Whispers from the Shadows (14 page)

“Did they?” Thad led the way onto the opposite sidewalk and reached for the door of the shop. “I suppose you thought that terribly romantic.”

“It was, by their telling.” She stepped inside, her breath catching in delight at the shelves of heaven. “Though I confess the one I attended did not live up to my expectations.”

“Ah, Captain Lane! Good day!”

He relaxed his arm, freeing her hand. “Mr. Hatcher, good day to you too. How is Susan this week?”

The proprietor made some reply, but Gwyneth took a step in the opposite direction. Her gaze had already latched onto a stack of creamy stock.

Thad caught her fingers and gave them a squeeze as he grinned down at her. “Look your fill and select whatever you please. I have some canvas at home we can stretch whenever you need.”

The kindness made her eyes sting. “Thank you.” After a smile at him, she headed toward the shelves and trailed her fingers over the different weights and shades. The parchments and vellums and linen-cotton blends.

Within a few minutes she had put together a fair pile of paper in various sizes and thicknesses and textures, fingers twitching already. She would need new pencils too. And perhaps some charcoal sticks. And—

A shadow crossed her path when she turned toward the writing implements, one that nearly made her lose her grip on the paper. One that sent a bolt through her, fear so brilliant she could not move an inch.

Uncle Gates
.

No, it couldn't be! Not here in some random shop in a random neighborhood in a city she had never intended to visit.

But yet… Her stomach twisting, she turned her eyes to follow the man who had just entered the store. He strode toward Thad and Mr. Hatcher, calling out a greeting.

Not her uncle's voice. Just similar to his build, his way of moving. But dark hair instead of gray. Too young. Too American an accent. Too extravagant in his clothing.

Not her uncle. But still his image overtook her, that sneering voice ringing in her ears. The flash of a blade, the stain of blood, a dying sailor on the table before her, a stranger who stood in that coiled way of her uncle, ready to pounce.

A monster's mouth stretched wide before her, teeth sharp as blades. And the darkness, the too-familiar darkness yawned wide as it swallowed her whole.

Eleven

B
last!” Thad shoved Nathaniel Mercer out of the way and leaped forward, managing to catch Gwyneth the moment her knees buckled and before the ream of mismatched paper could spill onto the floor. He had looked over at her in time to see her pupils dilate just before her face went blank.

When he had uttered a silent prayer for an escape from Mercer, this had not been the one he had in mind. Mother always said he
ought to be careful what he prayed for.

Her head landed against his shoulder as he knelt, and her fingers knotted in his shirt. She must be struggling her way back to consciousness, but thus far there was no flutter of her lashes. So he loosened her bonnet and cradled her against him, the sweet scent of lilac teasing his nose.

A grating whistle sounded, and a moment later Mercer's shadow fell over them. “How did I walk past that tempting armful without noticing her?”

Thad gritted his teeth for only a moment. Surely he received some divine credit for dredging up a smile before he turned toward the man. “She is unwell. Hatch, will you see what we have here and put it on my account?” He eased the paper from between him and Gwyneth and handed it over.

“Of course, of course.” Hatcher patted his considerable girth with one hand as he flipped through the sheets with the other.

Mercer clasped his hands behind his back in that too-still way of his, but, as always, calculation clicked away in his cold blue eyes. “Do you know her?”

“I ought to, as she is staying with my family.” Not that he was yet sure he did, but he had enjoyed the glimpse he had gotten on the walk here. She was a keen one, observant. Sharp, witty. With a quicker tongue than her exhaustion had thus far let her prove.

Even if that did mean she saw more than she ought and had no qualms about calling him on it.

“What is her name?”

He shot a glance at Mercer, who still studied Gwyneth with too much interest. In public he got on with the man as well as anyone, but always he was left with a skin-crawling distaste when they parted. Before, he had chalked it up to his hatred for the man's chosen living, but now he might have to add his way of perusing Gwyneth to his list. As if
she
were naught to him but another slave to be traded.

No matter what Mother had promised her, he wasn't about to declare who she was for all of Baltimore to learn by sundown, not with that whisper in his mind that advised caution. “Gwyn Hampton. A distant relation on my mother's side, apparently.”

“Lucky you. Would that I could boast such lovely relations. Will she be in town for the summer, then?”

Her fingers twisted his shirt and her jaw went tight, as if she
clenched her teeth. Thad held her closer. “Her plans are not firm. Hatch, could I take her into your back room until she recovers?”

The proprietor looked up from his tallying with a gentle smile. “You know you may, Captain Lane. I shall get this wrapped up for you in the meantime, hmm?”

Thad stood with her, frowning. When he turned toward the storeroom, he found Mercer blocking his way. “I could fetch her something to drink.”

“There is a pot of fresh tea in the back,” Hatcher said without looking up again. “And a plate of cookies. Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Though his baser man wanted to sneer at Mercer, Thad instead smiled and nodded. “Do give your mother my regards when next you see her, Mr. Mercer.”

“I will.” If reluctantly, he nevertheless stepped aside. “I hope to see you and your lovely guest again soon.”

Of course he did, at least when it came to said lovely guest. With another nod, Thad carried her past the shelves and through the partially open door at the rear of the shop, easing it closed with a toe.

Gwyneth's breath caught, and her eyes fluttered open. Thad used a foot to pull a chair away from the table and sat upon it with her in his lap. Not exactly what a London miss would deem a proper arrangement, but he doubted she would be able to stay upright in one of the armless chairs. “Gwyn, sweetheart, you must choose more appropriate times to take your naps.”

He caught only a glimpse of a small smile before she turned her face into his chest. “I am sorry for being so weak.” The words came out quiet and muffled against him.

“No need for that.” His gaze fastened on the careful styling of her hair. How long would it take her in front of that new paper or a canvas before she would pull out every pin and set it tumbling again? And why did he have to battle the urge to assist her with that? By thunder, he would scare her off to parts unknown.

Inhaling, she shook her head. “I hate that I have become this way. It is not who I am, not
how
I am.”

“You cannot help being ill.”

She turned her eyes to his, revealing those sparkling, churning, tempestuous blue-green depths. Yes, every bit as alluring as the fathomless ocean. “'Tis not seasickness, Thad.”

He couldn't help but smile. “I have known that from the start,
Gwyn. And when you are ready to share what
is
plaguing you, I am happy to listen.”

Though she didn't greet his invitation with an immediate confidence, he read acknowledgment in her eyes. Perhaps one day she would share her burden.

In the meantime she glanced down as if just realizing she was perched upon his lap and shot upward. A wise move on her part. Indelicate as the phrase might be, Mercer had been right when he called her a tempting armful.

She pulled out the second chair and sat before he could rise to assist her. But when she reached for the china teapot with shaking hands, he stayed her with an upheld palm. “Please, allow me. You are not quite steady yet.” He took up one of Mrs. Hatcher's famed cinnamon cookies and handed it to her. “This will restore you in a blink.”

Her fingers closed around the treat, but her eyes strayed to the door. “That man out there. Who was he?”

Thad poured her a cup of tea and added a generous dollop of honey. “Mercer?”

“I suppose.” She picked up the lone spoon and stirred.

He poured himself a cup and let the scent fill his nose. “He is too far beneath you for you to worry about.”

When she sipped, he was reminded of a hummingbird, so delicate yet with a mysterious strength. “I thought you Americans had risen above the trappings of rank or some such nonsense.”

Thad snorted a laugh and took a small drink from his unsweetened cup. “Perhaps we have risen above titles, but there are still lines not to be crossed. And you, my friend, will have nothing to do with the likes of him.”

“Is he in trade?” The twitch of her lips indicated she knew well that was an objection that applied to him as well as Mercer. The imp.

He narrowed his eyes and put another cookie before her. “It is his particular trade. Slaves.”

“Oh.” Her cup clattered against its saucer. “That is…”

“Exactly.” Though he knew a few gentlemen with interests in the slave trade, they never dirtied their hands with it directly. The fact that Mercer did… He had made a fortune, but to Thad's mind, 'twas no better than blood money. And Mercer no better than the Barbary pirates who had left Arnaud for dead and then, when they discovered
he still lived, sold him in Istanbul as though he were nothing more than a rug.

Only when small fingers touched his hand did he realize he gripped his cup so tightly it was in danger of fracturing. He looked up and saw Gwyneth's frown. “Are you all right?”

His face must have worn a dark cloud indeed for her to ask such a thing in her own upset state. “Well enough. There are just few things in this world I detest as much as slavery.”

Her frown went from concerned to perplexed. “Yet you are friends with Mr. Mercer?”

“Not friends. I try to make an enemy of none, but some I simply cannot like.”

“Hear, hear.” She lifted her cup in salute, though the hint of revelry faded from her eyes as quickly as it had sprung up. “Have you ever? Made an enemy?”

“Hmm.” He took another sip and noted the new tremor to her hands. “None of a personal nature, so far as I know. And you?”

Her eyes snapped for only a moment before her lips curved up. “A few, perhaps. I did, after all, steal the attention of Sir Arthur Hart from the other young ladies vying for it.”

Sir Arthur Hart? A namby-pamby name if ever he'd heard one. No doubt belonging to some English dandy who had earned a knighthood by lending the Prince Regent a handkerchief on a day he had a runny nose.

Thad selected a cookie and bit into it, figuring he needed the dose of sugar. “Your beau?”

“No. Papa did not give his approval.” She turned sorrowful eyes upon him. “Could we go home?”

His gaze fell from her eyes to the twitching fingers of her right hand. “Of course. You want to draw.”

“Close. I need to paint.”

He nodded, helped her up, and then wove his fingers through those of her right hand to see if they would still. For a moment he thought she would pull away. He expected her to. But then her palm relaxed against his, and her eyes reflected calm.

'Twould have been a comfort, had he not been so busy wondering what shadows would appear in this soon-to-be painting of hers.

Arthur gripped the rail of the ship and told himself the whipping
wind was invigorating. That the constant damp was refreshing. That the incessant rocking and pitching was soothing.

But there was a reason he had joined the army rather than the navy.

The sickness had eased, at least. Praise be to heaven for that. Gates had begun to look at him as though he were nothing but a green-gilled nuisance. In the day since he had resumed somewhat-normal activities, he liked to think he had acquired decent sea legs. Well enough to see him through the next five to seven weeks, anyway.

“Did the ginger water help the seasickness, sir?”

Arthur let go of the rail with one hand and turned in the direction of the semi-familiar voice. The boy, called Scrubs by the crew, stood with a mop in hand, as he often did. So far as Arthur could figure, the lad could be no more than seventeen, with a shuttered face that made him seem older and a drawl to his speech that begged the question of from where he hailed. “Quite an improvement, yes. Thank you.”

Scrubs nodded, though nothing changed in his expression. “The captain gave me leave to bring you some morning and eve.”

“I daresay that would be wise.”

“Very well, then.” The boy turned away.

“Scrubs?” Arthur lifted a hand without quite knowing why he wanted to detain him.

He turned back around with not so much as a spark of curiosity in his deep brown eyes. “Sir?”