Veil of Pearls Page 12

  She jerked back as if he’d branded her. Why did she fear him? “You find me fascinating because I am different.” Agony tainted her voice. “But you will tire of me soon enough.”

  “Never.” How could he make her understand? He stepped closer, gazing at her lips, longing to know if they were as delicious as they looked. Moonlight turned her skin to glistening honey, her hair into trickles of obsidian. Everything within him longed to take her in his arms, love and protect her forever.

  “I am but a momentary distraction to you.” She met his gaze.

  He leaned toward her ear and whispered, “If so, then let me be distracted forever.”

  She closed her eyes. And he could stand it no longer. He pressed his lips close to hers. But instead of the expected slap and retreat, she let out a soft gasp and received him, tentative at first, hovering, brushing against his lips, landing and then retreating as if a mere testing was enough. Her sweet breath puffed over his chin.

  Morgan’s body responded, and he drew her close, trying to deepen the kiss. She trembled and let out a tiny shriek. He released her.

  Struggling from his embrace, she backed away, eyes wide and chest heaving. “Stay away from me, Mr. Rutledge.” Then turning, she dashed down the pathway and up the stairs to the side of the house.

  The sound of the door slamming drove the last nail in the coffin around his heart.

  Adalia dropped onto her bed and stuffed her head beneath her pillow to muffle her sobs. Why, oh why, had she allowed him to kiss her? Well, it wasn’t really a kiss, was it? More like just a press of their lips. Still, why had she not been stronger? Run from him when she had a chance? She pounded her fists on the mattress, angry at herself, angry at the unfairness of life. After a few minutes, her tears spent, she sat and ran the back of her hand over her moist cheeks, plucking the wilted flowers from her hair. Moonlight angled over them as they lay in her palm. Several buds were missing. The rest were shriveled, their beauty but a memory. Like Adalia. Like her dreams.

  Like Morgan’s kiss.

  No, more than a memory. Its effect still lingered on her lips, stirred a pleasurable warmth within her. She’d never kissed a man before. Willingly at least. Never wanted to kiss a man. After Sir Walter, courtship, marriage, and children seemed out of her reach—reserved for someone worthy of love, someone pure. Besides, the thought of any man touching her caused every muscle to clamp in revulsion.

  Yet she’d enjoyed Morgan’s touch, hadn’t she? Just thinking of it sent delicious waves through her. Was that how love was supposed to feel? “Oh Lord.” She grabbed her Bible, slid the wilted flowers inside, and closed it against her chest. “You have blessed me so much. Please help me to accept the path You have placed me on.” She gazed out the window, where moonlight coated leaves in liquid silver. “And please help me forget Morgan Rutledge.”

  Adalia took her seat beside the doctor at the dining table. Her stomach grumbled as Joy brought in platters of fried fish, garlic grits, and greens. The young slave stumbled, and a portion of fish slid onto the tablecloth, eliciting a frown and a “clumsy girl” from Doc Willaby.

  No doubt used to the insults, Joy’s expression reflected no offense. Adalia winked at her as she exited, wishing the doctor would allow her to join them. But dining with a Negro was akin to gnawing on a bone with a pack of dogs.

  Or so she’d inferred from the doctor’s attitude.

  If he only knew the truth about Adalia. Part of her relished in the deception, in the sweet revenge it offered her people against all men who believed Negroes were ignorant beasts fit only to serve.

  Part of her regretted the lie.

  Regardless, she’d been pleased to accept the doctor’s frequent invitations to dinner. And though conversation flowed awkwardly at first, she soon grew accustomed to his mannerisms and rather enjoyed their meals together. For the first time in years, she felt as though she were part of a family. Well, almost. Aside from his prejudice, the doctor was a good man. His gracious behavior toward her helped dull the pain of her own father’s absence.

  Dr. Willaby bowed his head, and Adalia followed suit as he blessed the food, never failing to do so at every meal. So unlike Sir Walter, who would wave away the servants and dive into his repast without a moment’s hesitation. Occasionally, when he found himself in a particularly jovial mood, he would insist Adalia don her finest gown and join him—evenings that bore the fruit of her nausea well into the night. But most of the time she stood against the wall, awaiting his next command and watching him devour his food like an uncouth vulture.

  “Amen,” she parroted Dr. Willaby and passed him the platter of fish. The doctor began discussing his recent medical cases, delighting Adalia with his interest in her opinion. She had accompanied him on several calls recently and had been more than pleased when he asked her advice on treatment using her herbs.

  “You have no doubt heard the Rutledge girl is ill.” He dabbed his napkin over his mouth.

  “The Rutledge girl?” The name she’d tried to keep from her mind these past two weeks came charging back, leading a band of shameful memories and a tingling she could still feel on her lips.

  “Yes. Elizabeth, the youngest.” The doctor bit into a biscuit, washing it down with a gulp of barley water. “I believe she’s not yet seven years old.”

  Memories of Morgan’s affection for the young girl filled Adalia’s thoughts. “I had not heard. Have you been called to tend to her?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. They called for Doctor Richardson. But the man declares he has no idea what is wrong with her. Some strange tropical fever and an odd rash on her arms and legs.”

  Adalia laid down her fork. “How horrible. Perhaps you should see her?”

  He shook his head and shoved a spoonful of greens into his mouth as if completely unconcerned about the little girl’s welfare. “What can I do that Doctor Richardson could not?”

  “You are a brilliant physician. Perhaps there is something Doctor Richardson has overlooked.”

  He flashed her an impatient frown. “I only informed you because of your association with that family. Though”—placing an elbow on the table, he leaned toward her—“I am very pleased you have seen the light in regard to Morgan Rutledge.”

  She longed to ask him why he loathed the Rutledges, but she didn’t want to pry. “I told you it was just a silly party. Nothing more.”

  “Indeed, you did.” Reaching across the table, he patted her hand. “Never fear, I’m sure the young girl will be fine. No doubt one of these winter chills.”

  Adalia hoped so. Elizabeth had seemed like such a sweet, innocent child. Clearly she had captured her brother’s heart. Why, oh why, couldn’t Adalia get the man out of her mind? As well as the humiliation she’d suffered at the party. And worse, their kiss. She’d come to hate herself for enjoying it so much. And for wondering why he’d not made any attempts to see her since. Though she’d told him not to, of course. It was all too confusing. She pined for him one minute and was angry at him the next. Finally, she grew furious at herself for having ever entertained his affections. He was a man outside her class. And a slave owner! The latter should be enough to wipe away any happy memories of their time together.

  Hours after dinner, Adalia stood at the window of her chamber, brushing her hair, when a rap on the front door echoed through the house. Moments later, Joy knocked and entered carrying a box.

  A box that moved. Jerked and jiggled, in fact. And purred.

  “A man dressed in a footman’s livery dropped this off for you, miss.”

  Setting it on her bed, Adalia untied the strings, and before she could open the box, a kitten leapt from the folds in a tumble of wheat-colored fur.

  Both Adalia and Joy said “aw” at the same time. Gathering the bundle into her arms, Adalia cradled the purring kitten, who promptly scrambled up her arm and settled on her shoulder, batting and nuzzling the strands of her loose hair.

  Only then did Adalia notice the folded piece of paper attached to
the side of the box. She pulled it free.

  Dear Miss Winston,

  It would seem when you met Snowdust, she had recently birthed several kittens. I hope you’ll accept this gift with my apologies for your unpleasant evening the other night. I’ve named him Morgan.

  Hadley says he resembles me. I hope he’ll bring you joy and comfort.

  Yours,

  Morgan Rutledge

  Adalia drew in a deep breath. What a thoughtful gift. The man certainly knew how to soften her heart.

  “From Mr. Rutledge?” Surprise lifted Joy’s voice. “He sent you a kitten?” She giggled, and Adalia joined her.

  “Silly man. What am I to do with it?” Yet even as she said the words, the precious creature purred in her ear and began nibbling on the lace of her nightdress.

  “He is so cute, miss.” Joy ran her fingers down the kitten’s fur.

  “Joy, where is my tea?” the doctor’s voice bellowed from downstairs, startling Joy and sending her scrambling out the door, flinging a quick, “Excuse me, miss” over her shoulder.

  Adalia released a heavy sigh at Doc Willaby’s harsh ways with the girl.

  The kitten leapt onto her lap and starting batting one of the buttons on the front of her nightgown. Holding the purring fur ball up to her face, she examined it. Two green eyes peered at her from within a fluff of tawny fur. “Morgan indeed. Now, how am I ever going to forget him?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Morgan wrapped a line around the belaying pin then stood and stretched an ache from his shoulders. A stiff ocean breeze slammed into him, loosening his hat. He tugged it farther down on his head, wishing the wind would sweep away the foul mood that had clung to him ever since Miss Winston’s rejection. The brig climbed a rising swell. Morgan balanced over the heaving deck. Salty spray showered him, and he took a deep breath. Yet even the scent of the sea could not shake the gloom from his heart. Nor did this trip to deliver a hold full of rice to Boston. The sea had always been his refuge, his escape from a life he abhorred. But thanks to Miss Winston, even that respite had been taken from him.

  He leapt onto the quarterdeck and made his way to the stern, where the wake spread out like a lacy fan over azure waters. Yet, even that sight reminded him of the ruche decorating Miss Winston’s collar.

  Captain Bristo appeared beside him. “You haven’t been yourself this past week. Something troubling you?” The captain clasped his hands behind his back and scanned the horizon.

  “You know me too well.” Morgan huffed.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say a woman.”

  “Not just any woman.”

  “No, I wouldn’t expect so.” The captain gazed at the muted line betwixt sea and sky as the setting sun stroked the waves in crimson and gold. “This woman, she turned you down?”

  “Asked me never to call on her again.” Saying it out loud did nothing to ease Morgan’s pain.

  “Hmm. Troubling indeed.” Captain Bristo quirked a brow. “Yet, surely there are a dozen ladies behind her waiting for one glance from you.”

  Morgan snapped the hair from his face and gripped the railing. “None like her. She’s different. A healer. Kind, humble, honest.”

  “Good heavens! A commoner?” Bristo’s sarcastic tone grated over Morgan.

  “Yes.”

  The captain chuckled. “Morgan Rutledge taken with a commoner? I never thought I’d see the day. Are you sure you’re not pursuing this lady simply to anger your father?”

  Morgan blinked. He’d never considered the extra benefit. “I could care less what that man thinks.”

  “Indeed. Which is why you sneak away to sail with me.” The ship creaked and groaned over a wave, adding a bite to the captain’s taunting remark.

  Morgan tightened his grip then shoved off the railing, crossing his arms over his chest. “Were I to take up a trade, I would be ostracized by society, by my family. I’d lose everything.”

  “And yet what would you gain?” Wisdom lurked behind the spark of playfulness in Captain Bristo’s eyes.

  Morgan ignored it. “Right now, I’d settle for the company of a certain lady.”

  “Perhaps it is just your pride that has been pricked. I sense you are not accustomed to rejection by the fairer sex.”

  Of course he wasn’t. Morgan rubbed his eyes. This wasn’t about his pride. Was it? A parade of comely ladies marched through his thoughts. Some he cared for but had grown bored with, most he had no feelings for at all, some he used, and some he hurt. “She haunts me.”

  “That’s how I felt about my Lucia.”

  Lucia, the captain’s wife. The one who, along with their child, had died in the hurricane of ‘04. “Do you regret marrying? After you endured the agony of losing her?”

  “Not one minute,” Captain Bristo did not hesitate to answer. Though he hesitated now. Clearing his throat, he looked away. “She was God’s gift to me. An angel not fit for this world.”

  The sails thundered above them. Captain Bristo turned his back to the sea and surveyed the brig. “Perhaps this woman is God’s gift to you.”

  “God has never given me a gift.”

  “Life itself is a gift, my young friend.” He slapped Morgan on the back. “You have been born to privilege and wealth. What do you intend to do with them?”

  Morgan shrugged, bracing his feet on the staggering deck. “What is there to do with them? They simply exist.”

  The captain’s gaze drifted upward. “Furl topsails, Mr. Granger!” he bellowed across the deck. The boson repeated the order, ending it with an, “Aye, aye, Captain” as sailors leapt into the ratlines and clambered aloft.

  Captain Bristo faced Morgan. Only brushstrokes of gray at his temples gave away his age of three and forty. Years of sun had left his face tanned and healthy, not cracked and lined like most seamen’s. And though of common birth, he held himself with a dignity and honor lacking among many of Morgan’s friends.

  “I believe God has a purpose for each of us,” he said. “He puts us in certain homes, certain circumstances, good or bad, that lead best to that purpose.”

  Morgan clenched his jaw. If God had given him a father like Franklin and a life of such emptiness, then He certainly wasn’t anything like the kind, loving God Captain Bristo often spoke of. “And what is your purpose, Captain?”

  “Sailing my ships. Privateering if war breaks out with Britain, as it appears it might.” Excitement lit his eyes. An excitement that made Morgan jealous. “Search your heart.” He poked Morgan’s chest. “God places His desires, His plans for you, deep within us.”

  Morgan squinted against the setting sun. “And what of this lady? Is she my purpose?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Sea spray showered over Morgan. He shook it off and gave Bristo an inquisitive look.

  “Pray for God’s will. Then pursue her. Don’t give up. Continue to woo her until you are sure there is no chance.” Shielding his eyes, he glanced toward the growing shoreline. “Mr. Hanson,” he addressed the quartermaster at the wheel. “Two points to starboard, if you please.”

  “Two points to starboard, Cap’n,” the man parroted, turning the wheel.

  Morgan clung to the railing as the ship canted.

  “Some things are worth fighting for, Morgan,” the captain said. “Some things are worth working hard for. As you have done with your sailing.”

  A spark of hope ignited within Morgan for the first time in weeks.

  “Now, let’s go home, shall we?” He gripped Morgan’s shoulder and shook him.

  Morgan nodded his thanks as they took their positions to ready the ship to enter the harbor. Soon the brig slipped between Sullivans and Morris Islands, and with all sails furled and anchor dropped, she slowed to a halt in Charleston Bay. After bidding Captain Bristo adieu, Morgan headed for the Rutledge townhome, where he and Hadley stayed during the season. No sooner had he entered the door when his steward rushed up to him, his face a mottled twist of anxiety.

  “What
is it, Mr. Mobley?”

  “It’s your sister, sir. She is deathly ill.”

  Adalia paced across her chamber, piece of vellum clutched in her hand. She reached her dressing bureau and spun around. The wooden floor creaked. Her nightgown tickled her ankles. A crisp breeze stirred the curtains at her window and showered goose bumps over her arms. The scent of brine and honeysuckle tickled her nose. She halted at the window and glanced into the darkness. Moonlight coated the plants and trees in a soothing milky white that defied the torment she felt inside. Opening the note, she spread it out next to the candle on her desk and read it once again.

  Miss Winston,