Patricia Potter (7 page)

Meredith didn’t know how long she stood there, watching the churning water, her artist’s eyes appreciating the designs it created in the wake. Tomorrow, she would be home. There was some safety there, but little pleasure. Her brother would start nagging her again about marriage, and she and her tight-lipped sister-in-law would exchange insincere pleasantries.

“Your aunt said you were ill! I came to offer my assistance, to see whether my cook could prepare some broth, perhaps.”

The voice, which had all the warm allure of soft running honey, immediately made her insides churn as fiercely as the water.

Drat her aunt. She had told Opal to merely say she was tired. “I needed some air,” she said guardedly, not turning to face the man.

“I thought you might be avoiding me.”

“Ah Captain, such arrogance. Why on earth should I bother doing that?”

“I’ll be damned if I know,” he said, mischief in his words.

Meredith didn’t dare look at him, knowing that deviltry twisted those lips as well as raised one dark brow.

But she couldn’t hide for long. Gloved fingers, strong persistent fingers, caught her chin and turned it upward until she was forced to look straight into bottomless indigo eyes.

Meredith twisted away. “You forget yourself, Captain,” she said furiously.

“I felt it my duty, my
gentlemanly
duty, to see that you were all right.” The emphasis on the word, gentlemanly, rendered her speechless. So he had caught her meaning the other night. She licked her lips nervously. The drawl in his voice was exaggerated, as if he were baiting her. But, dear God, it would lure a wild thing to eat from his hand.

“Consider your duty done then,” she finally snapped, trying to prick the spell he was weaving.

“I had another purpose,” he said softly.

Meredith turned and looked at him. “And what might that be?”

“I want to purchase your girl.”

Nothing he said could have surprised her more. As if she would sell anyone, much less to him. She had seen his own servant’s mistreatment. And why would he want someone as pretty as Daphne? There could only be one reason. Distaste, deep and repugnant, swamped her. Distaste and a bitter disappointment that was like a kick to her stomach.

“No,” she said flatly.

“I’ll pay a good price.”

A lump settled in Meredith’s throat, one she hated to acknowledge. She had discovered that he had become a rascal, an immoral gambler and scoundrel, but even then she had not expected this. Outrage, however, would not fit the Meredith Seaton he knew.

“Oh la, Captain, Daphne’s the only maid who’s ever been able to dress my hair correctly.” She giggled, touched one of the abominable curls and coquettishly batted her eyelashes. “I just couldn’t sell her.”

She saw Devereux’s eyes run over the mass of sausage curls and wince, and she felt a confusing mixture of satisfaction and regret. As she wondered at the contradiction, he moved closer, and she could smell the rich scent of sandalwood and bay.

She backed up.

Devereux considered her retreat. The last pink glow of the sunset caught the cream of her cheeks. She had not bothered with the layers of paint he had seen her wear at dinner the first night and in subsequent days, and her skin had the luster of pearls. Her eyes, dark brown with golden lights, now looked speculative, even angry, instead of vacant. He regarded her hair, and wondered how the mess could be the same flowing mane he had glimpsed at dawn several days earlier. Without thinking, he reached out for a tightly wound curl and extracted one of the pins, letting a long silky strand of gold fall around her face.

“She does you a severe injustice,” he said slowly. “You should definitely sell.”

Devereux’s gloved hand touched her cheek and even through the fine leather, Meredith felt the spot burn as if branded. She couldn’t move, mesmerized by his voice, by his closeness, by his touch.

By his wickedness.

Meredith summoned every bit of control she had learned over the past years, straightening up, forcing her eyes from his. She slapped his cheek with a force made strong by her confusion. The sharp crack seemed to echo in the evening silence.

She had expected Devereux to step back, but he didn’t, nor did he acknowledge the blow. Instead, his face came closer to hers and his arms pinned her to the wall. She felt like a trapped rabbit as his lips moved down, toward her own with dreadful purpose.

Meredith tried desperately to squirm away, but he had trapped her, his body tense against hers, and her own was responding in some strange unfamiliar way.

“No,” she cried.

“Yes,” he said simply, implacably, his eyes riveting yet completely unfathomable. His mouth touched her lips in a slow exploring way, and Meredith felt flickers of fire flame deep inside as she sought to remain stiff and cold.

His lips probed and teased and demanded while one hand held her in place and the other tumbled her hair, releasing it from the pins that held it in tormented fashion.

There was nothing tender about his kiss. It was searching and savage and demanding, and nothing in Meredith’s life had ever prepared her for it, or for the feelings his touch aroused.

The kiss deepened and his lips gentled only slightly as they worked to open her mouth. And then his tongue slipped in, intrusive, questing, arousing. Without will, Meredith responded in the most primitive and instinctive way, her own tongue seeking to inflict as much painful exquisite sensation as he did, even though she didn’t understand her own reactions. Something new and exciting and terrifying had taken over her body, and it was not the control that Meredith had honed to a fine art.

His mouth finally withdrew and he leaned back, his eyes almost black in the now deep dusk of evening. There was a questioning look on his face, for he had seen the flashes of fire in eyes usually void of any kind of passion, and there had been unexpected responses in her body.
Who are you?
he wanted to ask, but except for the tumbling hair there seemed nothing but a wood figure in front of him.

His eyes are what the devil’s must be like,
Meredith thought. So dark they were almost midnight black. And haunted in some strange way. She had not seen that before, but it was there now, lurking behind the curtain. She felt herself trembling and hated the weakness in her that caused it. He was her enemy. She had known it from the first moment she had seen him again. And yet something inside her was terribly drawn to him. What terrible flaw in her made her this way?

“How dare you?” she finally managed in a low furious voice, outraged at him for making her feel this way, enraged at herself for being so vulnerable to him.

Devereux bowed low, mockery in every movement, in the amusement in his face. “My pardon, Miss Seaton. Your charms seem to have overwhelmed me.” His hand once more caressed a curl, bringing it to his lips and allowing them to caress it.

Even as anger foamed inside her at his obvious derision, another part, a detached analytical part, wondered why he always wore gloves. An affectation? His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw her staring at the glove. She caught his surprise, and she knew he had recognized the speculation and didn’t like it.

But he merely smiled, a smile that touched nothing but his lips. “You didn’t answer, my dear Miss Seaton. Do I have your pardon?”

Meredith thought about a number of things she could say, but withheld each one of them. She condemned herself bitterly because she had, at the end of the kiss, participated as much as he. She wished she didn’t have so strong a thread of honesty running through her. It often warred with the other things she felt she must do.

She drew herself up indignantly. “You took advantage,” she accused.

“So I did,” he said lazily, his hand still playing with the curl. “I wanted to see your hair down. I did not expect it to be quite as…irresistible. Now I
know
you should find a new maid.”

The words struck her to the core. So the kiss had been only a ploy to obtain Daphne. She had never felt such an utter fool. A susceptible idiot falling for practiced and superficial charm. Damn him. Double damn him.

“Daphne is not for sale,” she said. “Not for any price
you
can pay.” It was not a wise statement for it implied far more than she had intended, and Meredith knew it. There was a passion in the words that was uncharacteristic of shallow Meredith. But she felt such a rage inside that she could not control herself. He had not wanted her. He had merely been using her to get Daphne.

Quinn saw the flash of fury and didn’t understand quite what had caused it. He knew, however, he had made an error, a bad one. He had mixed business with pleasure when he knew the two were incompatible. And he realized he had failed Cam.

He tried to recoup his losses and shrugged. “It’s really of no matter. May I accompany you back to your cabin?”

Meredith looked at him in disbelief. “You, sir,” she said, “are as wanted as the devil at a camp meeting.”

Quinn grinned. “But it might be as interestin’, would it not?”

His quick retort stunned her. And unaccountably she wanted to smile back. His lips were full of self-mockery now and nigh on to irresistible. Join me in laughing at myself, they invited her. Drat it, but she really wanted to smile at his impudence. But he was also a slave owner, and, apparently, a merciless one. Her amusement quickly fled.

“You, sir,” she said in her most huffy manner, “are no gentleman.”

“No,” he admitted agreeably. “And you, Miss Seaton, what exactly are you?”

Meredith drew herself up, even as she felt a tremor of fear.

“A lady,” she said frostily, forcing her lips into a pout. “And I will certainly report your despicable behavior to your brother.”

“Do that.” He chuckled. “I’m afraid it won’t come as a surprise at all. I’m my brother’s cross to bear.”

“He has my condolences,” she retorted quickly, knowing once more she was saying too much.

Quinn’s eyebrows raised, and his mouth twitched. “I’m sure he will appreciate them.”

“And be so kind as to shower your distasteful attentions on someone else.”

“Your wish is my most honored command, Miss Seaton,” he said in the most accommodating voice. “I bid you a good rest.”

Meredith spun around before she was tempted to deliver another retort and stalked through the door to the cabins.

Quinn lounged against the railing, watching the door bang behind her. He tipped his head upward considering the sky above. He had not missed that unexpected gleam of amusement in her eyes. Damn but she was a puzzle.

Slowly he headed back toward the dining room. His mind was still on Miss Seaton, on the way her hair had tumbled gloriously down her back, at the quick flash of humor in her eyes, at the momentary passion he felt in her arms.

He shook his head at his own foolishness. Why was he pricked by this notion that there was so much more to Meredith Seaton than anyone knew? Had a part of her just awakened, or was she just trying to hide something? Or was it simply his imagination? He hated to think it might be the fact that he had been alone too damned long and that any woman would have some appeal to him.

Damn it all to perdition.

C
hapter 4

SWEET, SMOOTH KISSES
.

Hungry, aching ones.

Quinn had intended the first and delivered the second instead.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it, either, as he entered the dining room.

He disliked failure of any kind, most of all one of his own making, and he knew his actions had done nothing to help secure Daphne’s freedom. And he didn’t like the tenseness in his body, not to mention one specific part of his anatomy. How could such a spoiled woman do this to him? And that was exactly what she was—spoiled and empty-headed.

He rejoined the company he had left just thirty minutes earlier, and barely participated in the conversation for the remainder of the meal. His thoughts were in another direction, in another part of the steamboat.

The
Lucky Lady
would be docking at Vicksburg tomorrow, and the Seaton woman and her slave would leave. He needed to get his mind back on business because the
Lucky Lady
would be picking up additional cargo, including perhaps a new shipment for the Underground Railroad. He never knew in advance.

The secret room built into the cargo deck was already nearly full, and Quinn knew it must be miserable for the occupants. The tiny compartment had not been built for comfort but for secrecy and safety. It was, by necessity, long and very narrow so no one could detect a false wall. When it had first been constructed, Quinn had tried it himself for several days to see whether it was livable. It was, but only barely. The heat and darkness were suffocating.

There could be no candles, no lamp of any kind, and the only sanitation facility was buckets. But Quinn had found in the past several years that escaping slaves would—could—abide any discomfort as long as there was hope.

He himself knew. God almighty, but he even knew what human beings could endure without that hope.