Gallant Match (10 page)

His laugh was soft, short. “You have a point there.”

“Of course, I could be wrong and you are right. It may be any man's kiss could be the prelude to…to love, of a kind.”

“Of a kind?”

“Women are told they will come to care for their husbands no matter how they may feel in the beginning. That affection will grow as you come to know each other.”

“But you don't believe it.”

“And you do?”

“It seems reasonable.”

Wariness edged his voice as he hovered over her. She refused to meet his gaze in the feeble light from the stern lantern. “If I could be sure…”

“You require proof.”

“If…if you would care to provide it.”

She caught her breath on the last word, stunned at her own daring. How strange it was, this moment in the gray night while the ship rocked with the river current and the shadows of its rigging wavered back and forth over the oaken deck. Mist hung in the air, rising from the water, curling upward to drift around them. In it, the
man so close to her seemed not quite real, the figment of a dream. She would wake in a moment and discover she had not yet left the cabin and her sleeping aunt, that she had somehow missed the chance to escape the ship.

Kerr Wallace drew back a fraction, his features perfectly still. Then he dipped his head toward her. “I might at that,” he whispered.

The words drifted over her lips in a warm current, waking them to tingling sensitivity. The first brush of his mouth was careful, a mere exploration of surfaces and intentions. The next was sweet, so sweet yet heady in its flavor that her breath left her in a soundless rush. Firm, smooth, a little rough at the corners from his day-old beard, his touch enticed her, made her dizzy and dis-oriented so she reached out to clutch a handful of his frock coat. He drew a quick breath, perhaps at her boldness. And she felt that cool inhalation before he settled his mouth more firmly over hers.

An experiment, she had thought, evidence against his conclusions about her and her marriage, refutation for society's ridiculous certainty regarding such arrangements. That was all she wanted.

She had not expected this intoxicating fascination with tastes and textures, the instinctive response to deep, inner need. A part of her mind stood aghast, disbelieving, while the remainder savored his kiss as she might hot, sweet morning chocolate, seeking the delicious stimulation, the awakening promise of sublime surrender, ultimate fulfillment.

He dropped his sword cane; she heard it clatter to the
deck and roll away. His hands closed on her arms to draw her against him then smoothed across her back. Blindly, she pressed into him, feeling the buttons of his waistcoat between her breasts, the loop of his watch chain beneath them. He surrounded and sheltered her with his innate power; he held her safe.

She wanted to consume and be consumed, to capitulate and forget. Most of all, to forget. The urgency of that need surged up inside her, burning behind her eyes. It pressed around her heart with such force that a soft moan of distress sounded in her throat.

Abruptly he dragged his mouth away. Breathing a fierce oath, he released her, took a fast step back.

She swayed an instant at that wrenching loss of support, the too-swift return to reality. He put out a hand to aid her, but she had already regained her balance and pretended she didn't see.

“That was…” he began, than stopped as though at a loss for words.

“Unwise? Dangerous?”

His eyes met hers in a searing glance before he inclined his head. “Both. Either. You had better go below before you are seen. Before you are missed.”

It was a recommendation, not an order. He must be as disturbed as she was, Sonia thought. That was some comfort.

She drew a deep breath, let it out again. “Yes. You are perfectly right. It may be you are right in the matter of husbands as well. And wouldn't that be a farce?”

What he replied, she didn't know. She didn't wait to
hear it. Gathering her dignity around her like a cloak, she turned from him and walked away, back toward the blessedly safe confinement of her cabin.

K
err watched the lady until she disappeared down the dark companionway. It was his duty as well as his pleasure. More than that, he could not have looked away if his life depended on it.

She had staggered him. Just when he thought he knew what he was about with her, she set him on his ear again.

This time he feared he had gone too far. Retribution had been in her eyes. Though whether for the kiss they had shared and her reaction to it or his role in keeping her a prisoner, he couldn't begin to guess.

He raked a hand through his hair and clasped the back of his neck as he turned his gaze heavenward. Lord, give him strength, because he knew he was going to need it.

The rattle of his sword cane rolling on the deck snagged his attention. Leaning, he picked it up in a stranglehold then stalked toward the stern of the ship where it jutted out into the river. His footsteps thudded on the thick planks. Above him, the ship's rigging clanked and
jangled in the night wind, and a brown pelican, disturbed in its roost on a crossbar, squawked at him. Higher in the midnight black of the sky, the moon sailed, unconcerned with the problems of mere mortals.

What the hell was the matter with him? Had he lost all principles, every vestige of judgment? Had he slept so little in the nights since he'd taken on this post that his reason was skewed? Or was it just that something about Sonia Bonneval destroyed it?

What maggot of the brain had caused him to lay hands on her? She had put herself in danger, yes, but he had been in control of the situation. Never at any time had there been a chance of real harm coming to her. The run-in with the woman-starved seaman might even have been a good thing if it put the fear of God into her.

Or so he had thought at the time. Now he wasn't so sure.

Glancing around for the man he'd forced overboard, he saw him crawling from the river a few yards downstream where the current had taken him. Baptiste shook water from his hair and clothing like a dog as he got to his feet. Throwing a last, malevolent look over his shoulder, he trudged off toward the row of dives that lined Levee Street. Kerr, staring at where he'd disappeared among bales of cotton, wanted to nick the bastard a time or two more before kicking him overboard again.

How had that misbegotten devil's bastard dared touch Sonia? He should be whipped for the thought, much less the deed.

Yet Kerr himself had taken her in his arms moments
later. It must have been the last thing she needed after what had gone before. He should have been more considerate of her upset. Instead, he had taken advantage of it.

“If you would care to provide…”

The words she had spoken whispered through his memory along with the painful challenge in her eyes. Oh, he had cared, all right; every vestige of male pride inside him rose up to meet it. How was he to resist?

Somewhere in his mind, too, had been the memory of the paint on her face that first night. He had thought to test its hint that the lady had experience in the ways of men.

His mistake. She'd been as innocent as the most blushing of brides. Curious, yes, responsive in a way that told of sweet passion waiting to be brought to life, but innocent.

A groan rumbled deep in his throat. He should have stood firm against temptation, should have seen her to her cabin, turned her over to her aunt for comfort and said good-night. That he had not made him as bad as the twice-damned seaman squelching his way into town. The cause for both of them was the same and he knew it. Lust, it was pure, unbridled lust.

He would put a stop to it, Kerr swore in silent resolve. Another such mistake could bring his carefully laid plans to ruin.

He could not afford to feel attraction for the lady, had no use for the guilt that ate at him because of her. It wasn't his fault that she was on this ship or that her father had arranged a hateful marriage for her. Seeing her to Vera Cruz was a job, the means to an end. That was all.

Fine words. But who was holding her prisoner on the
Lime Rock,
guarding against her escape even now?

No, he was the one who had slammed the door on the trap that held her. It was he who intended to see to it that she was delivered safely to her groom. And what did that make him?

Kerr was still on deck when the dawn arrived in a glory of gold, lavender and rose that turned the river fog to opalescent mist. He was there when the order came to sail and crew swarmed from below to prepare the ship. He watched as the gangplank was swung in and the shout came to cast off, as the great hawsers were released from their dock cleats and pulled aboard, snaking through the water, while the steamer drifted away from the dock. He was there still, leaning against the deck housing with his arms crossed over his chest when Sonia Bonneval came up on deck and stood staring out over the sleeping city.

She was the consummate lady this morning in a gown of lavender blue over full petticoats and matching bonnet ribbons that twisted and fluttered in the morning breeze. Regardless, he was more aware than he wanted to be of the womanly form that lay beneath the layers of cambric and lace and behind the restriction of whalebone corsets. Her warmth, her softness, the resilience of her female flesh under her boy's disguise were embedded so deep in his senses they might never leave him. His mouth was parched for another taste of her, his body as yearning as a drunk gone a week without the taste of liquor.

She was watching for someone, scanning the carriages that pulled up to the various river packets and sailing ships that were also making ready to sail this morning. Her gaze touched on the various gentlemen who stood about, lingering on those who were older.

Kerr didn't have to guess for whom she watched and waited. She thought her father, for all his displeasure over her attempt to avoid the marriage he'd arranged, would come to see her departure.

There was no sign of Bonneval. No one hurried from the still-dark streets; no one lifted a handkerchief to wave farewell. No one stood forlorn, as if reluctant to see her go.

The ship's deck shuddered as the steam engine began to rumble and the first turning of the side-wheel paddles sent river water cascading in wide falls. Coal smoke, already blowing in the wind, belched in black gusts from the big, single stack overhead, raining bits of soot onto the deck. The
Lime Rock
's steam whistle blasted for their leave-taking. It was answered by others along the levee, and by ragged cries of farewell from well-wishers on the dock. The gangway was drawn in. A roustabout lifted a hand in an all clear.

They were moving faster, backing into the river's current. The
Lime Rock
was sailing, the grumble and thump of the steam engine growing louder as it surged into action. Still, Bonneval did not appear.

What kind of father would refuse to wave his daughter goodbye and look his last upon her face when it might
be years before he would see her again? What kind of father would send her away at all to a man like Rouillard?

Kerr refused to think on it. He could only watch as Sonia turned away from the railing. A female passenger spoke to her, perhaps in civil good-morning, and she summoned a smile as she answered. It was a valiant attempt, but even from where he stood, he could see the sheen of unshed tears standing in her eyes.

Damn Bonneval to hell and back. It would not have hurt him to rise early and make his way to the docks.

Damn Rouillard for demanding the hand of a lady he barely knew and did not hold in regard. Damn him, too, for expecting her to comply as if the careless proposal was an honor.

Yes, and damn the man who had kissed Sonia last night and made her stay, and wanted nothing so much this morning as to kiss away her tears and tell her she had no reason to cry.

That bastard was the worst of them all.

The steamer turned downriver and gathered headway. Wharves, warehouses and anchored ships slid past. The town fell away behind them. Plantations with their big houses, outbuildings and river docks appeared like mirages drifting past in the morning fog. Shanties built on flatboats or raised on stilts edged the great waterway, perched above their wavering reflections. These faded away to endless stretches of trees. They were on their way, gliding down the hundred or more miles of river that would take them to the Gulf of Mexico.

The passengers wandered away from the railing,
some to promenade the deck, others to tidy their belongings brought on board or make ready for breakfast. Sonia disappeared belowdecks, perhaps in search of her aunt. Kerr, watching the last twitch of her skirts, pushed away from where he stood and let out a deep sigh of relief.

He could not think the lady was either foolish or desperate enough to leap from the moving ship. It would be nothing less than suicide even if she did know how to dog-paddle a bit, like the seaman he'd forced to swim ashore. The Mississippi River was wide, the shoreline impossibly distant. He could afford to rest and maybe catch up on his sleep knowing Sonia could not escape the ship.

He tried, he really did. Forgoing food, he took off his boots and lay down in his bunk, pulling the curtain closed around it for privacy in the common room. Eyes shut, he listened to the beat and thud of the engine, the swish of the water moving along the hull, the slap of cards and rumble of voices from a game in the gentleman's parlor next door. A short nap, he thought, that was all.

He couldn't do it.

What if he was wrong? What if Mademoiselle Bonneval so despised her proposed groom that she'd try any means to get away from him? She was no milk-and-water miss, apt to give up at the first setback. Oh, no. She'd spit in the eyes of them all—Bonneval, Rouillard, even him, especially him.

Besides, the steamer would not be keeping to the middle reaches of the Mississippi. Sandbars, islands and floating debris, even whole trees lifting leafless branches like drowning souls, would send them along
channels closer to the banks. She might well throw herself off the stern.

Chances of her making it to shore were slim if she tried it in her heavy skirts. They'd drag her down to the muddy river bottom where she'd turn, pale and staring with her hair trailing around her, before settling among the scavenger catfish and turtles. And that was if she didn't jump from the side rail so she wound up battered by one of the paddle wheels.

Kerr sat up with a shudder, thrusting the images from him as he wiped his hands over his face. It couldn't happen. He wouldn't allow it.

Rolling from the bunk with a hard wrench of tired muscles, he pulled his boots back on and went topside again. It didn't help his feelings, not a whit, to find the lady stretched out in a deck chair with an open book on her lap, pages riffling in the breeze, and her eyes closed in the most peaceful of slumber.

Kerr took a chair a few feet down from hers and stretched out, crossing his booted ankles and folding his hands across his waistcoat. For some time, he lay watching Sonia, his gaze moving from the fine dark curls stirring against her cheek to the curves of her lips and soft mounds of her breasts that rose and fell so evenly. Her skirts covered her ankles, yet he caught a discreet display of neatly turned perfection in white stockings every time an errant wind lifted them as it gusted along the deck.

He stirred uncomfortably, cursing softly under his breath. Pulling up the split skirt of his frock coat, he
folded it over him so it covered the front of his trousers a little better.

He had kissed her, held her, felt her breasts, belly and thighs pressed against him from chest to knees. The taste of her lingered in his head, a sweet intoxication beyond imagining. He wanted her with an ache that was three parts physical need, but one part something else entirely.

His enemy's betrothed. What was it in men that demanded they possess the women claimed by those they despised? Did it come from the instinct to hit where it hurt most, to go for the soft underbelly? Or could it be some ancient need to prevent their tribe from increasing?

Kerr had no idea. He only knew he was fast becoming obsessed with Jean Pierre Rouillard's bride-to-be.

She had been afraid of him the night before. It was momentary, he thought, yet he had seen her measure his size with a swift look and estimate her lack of chance against him, seen the terror in her face when she thought he would maim or kill the seaman who'd insulted her.

He hadn't enjoyed it. It made him feel degraded, that flash of dread, branded by it as an uncouth bully. And he deserved it, that he knew well, because he had deliberately used his size and strength of will to intimidate her. It wouldn't happen again, not if it was in his power to prevent it.

Nor would he touch her again. She didn't deserve to be made a pawn in the game between him and Rouillard. Except she was that already, had been from the moment he learned of her existence.

She would not suffer for it, at least not any more than was strictly necessary. This much he swore in silent vow. Like the swordsmen of the Brotherhood, he would fight to his last breath to keep her safe.

Exalted intentions, he thought with silent scorn. But he did not disavow them as he allowed his eyelids to close.