Whispers from the Shadows (21 page)

Ah, yet another chime of laughter. “Sir Arthur.”

As if he had forgotten. He slid the prayer book onto the edge of the desk so he could put both hands on her shoulders. “Ah, yes. I imagine you miss him too.”

“Not enough for it to have been what I thought it was.” She reached for the book. “What is this?”

“Puritan prayers, transcribed by my grandfather. I thought they might lend you some peace.” He let his lips purse at her observation on her feelings for Sir Arthur. Notwithstanding that he was glad of it, the fact remained that it was the second expression within the hour of how fleeting such things could be. “I imagine he is missing
you
sorely, having not been through the trauma you have.”

She ran a finger along the spine of the book and flipped it open. “I cannot think so. We scarcely knew each other, and he would have been put out by my disappearing on him without a word that morning after I promised to speak with Papa. Oh, isn't this lovely. ‘If I should suffer need, and go unclothed, and be in poverty, make my heart prize Thy love…' ”

“That morning?” His hands paused and rested on her shoulders. “He was there?”

“In the garden. Too far away to have known. Now, I wonder what the author meant by this line about being constrained by His love. I have never thought of the Lord's love as being something to bind or restrict, but I suppose in this sense, it holds us to contentment.”

His thumb moved over her neck again, though he neglected to put any force into it. “In the garden, you say. Does Sir Arthur perchance bear a resemblance to Arnaud, but with fairer coloring?”

“I suppose so, at first glance.” Her head bent toward her chest. “How did you know?”

“You drew him your first night here.” He had thought the figure looked lost to the observer—and what if that were more the case than that she had felt nothing real for him? What if she felt resignation, or even a sense of betrayal, that he had been so close but unable to help her? What if he were still ensconced in her heart, but she was just too struck by grief to realize it? His fingers wove through her curls. “What was it you promised to speak about with your father, Gwyn?”

She said nothing. Just breathed in and then out in a slow, even rhythm.

Thad sighed and crouched down beside her. Her eyes were closed, her fingers limp against the pages. He gathered her curls over one shoulder and then couldn't resist resting his hand against her cheek.

“One of these days, my love,” he whispered, easing the book from her hands, “we will finish a conversation.”

Seventeen

A
rthur looked up when the tin cup plunked onto the table before him, and he smiled at the expressionless lad who had brought it. “Thank you, Scrubs. With this storm raging, I am afraid I am more in need of the ginger than usual.”

“Sorry for my tardiness, sir. When the wind kicked up, I had to help secure everything.”

“I understand.”

In the corner of the cabin, Gates turned a page in his book. “Stop your chattering and let the boy get to work. The breakfast tray spilled when that wave struck. Of course, had you picked it up when you said you would…”

Arthur sipped the ginger water, welcoming the bitter taste that would help settle his stomach, which seemed bent on echoing the roll of every wave. Blast these summer storms. “Pay no heed to his testiness, Scrubs. Mr. Gates does not like being confined to our cabins.”

Gates snorted.

Scrubs merely headed for the mess by the table.

Arthur studied his older companion, both amused and bemused at how
his
usually stoic demeanor had given way to such acidity today. He suspected it had less to do with being asked to remain below than it did the captain's words about the delay the weather might cause.

He took another sip. “Have you been to America before, Mr. Gates?”

He didn't even bother to look up from his page. “Of course. I have been to nearly all of England's colonies.”

Scrubs paused halfway into his reach for a fork they had overlooked on the floor. “You visited before the Revolution then, sir?”

Now Gates looked up with an expression of disdain. “No, my visits have all been in the late eighties and after.”

The boy grabbed the fork and tossed it to the tray with a clatter. “Then you did not visit her as a colony, did you?”

The narrowing of Gates's eyes promised a biting retort. Arthur cleared his throat and quickly interjected, “What is it like? I have never been.”

The man's gaze remained locked on Scrubs. “Too cold in the north, too hot in the south, and filled with arrogant boors.” He slapped his book shut. “What say you to that, boy?”

Scrubs pulled out his ever-present rag and went to work on the floor. “What ought I say, sir? Other than if you think so poorly of the place, it seems odd you would still want to claim it as an off-shoot of Merry Ol' England.”

Rage flickered through the elder man's eyes but was quickly tamped down as he stood. “As I said, arrogant boors, the lot of them. Do excuse me, Sir Arthur. I have a matter to discuss with the captain.”

“Until later, then.” Arthur did his best to hold down his grin until the man had left. “I do believe that was the longest sentence I have ever heard you deliver, Scrubs.”

The lad barely glanced up.

Arthur took another sip and considered letting the silence reign…but he had spent too many hours with only quiet Gates for company. “Well, I am glad to finally know your opinion on something.”

There was a hitch in Scrubs's movements, but no other response.

Arthur sighed. “I am looking forward to seeing America. I have heard about the beauty of the wilds.”

“Is that why you are traveling there? To see the wilds?”

“Nay.” His voice came out more quietly than he had intended, so he cleared his throat. “My betrothed is missing and her life is in danger. We think her father sent her to Maryland. It is our hope to find her before his murderer does.”

Now Scrubs's motions ceased, and the boy looked up at him with that ageless gaze of his. “Forgive me, sir. I did not realize your purpose was so grave.”

“How could you have?” He forced a smile and swirled the bitter drink around in his cup. “I imagine you have seen much of the world already. That is quite a blessing.”

Only when the boy's eyes snapped back to blank did Arthur realize compassion had entered them. He attacked the floor again. “Blessing, aye. I am certain my mother and sisters thought just that when their sole provider disappeared.”

Sympathy tugged, but what was the use in indulging it? The boy had been a fisherman, as easily snatched away by a storm as a captain seeking a fuller crew. Still… “How far is your home from where we are going in Maryland?”

Another pause in the scrubbing. “Why?”

Why indeed? Why should Arthur worry with one boy separated from his family when so many the world over suffered far worse plights? Scrubs, at least, earned a living aboard Yorrick's vessel, which he could send home to his mother—assuming any pound notes made it through the post. He sighed. “Gates has requested that Yorrick remain at the open port in Annapolis until our business is concluded. Perhaps that would afford you time enough to visit them.”

Scrubs snorted. “We could be there a year, sir, and the captain would still never let me out of his sight.”

“I would take responsibility for you.” The offer slipped out before Arthur could stop his lips. Wisdom called him a fool, but some other part of him whispered that this young man was one of integrity. “Assuming, of course, you gave me your word that you would return to the
Falcon
.”

Not meeting his gaze, Scrubs grabbed his rag, stood, and hefted the tray. “I appreciate the offer, Sir Arthur. And I respect the kind of man who would make it.” He strode to the door, paused with a hand on the latch, and turned his stoic face toward Arthur. “Which is why I couldn't give you that word.”

Arthur grunted as the boy slipped out. No doubt that was for the best. Taking charge of Scrubs would only distract him from his real purpose anyway. Finding Gwyneth must remain his foremost, his
only
priority.

And with Gates's help, surely he could manage it.

For a long moment Gwyneth stared at the painted face of her father. She gazed into his canvas eyes and willed life into his ever-still lips. “Oh, Papa. What are you trying to tell me?” Were she not aware that some of the paint was still tacky—even a week had been insufficient for it to dry in this damp air—she would have reached out and touched the familiar shoulder.

No comfort was to be found there, though. No wisdom from his mouth or affection from his eyes.

She had never once had to question that he loved her, but as she stared at the face she knew so well, she wondered how well she had really known her sire. And why, when she needed it most, he had left her no words to guide her.

She turned from the painting she'd so carefully carried up to her room last night and studied the rest of the chamber again to try to divine where Mrs. Wesley might have stashed a random piece of paper. Where she herself might have slipped one in a stupor. Where amid her things Papa might have folded one.

She had searched her three books, her trunk, even the spaces under the furniture in case a page had fallen and fluttered there. If only she could ask Mrs. Wesley—if only Rosie had been able to offer some insight—if only Papa had left it somewhere prominent—but no.

She was alone with her questions and her fears. Alone with her future.

A shout of laughter from below made her catch her breath. Perhaps not alone, but how wise was it to become attached to the Lanes? They were on opposite sides of a war.

Though Papa had been the one to send her here.

They were spies.

Though arguably the only ones who could help her evade or outsmart Uncle Gates.

They would not want her here forever.

Though her mind conjured up Thad's voice, his whispered bid that she promise to stay. Had it been a jest? Dare she trust her perception of the gleam in his eyes? Or was he just doing as he always did—saying exactly what he knew she needed to hear, giving what she needed to receive? As he did with absolutely everyone?

And why did her heart twist? Why did it hope she was more to him than that? Why did her feet even now pull her toward the door,
toward that laughter? Toward him. Always toward him, it seemed.

Foolishness. She knew it even as she gave in to the tug and exited her room.

The family had already made their way to the breakfast table, and it was young Jack eliciting the laughter. His face liberally smeared with oatmeal, he held a slice of apple in front of his mouth and said, “Look, Grandmama! I have a smile.”

Gwyneth couldn't help but put on one of her own, though she meant to keep it aimed at the boy and not to direct it toward Thad. Somehow, though, her gaze swung his way. His was already on her, and it twinkled with good humor.

Mrs. Lane laughed at Jack. “And what a handsome smile it is.”

Thad stood and pulled out Gwyneth's usual chair for her. “My lady.”

“Oh, I am not a…” She trailed off at his mischievous little grin and slid into her chair. Of course he knew she was no titled lady to deserve such a greeting. American he may be, but he was no fool. “Are you being deliberately gauche, Captain Lane?”

“Never.” He scooted the seat in, and his hand rested for a moment on her shoulder.

Jack had flipped the apple slice over and now held it above his lip. “And now I have a moustache!”

It was all Gwyneth could do to swallow past the catch in her throat. Her shoulder felt warm long after Thad regained his own seat.

She could only imagine the scolding Aunt Gates would give her each time he touched her unnecessarily. And given that warm feeling, 'twas a scolding she needed. The Lanes may have accepted her into their family for the time being, but she ought not be getting any ideas about Thad. No matter how bright were his eyes. No matter how compelling was his smile. No matter how her heart trilled at his every touch…or the fact that she felt completely safe when in his company. The point still remained that when all this was over—the war and her uncle's schemes—she would have no place here.

And that was assuming she lived through it.

Mr. Lane passed her the plate of biscuits, soon followed by the eggs and sausage. Though they no doubt thought they were being discreet, each of the Lanes watched to see how much food she ladled onto her plate. She had already learned that if she didn't choose for herself what they deemed “enough,” someone would slip on more
when her attention was elsewhere. Except for Rosie, who didn't bother with subtlety and added more overtly.

And because she was beginning to look more like her old self and less like a half-starved, sickly waif from the streets, she could thank them for their efforts.