a secret memory of his mother.

He started, then looked down at her. “I came out to watch for the first sign of light from the island.”

“In the water?”

“Come look.”

She stepped up beside him and leaned against the rail. The water foamed in a spectacular phosphorescent display against the hull. It was like nothing she had ever seen. “It looks like lightning beneath the water.”

“Sort of.”

“You must be very excited about tomorrow.” She sensed his anticipation.

“No.”

She knew he was lying, that he simply would not let himself admit he could not wait to reach the island he called home, just as she couldn’t wait to see if the island was half as splendid as his memory of it.

“I am excited,” she said.

“Don’t be,” he warned. “You leave yourself open to disappointment.”

“But you made it all sound so wonderful.”

“I was trying to humor you, to take your mind off the storm. Nothing more.”

“You succeeded.”

He ignored her for a time, even though she stood so close their shoulders touched. A comfortable silence stretched between them. Finally he said, “You seem to have found your sea legs.”

“That’s what Foster said earlier.” When Cord continued to stare across the sparkling water, she asked, “Do you mind me standing here?”

“Suit yourself.”

Celine wished she could touch the glowing water. “You drank so much wine at dinner that I thought you might have fallen overboard.”

“How much or how little I drink is no concern of yours.” He stared down at her with his unreadable blue eyes. “Are you nagging again?”

“No.” She looked away to hide a smile.

He leaned back against the rail, studying her so closely that she finally glanced up. She found his look unsettling.

He was staring at her mouth.

Somewhere inside her, something melted. It was the same heady sensation she had experienced once before in her life—the night Cordero had held her in his arms. At the time she thought she must have been dreaming, but now it was happening again. She felt hot and cold at once, struck by a sudden inexplicable yearning she could not define. Without thought, she took an involuntary step toward him and felt her face flush with color when she realized what she had done. Thankfully, the moonlight masked her discomfort.

Cord wished he could make her nervous enough to hike up her skirts and run back to her cabin. He had avoided her as much as possible over the past few days, attempting to take little notice of her at meals, trying to drown his growing need in the captain’s expensive liquor. But his efforts had seemed to have the opposite effect on him. Instead of thinking of her less, he had become obsessed with her.

The moonlight shimmered off her dark hair, turned her skin to a creamy ivory. Her lips were full, dark and tempting. He could not forget the way she had felt in his arms, the way his blood had raced and his loins tightened as he’d held her close during the storm. They had fit together perfectly. It was easy to imagine how well they would suit in bed.

For a split second he almost broached the subject to her again, but then decided that if she did not outright object, she would only concede because she had no other option. He suddenly realized that it was important for Celine to come to him because she wanted what he could give her, not because she felt obliged to do so.

He let himself caress her with his eyes as he gazed down at her tempting mouth, her soft cheeks, her dark lashes. He drew his sight along her throat, to the vulnerable pulse point there, then to the gentle slope of her shoulders. In the semidarkness he could not be certain of the color of her gown, but it was something pale and soft, like her skin in moonlight. The neckline scooped low, revealing enough of a tantalizing peek of her bosom to make his blood pound. The gown fell gracefully from where it gathered just below her breasts, the style emphasizing them even more. The wind played its part in seducing him by molding the pliant material of her skirt against her thighs.

Cord swallowed and turned around again, bracing his hands against the rail. He gulped deep drafts of tangy salt air. The phosphorescent water did indeed look as if it were streaked with lightning. The foam sparkled as it rose and then melted into the surrounding water. A school of flying fish raced beside them, sailing up, skimming over the water, then disappearing like silver darts in the iridescence.

“Oh, no!”

He spun around at her cry. Celine was kneeling on the deck, trying to scoop up one of the slippery flying fish until it lay there on its side, its wing-shaped fins forever stilled, one sightless black eye reflecting the moon.

“Dead,” he pronounced without emotion.

“Oh, it can’t be.” Celine carried the fish over to the rail. She leaned over and let it slip out of her hands into the water. The silver scales were reflected in the moonlight for an instant before the lifeless fish floated off in the ship’s wake.

“How sad,” she said softly.

“It’s ā fish, Celine. With a brain the size of a pea.”

“Is it hard for you to act so callous all the time?”

“Are you upset because I won’t mourn a flying fish?”

“Just because I allow myself to have feelings is no excuse for you to make sport of me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She stared up at him, as if weighing her words carefully. “Why do you run from your feelings, Cordero? Why do you hide your pain in liquor?”

She was so accurate in her description that he was momentarily silenced.

“I’m beginning to think you really are a witch.” He shoved off the rail and took a step toward her.

With her long, unbound hair blowing in the wind, her perfect features highlighted by the moonlight, he almost believed she possessed powers beyond those of a mortal woman. He definitely felt as if she had cast a spell over him.

He expected her to step out of his reach. Instead she didn’t move, merely watched him close the gap between them. Reason bid him stop. Lust urged him on.

When he took her in his arms and covered her mouth with his, it was not the gentle first kiss of a suitor trying to woo a virgin, but the bold, demanding exchange of a man hungering for all a woman had to give. His lips slashed across her tender, pouting mouth as he tangled his fingers in her hair and cupped her head in his hands. His tongue slipped between her teeth, delved the warm, sweet recesses of her mouth in imitation of what he wanted to do to her body. She moaned and pressed against him. As if swimming through deep, uncharted waters, Cord reacted more powerfully to her than he ever had to any woman. It scared the hell out of him. So much so that he instantly let her go.

Celine fell limply against the rail and tried to recover her senses. She stared up at Cord. The kiss left her mind filled with no more substance than that of the clouds that drifted across the moonbeams. A few moments ago she had suspected he was going to kiss her, but nothing on earth could have prepared her for what he had just done.

Her senses had never felt so alive. The sound of the ship, the hum of the water beneath the hull, the scent of the sea and the fragrant hint of distant island flowers overlaid and threaded through the sensation of Cord’s hands entangled in her hair, the biting taste of rum on his soft lips and searing tongue. He smelled of sunshine and salt and bay rum. Nothing had prepared her for the demand he had communicated with his kiss. Not only the sensations it evoked, but also the powerful need that drove him, shocked her to her toes.

“That was nice,” she said without thinking. It had been more than nice. It had been something she could not even put into words.

He looked none too pleased with the compliment. “It’s late,” he said abruptly.

He glanced over his shoulder, and Celine followed the direction of his gaze. The helmsman was still at the wheel near the stern, but he didn’t seem to be paying them any mind.

“Yes, it’s late.” It was an inane response, but all she could manage with her heart in her throat.

“You can stand out here all night, but I’m going in.”

With that, he walked away without a word or touch, his shoulders rigid. He reminded her of Henre Moreau.

She watched him climb down the ladder to the main deck, wondering what had set him off, until she realized that perhaps he had just experienced the same startling, blood-stirring reaction.

It must have come as a great shock for a man who worked so hard to feel nothing.

* * *

St. Stephen was alive with sights and sounds and colors Celine had never seen before. As she stood beside the pile of trunks and crates—hers, Cord’s, Foster’s and Edward’s—she tried to take it all in at once. They had sailed into the bay on waters as clear and turquoise as the sky above them. Like the wharf at New Orleans on a much smaller scale, Baytowne was the island’s major port and as such, the hub of activity. Schooners scheduled to be careened and to have their hulls scraped and painted were docked there. Warehouses lined one side of the wharf. In the shops and stalls, natives and merchants who hocked their wares vied for space with potters bent over their wheels as they fashioned various pieces out of yellow clay.

Through the shifting crowd she saw a large town square where a small rock church proudly stood. Its bell tower and spire reached toward the heavens. Behind a stone fence beside the church, moss-covered stone crosses marked the graves of St. Stephen’s most prominent citizens. Ancient banyans with roots large enough to house a child and massive tangles of vines shaded each corner of the square.

The humid air was heavy with floral musk. The hillsides surrounding the bay were covered in a profusion of foliage dotted with the bright colors of hundreds of species of flowering trees and plants. Brilliant white sand blanketed the beach where the waters of the bay met the land.

As she tried to take in everything at once, a heady sense of excitement swept through her. She shifted from foot to foot, beginning to wilt in the heat. Using one of the trunks for a seat, she sat down to wait for the men. She could feel her cheeks and nose beginning to burn. Cord had disappeared without a word about where he was going. Edward and Foster, who had gone off to procure a carriage and a wagon to carry them all to Dunstain Place, had promised to return shortly. Obviously, their idea of the word
shortly
was not the same as her own.

A well-dressed gentleman almost passed her by, but when she glanced up at him and smiled, he abruptly stopped. He looked to be in his early fifties, still handsome, with a full head of silver-gray hair. He assessed her and the assembled baggage as if she were a commodity rather than a person.