Gallant Match (12 page)

No, it was simply that she had no wish to call attention to something that had no meaning beyond the gentleman's annoyance at being treated like a hired servant.

It was only common sense.

That was all.

A
board the
Lime Rock,
meals were served for the convenience of the officers and crew rather than for the passengers, so timed to the changing of the watch. Breakfast was at sunrise or shortly thereafter, the midday meal at noon and that of the evening at dusk, with a scratched-up supper at midnight for those who required it. There was some grumbling at the change from more fashionable mealtimes, but the passengers soon grew accustomed.

Kerr had no preference himself. Though he was as fond of eating as the next man, he'd not yet developed the constant French-Creole preoccupation with the timing and composition of his next meal.

The dining salon was a long room with a coffered ceiling and an Axminster carpet woven in a green-and-brown pattern taken from Moorish tiles. A series of tables set in a row like one long board centered the space. Padded benches lined either side of them. Whale-oil lanterns swung on gimbals overhead, casting a sway
ing yellow light, or else were attached to gimbaled girandoles along the walls. Between large windows were gilt-framed mirrors, and more of them faced the center support posts, endlessly reflecting for a sense of spaciousness.

Dinner on this first official evening aboard consisted of a bouillabaisse followed by pasta heavy with butter and garlic. This was succeeded by baked fish with steamed vegetables and tournedos of beef in a wine sauce. Plain cake improved by a side dish of dried cherries flamed in brandy served as dessert, along with the usual cheese and nuts. The seaman doing double duty as a violinist gave them several lugubrious tunes designed to aid digestion. While they ate, they sometimes noted the red spark of another steamer passing upstream, or else saw the wavering lights of a settlement clustered near where a winding bayou emptied into the river.

It was an uncomfortable meal. Several times, Kerr caught Madame Pradat, Gervaise's mother, staring at him with disapproval in the lines of her palely severe, aristocratic features. He noted also when she put her head close to that of the dispirited young mother traveling alone, one Madame Dossier, while speaking in a sibilant whisper. Afterward, they both glared at him before turning away with their chins in the air.

He felt like a pariah. It wasn't something he enjoyed, though he had learned to live with a similar isolation since putting out his shingle as a sword master. His kind was not, in the main, acceptable company at the tables of the crème de la crème. His skill with a blade usually
prevented the more obvious expressions of disdain. At least from the gentlemen.

What did these French-Creole ladies expect, that he would rise and turn tail, taking his meals with the crew for the remainder of the voyage? It wasn't in the cards. They could get used to his presence, as could the lovely Mademoiselle Bonneval. He was going nowhere.

Kerr looked down the long table to where Sonia sat, wondering if she had noted the success of her campaign to make him conspicuous. The glance of un-smiling satisfaction she sent him was answer enough. He gave a soundless grunt before turning his attention back to his food. She would have to do better if she hoped to get under his skin. Likely, she would be more discomfited than he was by talk of having him as her guard.

Following dessert, the tables were cleared and set against the walls with their benches under them. The smells of food still mingled with the fishy reek of whale oil from the overhead lanterns when the dancing commenced.

Kerr watched for a while as Sonia was steered around the floor by the captain, a ship's officer or two, the American commissioner, Tremont and young Pradat. He considered joining the line waiting for the privilege, but was in no more mood for a public refusal than he'd been in New Orleans.

He opted instead for a cheroot on the deck while watching the sparks that shot from the ship's smokestack as they trailed across the night sky behind them.
He didn't often indulge in tobacco, but there were times when its soothing effect was required.

They were coming close to the gulf, he thought. The terrain had grown more flat and watery, and the smell of brine came in windblown gusts. Gulls had appeared at dusk, following their progress in hope of scraps from the galley or a roost in the rigging. Captain Frazier, or rather the pilot he'd taken aboard, was using the more southwesterly of the various passages to the gulf. Word from the bridge was that they would emerge into open water by midnight, if not before.

Kerr intended to wait up for it. He had little to do otherwise, and it was always a milestone. This time around it meant even more than on his coastal excursions. He could finally let down his guard since the open gulf heralded an end to any possibility of Sonia trying to swim for the riverbank. He'd have that worry off his mind once and for all.

Contemplating the glowing end of his cheroot and the way its fragrant smoke was whipped away by the wind, he let his mind wander to the munitions in the cargo hold beneath his feet. They bothered him out of all proportion. He didn't consider himself more than an average patriot. He'd signed up to march in the Legion, true, but more with the idea of fitting in with the swordsmen and young bloods of the town, maybe getting a lead on the bastard responsible for his brother's death, than for any other reason. He cared little enough whether the border between Texas and Mexico was fixed at the Rio Nueces or the Rio Grande.

Nevertheless, the idea of some yahoo selling weapons to Mexico that could be used against his friends in the Louisiana Legion didn't sit well with him. Looking a bit deeper into the matter was, just maybe, a fine way to pass the time.

Sauntering, pausing now and then, trying to look like a gentleman with time on his hands and an idle mind, he moved along the railing to the vicinity of the cargo hatch. When he was sure the watch was busy elsewhere and no passengers or off-duty crew were nearby, he opened the heavy cover and slipped inside, closing it noiselessly behind him.

The hold was dark and close, the air heavy with the musty scents of old coffee, molding spice and spoiled fruit, of raw timber, cottonseed and wheat chaff. Bales and barrels, kegs and boxes were stacked to the ceiling, held secure against rolling seas by ropes and railings that formed narrow aisles barely wide enough for a man to pass through without his shoulders touching the merchandise. In this close space, the wash of seawater along the hull was an endless, sibilant rush, with the gurgle of the bilge and squeaking of rats joining in obbligato.

Kerr eased crablike down one aisle with his back to what felt like grass sacks packed with dried corn. At a corner, he paused, moved forward a step.

Instantly, he whipped back again.

Someone was in the hold with him. A seaman, maybe, sent to inspect the cargo against shifting before they reached rougher water? Impossible to say, but he wasn't inclined to explain his snooping.

Whoever it was appeared to be going at a crate or box with a crowbar. The quiet shriek of nails being dragged slowly from wood was easy enough to recognize.

The man kept at his job, apparently unaware he had company. Kerr stepped backward, reversing his path, taking a different aisle as he sought out the sound. He moved with greater care as it grew louder, also as he caught the faint gleam of a shuttered lantern. Reaching a corner behind the worker, he stopped. He eased forward with care, leaning just enough to see.

It was no seaman who pried at the long, narrow crate that topped the stack of similar boxes. The swing of a skirted frock coat and sheen of polished boots marked him as a gentleman. His back was to Kerr, but his face gleamed with sweat and the curses he muttered under his breath were as inventive as they were rough.

The wooden box top gave with a splintering shriek. The man went still, his head cocked, listening. Long seconds passed. Finally, he lowered his crowbar, dragged off the lid. With a soft whistle of appreciation, he dug his hands into loose packing straw and lifted out a rifle. Turning his upper body, he held the weapon to the faint lantern light.

Tremont.

Kerr had not expected it. A frown pleated his forehead as he considered the concern he'd heard in the man's voice when he first mentioned the shipment. Something didn't quite fit. Was the planter as surprised as he sounded, or only appreciative of the weapon he inspected? Had he mentioned the arms
earlier as a concerned citizen, or only because he knew Kerr had seen them loaded and he meant to disclaim any connection?

This wasn't the time to get to the bottom of it, Kerr thought, nor was it his place. Captain Frazier could handle the situation when they reached port. That was assuming, of course, that the captain wasn't in on the deal.

Easing backward, Kerr retraced his footsteps to the cargo hatch. He was soon dawdling along the promenade deck once more.

It might have been a half hour later when the ship began to dance upon the waves to a stronger rhythm. They were drawing nearer the gulf, though still somewhat protected by the last trailing fingers of marshland. Kerr moved nearer the prow.

As if attracted by the sea change, someone stepped out onto the deck just down from where he stood. The light from inside silhouetted a female shape. The pale skirts that flapped around her in the wind of their passage could have belonged to anyone, but he knew only one lady who might brave this midnight hour on deck. More than that, some primeval knowledge tightened his stomach muscles into knots, allowing him to recognize her with an instinct he had not known he possessed.

She had not seen him there in the shadows, he was almost sure of it. Should he make his presence known or leave her to her solitude? It was difficult to say with Mademoiselle Bonneval.

She appeared pensive as she stood running the fingers of one hand back and forth in the blown spray that
dampened the railing. He wondered what was in her mind, whether dread of what lay ahead or yearning for what lay behind. Surely she was not so downhearted that jumping could seem the way out, not here, not now?

No, the fighting spirit burned too hot inside her. She also had sense enough to realize there was no place to go even if she made dry land. Yet rousing her from her low mood might be a good thing, even if fury at him must take its place.

Pushing away from where he propped up the bulkhead with his shoulders, he walked toward her with a lounging stride. “You run through the whole gamut of dancing partners already? Or is it just that none are up to your standards?”

She whirled to face him. Her expression was merely startled rather than shocked or frightened, which led him to think she expected him to be about somewhere. That struck him as a good thing.

“You can have no idea of my standards.” The words were quiet, her features guarded.

“I know they can't be low since you despise me.”

“I don't—” she began.

“They have to be high or you would be wed by now.”

“I told you the reasons for that.”

“So you did. Your Bernard was fine and noble, I'm sure. I wonder if Gervaise Pradat is like him, if that's why you struck up a friendship with him so fast. Or was it to spite me?”

“Your conceit is beyond anything if you think my conduct has any bearing on you,” she said in acid rejec
tion. “Why should I care what you may think? Or what you may say or do, for that matter?”

“Now, there is a question, isn't it? But you might want to take it into account unless you're prepared to leave a litter of dead bodies in your wake.”

“I haven't the least idea what you mean.”

Her gaze was so frigid there in the starlit dimness that it should have chilled him to the bone. That was better than her dejection, in Kerr's considered opinion.

“Gervaise Pradat is precisely the kind of young idiot who would think it fine and noble to spring to your aid if convinced you were being wronged by someone, namely me. To draw him into our quarrel was shortsighted. That is, unless you don't care if I run my sword through him.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Only if forced to it by whatever you may do or say.”

“I would never instigate such a thing.”

“I'm happy to hear it. You will, in that case, do everything possible to keep him from offering me a challenge. Well, or an insult I'll have to respond to with one of my own.”

“That's all well and good, but you should refrain from conduct which might lead in that direction.”

It was his turn to scowl. “Meaning?”

“The little byplay of yours when you picked up my fan—which I must ask you to return.”

“Which byplay is this?” He was intrigued by what had every appearance of high color burning on the pale contours of her face. The question of the fan he ignored
completely though that bit of feminine frippery weighted his frock-coat pocket.

“You know what I mean.”

“I'm not sure I do.”

“You…you touched me. You know you did. Through my skirts.”

“Why, Mademoiselle Bonneval, what are you accusing me of?” He was enjoying this far too much, he knew. Withdrawing immediately would be his best bet. Yet the flash of her eyes and quick rise and fall of the white curves of her breasts under her silk bodice were too enticing. More than that, she made teasing her so rewarding. He could no more resist than he could stop breathing.