Day Dreamer (13 page)

She had watched her mother ply her trade on the London streets. There had been an unforgettable, undeniable look of lust in men’s eyes when they’d propositioned her. The gentleman staring down at her now had that very same look. When he addressed her, it was with a decidedly cultured English accent.

“A lovely lady such as yourself shouldn’t be out here alone. I would be happy to accompany you to one of the local establishments to see that you are comfortable.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir. I’m awaiting my husband and his servants, who have just gone to hire a carriage to take us to his home.”

She raised her chin a notch higher and watched his expression of lust cool to one of intense curiosity.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Collin Ray, assistant to His Royal Highness’s appointed governor of St. Stephen, my brother, the Honorable Sir Simon Ray.”

In her mind, Collin Ray had already insulted her, so her estimation of his person did not rise after the introduction. Her first inclination was to send him packing, but thinking of Cord’s need to establish a place among the island community, she held her temper.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Celine Moreau. My husband, Cordero Moreau, is—”

“Moreau?” His eyes widened and he drew back in surprise. “Not Auguste Moreau’s son?”

“I suppose, if he is the former owner of Dunstain Place. Cordero has come home to take over.”

“Oh, he has, has he? That should prove interesting.” Collin Ray’s brow arched. He leaned back and folded his arms.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

He looked down upon her pityingly. She couldn’t decide which she hated more, his earlier, lascivious perusal or his mock sympathy.

“Your husband has his work cut out for him. Dunstain Place is in a shambles, as you’ll find out soon enough. Auguste committed suicide after his wife’s death and his manager left shortly thereafter. I suppose there are a few slaves left up there, but from what I hear the plantation has fallen into ruin.”

Celine’s heart broke for Cord. He had lost not only his mother, but his father shortly thereafter. Now even his dream of returning to run the plantation was tarnished. If he had not yet heard the news, she knew she would have to find the courage to tell him.

“Have you been to Dunstain Place?” she asked.

“No. Neither has anyone I know. It’s remotely located, high in the hills almost across the island.”

He infuriated her by causing her to feel he was speaking to her breasts, not her. “Perhaps it is not as bad as you say, Mr. Ray.”

“It’s probably worse.” He brushed a speck of lint from the cuff of his expensive coat before he looked her over again, this time without emotion, much the way a buyer would inspect a prime piece of horseflesh.

“I doubt your servants will find a conveyance to hire today, what with the festival going on.”

“Festival?”

“The unveiling and dedication of the bronze of Wellington that will grace the square. Governors and dignitaries from the other islands as well as colonists of note have come to St. Stephen for the occasion. Which reminds me, I must keep a pressing appointment.”

He tipped his beaver hat to her and bowed. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Moreau.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He started off, then paused and turned back. “By the way, after you have seen the miserable place your husband has brought you to, if you should happen to find yourself unable to suffer the situation, please remember that I would consider it an honor to offer you my protection.”

With a sly smile and a nod, Collin Ray turned and walked away.

Speechless, Celine jumped to her feet, her hands fisted in the folds of her skirt. She glanced back toward the ship, wondering if she should go back and wait on board. When she turned around again, she was relieved to see Foster hurrying toward her. Two black men wearing nothing but ragged pants cut off above the knee were following close behind. Foster’s usually unreadable expression was clouded.

“I’m sorry to have taken so long, miss, but we’ve had the devil’s own time finding lodging. It’ll be impossible to leave for Dunstain Place before tomorrow. There’s a celebration going on here in Baytowne.”

“So I’ve already heard.” Still troubled by Collin Ray’s insulting demeanor, she didn’t go on to explain how she knew, but waited for Foster to direct the porters to carry the trunks to an inn on the far side of the dock. As he followed close behind the two men, Celine hurried to keep up with him.

“Have you seen Cord?” She wished she could be with him when he heard about the conditions at Dunstain Place.

Foster glanced over at her, unable to hide his embarrassment. “Not since I saw him go into a grog shop down the way.”

She had grown closer to both servants over the voyage, but it wasn’t until this moment that she realized how highly Foster regarded her. He did not try to make excuses for Cord out of loyalty, but treated her with a respect equal to that he paid his master. They trailed after the two porters, who toted the heavy trunks with little effort.

The inn was run-down. The paint was peeling; the sign above the door sported a barely recognizable, faded painting of a frothing mug of ale and a smoking pipe; the stairs to the rooms on the second floor were worn by the many feet that had trod them over the years. When Foster profusely apologized for the accommodations, she wanted to tell him she had once lived in far, far worse.

They found Edward in the room appointed to her and Cord. He had already stripped and changed the bed and had the pillows airing in the sunlight on the balcony. When they walked in he was in the process of dusting a scarred bedside table. As Celine cleared the threshold, he stopped and hurried over to her.

“Oh, miss. I don’t know what to say ’cept we’re sorry. There ain’t a decent room nor carriage to be had, not a wagon, not a cart, not a mule because of—”

“The dedication of the statue,” she finished for him. “I know.” She glanced around the drab little room, with its lumpy bed and its dingy mosquito netting, which sported holes big enough to admit a horde of ravenous insects. “This place doesn’t disturb me as much as what I just learned on the dock.”

She immediately had their full attention. Celine waited until Foster paid the silent porters and the two blacks left the room. Then she looked at Foster and Edward in turn.

“I need your advice,” she said.

“Whatever we can do, miss.” Edward’s whole face drooped. He couldn’t disguise his worry.

“We’re here to ’elp.” Foster took a step closer to Edward.

She was warmed by their response. “While I was waiting on the dock, a man introduced himself as Collin Ray and offered me his … assistance.”

“He didn’t make advances toward you, did ’e, miss? If ’e did, I say we tell Cordero right off and—”

Celine dismissed Foster’s suggestion with a wave of her hand. “I’d rather we not get into that. What disturbed me was what he said about Dunstain Place. He claims the plantation has fallen into ruin and that the manager left years ago.”

Edward plopped down on the edge of the bed. Obviously not thinking clearly, he pressed the dirty dust rag to his temple. Foster frowned and shook his head. “That can’t be. I know for a fact that Cordero has continued to get his monthly stipend from the estate, because our pay comes out of it.”

Celine paced over to the open French doors on the balcony, thinking out loud. “Ray claims the place is in ruins. What if Cord is penniless?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but Henre Moreau would have turned us out long ago if all Cordero’s money ’ad dried up. We’re provided for by Miss Aiyce’s will, from the monies in the estate that come from England. What the Dunstain Place plantation earns, if anything, I wouldn’t know.”

Celine frowned as she observed the bustling scene on the docks.

“What should we do? If he hasn’t already heard it, do you think we should tell Cord?”

“What if it ain’t all that bad?” Edward asked. But his uncharacteristic burst of optimism soon faded. “Then again, what if it’s worse?”

“I can’t bear to think what this might do to him,” Celine said.

“There’s no better place to pick up information than in a tavern.” Foster shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.

“No better place to get drunk, either,” Celine muttered.

“Now, miss, we know he ain’t perfect,” Edward said.

“He’s probably just trying to get the lay of the land,” Foster added.

“No doubt,” Celine muttered with a sinking feeling of loss. She was not some innocent who did not know what a wide variety of entertainment a gentleman could procure at a tavern.

Before they could discuss the matter further, the distinct sound of footsteps sounded in the hall. In a moment Cord was in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the jamb. His face was flushed from more than heat, his blue eyes glassy. He held a package tied up with paper and twine beneath one arm and a half-empty bottle of rum in his hand.

“I’d come in, but the room’s too small to hold one more,” he said.

Foster smoothed his shirtfront. Edward gave the dust rag one last flick over the dull tabletop. Then both men hurried toward the door. They were abandoning Celine before she had made a decision. Cord stepped aside to let them pass, then walked into the room and tossed the parcel on the unmade bed.

“How was the tavern?”

She had not meant to sound like a nagging harpy, but seeing him standing there so nonchalant, so handsome, and holding himself at a cool distance set her nerves on edge.

“The tavern was fine. I learned something very interesting there.” He was staring at the bed.

“I was afraid you might. Just remember things aren’t always as bad as they seem.”

“No. I suppose if I were to think hard on it, there might be some sort of benefit in having a wife who has become legendary as a bona fide witch.”

“After all, many people start with nothing and have—” Celine stopped pacing and stared at him. “What did you just say?”

“Maybe I should ask what
you
are talking about?”

Far from relieved, she said quickly, “Never mind. What do you mean, I’m legendary as a witch?”

“Well, I wasn’t just referring to your temperament. I happened to be seated at a table beside some sailors who had just reached port. A week ago they came across a shipwreck on an inexcessible section of the west coast of Barbados. Among the other bodies there happened to be one they could identify …”

“Oh no.” She covered her mouth with her hands.

“Everyone agreed it was none other than Captain Dundee.”

She gasped.

Cord sat on the footboard of the bed and crossed his arms. “Dundee was lashed to the ship’s wheel. There was enough purple and saffron satin left on his body to see that it was really him. That and the fact that the dead man had been shorter than most women.”

“Drowned?”

“Drowned and picked over by vultures of both land and sea. It wasn’t a very pretty sight. No telling how long he might have floated tied to the wheel before he died—a horrible death, they say.”

He was watching her closely. She could see that he might just believe she had truly cursed Dundee.

“Did all hands die? How was my name connected?” she whispered, afraid to hear the answer.

“They later found some surviving crewmen on the beach who were only too willing to relate the tale of Dundee’s confrontation with a witch aboard the
Adelaide
who had cursed him just before he died. The witch, of course, was you, wife.”

“What does this mean?” She walked to the balcony, stepped outside and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She knew nothing of the customs of the island. Within minutes she might be on the run again. “Do they still burn witches at the stake here?”

Cord laughed. “No. But I doubt we’ll be able to keep any slaves once they get wind of this. They believe in all manner of beings—ghosts they call
jumbies
or
duppies
, witches, sorcerers.” He tipped his head and eyed her speculatively. “Then again, the slaves still respect supernatural powers. You might be quite an asset.”

“You don’t believe it, do you?” Celine paced back to the bed and sat down beside him without thinking. He watched her closely.

“No, I don’t believe it. Should I?”

“You shouldn’t even have to ask. I had nothing to do with Dundee’s death. Nothing. Good God. I would never hurt anyone—”

She stopped abruptly. She had killed Perot, although not intentionally. Now Dundee was dead. Even though she was not responsible, she’d have to carry another soul on her conscience. She was thankful, at least, that Cord did not believe this nonsense. She wasn’t certain she could stand up to the gossip alone.

Her head was splitting from the combination of sun and lack of food. Celine cupped her face in her hands. Suddenly she felt Cord’s hand on her shoulder, rubbing it gently. Surprised by the unexpected show of tenderness, she looked into his eyes.

“I don’t believe any of it, Celine. I know you were only bluffing to play on his fear.”

“Thank you for believing in me,” she said.

Her heart tripped as he returned her gaze. She wished she saw more in his eyes than reassurance. She wished she saw trust, coupled with just a hint of affection. But that, she knew was asking the impossible. Cordero Moreau had taught himself not to feel anything that could not be drowned by a night’s drink.

“You have no reason to lie,” he said.

Guilt hit her square on. She had never claimed to be Jemma O’Hurley, but she had not told him the full truth about the murder or exactly why she’d left New Orleans. She would be living a lie until she felt safe enough to tell him everything—which meant that she might well be living a lie for a long while to come.

She glanced down at the hand on her shoulder. As if he suddenly realized what he had done, Cord quickly stood and moved to the foot of the bed. With a heavy heart, she thought of what Ray had told her.

“Is that all you heard at the tavern? I suppose you were busy drinking and whatever they call it here … wenching?”

“I’ll admit to having had a rum or two, but I’ve had no wench yet.”

She looked at the bottle. “More than a rum or two, I’d say.”