Veil of Pearls Page 17

  Adalia’s head spun in a tempest. A storm that clouded her reason, her senses. A storm she never wanted to cease. He let out a passionate moan that pricked her memories and resurrected her fears. What if she couldn’t stop him? What if all men, once they started on a sensual journey, could not retreat? She pressed a palm against his chest.

  He withdrew, his mouth hovering over hers. She felt his body tense. His tight chest heaved beneath her hand. Reaching up, he caressed her jaw, her neck, and placed the gentlest of kisses on her cheek.

  “Adalia,” he breathed into her ear. “Sweet Adalia.” A quiver ran down her.

  “Morgan, we mustn’t.” She took a step back. He allowed her, but kept his arm around her waist.

  “Why not?” he breathed out, his tone impassioned. “You enjoyed it as much as I did.” His gaze fell on her lips again, and he started his descent.

  She pressed her fingers on his mouth, halting him, embarrassed that her pleasure had been that obvious. “We are not courting.”

  He took her fingers and kissed them. “Easy to rectify.”

  The way he looked at her caused her body to warm all over again.

  She looked away. “We hardly know each other.”

  “Another matter easily rectified.” This time he smiled, the lantern light glinting off his ivory teeth.

  What was she doing? Her intent had been to convince him of the ills of slavery. To draw him into God’s arms. Not her own! Besides, if he knew who she really was, he wouldn’t be standing here. He wouldn’t be kissing her. Or even speaking to her. Would he? She wanted so much to believe that her race would not make a difference to him. Hadn’t he told her she’d given him much to consider?

  He kissed her hand again, gazing up at her in playful seductiveness.

  Her heart sped. This was madness. But if so, perhaps sanity was greatly overrated.

  “You’ll have to try harder if you wish to dissuade me from pursuing you, milady.”

  “Don’t call me …” She stopped, hopelessly lost in his charming smile. “What am I to do with you?”

  His brows arched. “I have a few ideas.”

  The sensual gleam in his gaze sent her leaping backward out of his grasp.

  He sobered, concern lining his eyes. “I’ve frightened you again. Forgive me.” A breeze played with a loose tendril of his hair. He glanced down for a moment. “I must leave town…. I mean I must spend a few days on the plantation. Please say you’ll attend the horse races with me on Saturday.”

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “Neither do I, mil—” He stopped himself. “It’s quite the grand affair. I assure you, you’ll find it enjoyable.”

  Adalia had no doubt. Besides, what harm could it do? Perhaps she could discuss slavery with him, or even talk about God. Certainly attending these affairs granted her more time to do both. And she could not deny that deep within her a tiny bud of hope had sprouted—a hope that Morgan wouldn’t care about her past or her race. That someone like him could love someone like her. Now, as he gazed at her with such longing, and with the effects of his kiss still storming through her, weakening her knees, she began to believe that dreams did come true.

  “Saturday then,” he answered her non-response. Kissing her hand one last time, he retreated down the path, never taking his gaze from her. He stumbled over an uneven flagstone, caught his balance, and smiled at her like a boy caught stealing a piece of pie.

  “Good sleep to you, fair maiden.” He bowed, and just like the prince in her dreams, he disappeared into the darkness.

  Leaving Adalia feeling like she was tumbling into that darkness alongside him. A darkness that was both pleasurable and dangerous. A darkness from which there was no escape.

  Planting his boots on the foredeck of Seawolf, Captain Bristo’s brig, Morgan thrust his face into the wind. Warm air, spiced with tropical flowers, filled his lungs. He breathed it in like an elixir that would heal all his ills. All but one. Only a certain lady with silken black hair had the cure for that affliction. He rubbed his lips where he’d sampled her particular elixir two nights ago—his mind and body still reeling from the effects.

  Adjusting his cocked hat, he stared at the sun high in the sky. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken advantage of her without a formal understanding between them. But she’d looked so alluring standing there in the moonlight, her skin as lustrous as pearls, her hair spirals of precious ink, her lips so full and inviting. He’d lost control. And he wasn’t sorry for it. Not until he’d frightened her. Her response to his kiss had once again inflamed his senses. So much so, he’d pressed her too far. Taken a step too close. And like a rare, exotic bird, she flitted away. But not too far. He smiled. That she harbored feelings for him was obvious. That he so desperately needed her affections terrified him.

  The ship swooped over a white-capped wave. He gripped the railing. Clearly someone had hurt this precious bird in the past. His knuckles whitened at the thought. Perhaps someday she would tell him about it. But for now, he’d be gentle. He would approach her with patience. For he never wanted to frighten this bird away.

  “You must be thinking of a lady.” Captain Bristo startled Morgan as he slid beside him and scanned the horizon.

  Morgan chuckled, squinting toward his captain. “Guilty as charged.”

  “The same lady?”

  Morgan rubbed the back of his neck. Had he gone through women so quickly that his captain needed to ask such a question? The thought brought him shame. “Yes. Miss Adalia Winston.”

  “So you took my advice and pursued her?” “That I did.”

  “And your charm won out.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Did you have any doubt?”

  The captain chuckled and shook his head. “God help this poor woman.”

  “Apparently, He does.” Morgan snapped the hair from his face. “You’ll be happy to know she’s a godly woman.”

  Sails thundered above as they shifted in the wind, drawing Captain Bristo’s gaze. “Indeed. God does answer prayers.”

  “If you’ve been praying for Miss Winston to accept my suit, I thank you.”

  The captain clasped his hands behind him and smiled.

  “And thank you for taking me on board at the last minute,” Morgan added. “This quick trip to Savannah is just what I needed.”

  Turning, Bristo found the boson on the main deck. “Trim the sails to the wind, if you please, Mr. Granger.” The man tipped his hat and spit a string of orders, sending sailors into the ratlines.

  “You’re welcome to sail with me anytime. You know that.”

  “How fares the merchant business?” Morgan asked.

  “I’m thankful to be able to sell this hold full of corn and dried beef.” The captain shrugged. “But I’m still recovering from Jefferson’s embargo. Not to mention Napoleon and England’s trade restrictions. Blast it all! How is a merchant supposed to survive?” He released a heavy sigh as the ship canted to port. “And with the constant threat of the British impressing Americans into the Royal Navy, it’s been hard to find decent sailors who’ll risk leaving shore.”

  “Do you think we’ll go to war?”

  “Perhaps. God help us if we do.” Bristo stared over the sea.

  Morgan doubted God had much to do with men’s wars.

  “If war does break out, I hope to become a privateer.” The captain’s brows rose. “Say you’ll join me, Morgan.”

  At his invitation, a thrill stabbed Morgan, injecting him with life. He would love nothing more than to sail the seas, preying on British merchantmen in defense of his country. Finally his life would have purpose and meaning! And with Adalia waiting for him at home, his happiness would be complete. But there he went again, allowing his dreams to get the better of him. His momentary joy quickly dissolved in light of the impossibility of the first and improbability of the second. He stared at the glittering azure waters, anywhere but into the confident, determined gaze of the man he most admired in the world. “You k
now I can’t.”

  “I know you choose not to.” His voice brimmed with disapproval. “And what of this lady? If I remember, she’s a commoner. Would your parents accept her as a suitable wife?”

  “I don’t know.” But of course he did. They most certainly would not. Morgan clenched his jaw, angry at the change in topic. Angry at himself for his weakness. Angry at God for teasing him with the vision of a life and a woman he could never have.

  The brig dove into the trough of a wave, sending foam over her bow and showering Morgan with salty spray.

  Captain Bristo looked at Morgan with concern. Not condemnation. Never condemnation from this man. “Until you find out whether your parents will approve and until you decide what you would forsake to be with her, perhaps you should not toy with her affections.”

  Morgan shook the droplets from his face and frowned. He’d been so intent on capturing Adalia’s heart, he hadn’t thought about what he’d do after he obtained it. Normally, after a lady gave herself to him, he would grow quickly bored and move on to the next conquest. Though he’d never once thought that was possible with Adalia, he’d also never given much thought to what their future held. A philosophy by which he normally led his life. Always rushing into things, basing decisions on his feelings with no thought of consequences. Like sailing.

  Yet perhaps that frivolous way of life would no longer do. At least not when it came to Adalia. For the first time in Morgan’s remembrance, it mattered to him what a lady felt. It mattered to him that she never be hurt.

  With a slap on the back, Captain Bristo marched away, shouting orders to the crew. Morgan hung his head, staring at the foamy, inverted V the bow sliced through the blue water. He pondered Captain Bristo’s words. He pondered the course of his own life, but most importantly he pondered the biggest question of all.

  If he continued his pursuit of Adalia and things turned out as he hoped, would he be willing to give up everything to be with her?

  Kneeling on an old kitchen rag before her garden, Adalia poked another tiny hole in the dirt then set the spade aside. She adjusted her bonnet to better shade her face against a noon sun that warmed both her back and the rich soil with a promise of spring.

  “Joy?” She held out her hand, palm up. “The chamomile please?”

  Joy knelt beside her and placed the tiny seeds in her hand. Adalia smiled at her maid before she scattered them in the holes dotting the freshly turned soil. After covering them with dirt, she brushed her hands and surveyed her garden. The smell of rich earth and dogwoods filled her nose. “Now, the sage, if you please.”

  Joy held out a handful that looked more like tiny gnats than seeds. “You sure know what yer doin’, miss, for a white lady.”

  Adalia smiled. “My mother grew herbs and vegetables every year.” She dumped the seeds into the divots, remembering how the scent of rosemary, sage, peppermint, eucalyptus, and basil had combined in an ethereal perfume that swept through their brick home. The memory of those scents brought Morgan to mind, though his scent was more spice and salt.

  Drat! Why was she thinking of him again? Though he’d been gone for two days, his kiss still lingered on her lips, taunting her, pleasing her. And condemning her. She shouldn’t have allowed him such liberties. What he must think of her! What she thought of herself. After Sir Walter, she had vowed never to allow any man to touch her again, let alone kiss her. But Morgan’s kiss had been so different. So unexpected in its tenderness and affection. Her body did not tighten in alarm. She did not cower in disgust at his passion. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  It both shamed and elated her. Nevertheless, after a long night of repenting before God, she decided to inform Mr. Rutledge that such favors would not be offered again.

  Not unless they were properly courting.

  Surely that wasn’t even a possibility! From the way his father had treated her, he would never agree to such a match for his son. Unless … dare she entertain a speck of hope from society’s recent acceptance of her? A fly buzzed about her head, and she batted it away. And her fanciful thoughts with it. Thoughts she must not entertain. Dreams she must not allow to grow. Dreams led to hopes, and hopes led to disappointments.

  She would maintain a friendship with Mr. Rutledge. A friendship and nothing else.

  She leaned over to cover the seeds when a bundle of tawny fur tumbled onto the dirt, halting on all fours as if frozen beneath a predator’s gaze. “Oh, M, not my garden,” Adalia whined, but before she could grab him, the rambunctious kitten began digging in the spot where she’d just planted the chamomile. “Stop that, you little imp!” She pounced on him, but he slipped away, her palms thumping the dirt.

  Joy giggled.

  Adalia jumped to her feet. Wiping her hands on her apron, she surveyed the yard. Rustling sounded from a shrub to her right. She crept toward it. “Come here this instant, you little minx!” Just as she reached the bush, M sprang from the leaves, bounding toward her. She leapt for the wayward kitty, but her hands met air as the feline darted past.

  A man’s groan filled the air. “Of all the—!”

  Joy’s laughter faded.

  Adalia knew before she turned what she would see.

  Doctor Willaby with paw prints of mud running up his trousers, over his coat, and a look of censure lining his face. And M, licking his paws, sitting on the branch of a hickory tree behind him.

  Adalia threw her hands to her mouth. “My apologies, Doctor. He got away from me.”

  “I am a man of great patience, Miss Winston.” The doctor examined his soiled attire, then began brushing the spots, finally giving up when he saw that he was making the stains worse. “But I am not a man of infinite patience. If you are to keep this beast, you are to contain him.” Though he frowned, a smile peeked from the corner of his mouth.

  Joy rose, lowering her gaze to the ground.

  “Yes, sir. Forgive me. I promise to do better,” Adalia said.

  M dove from the tree and slunk around her ankles. Adalia picked him up, cradling him against her chest. “Thank you for allowing me to plant an herb garden, Doctor.”

  The hint of a smile forced its way to his lips. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Miss Emerald Middleton is here to see you.”

  Adalia must have heard incorrectly. “Miss Emerald?”

  “She’s a lovely lady from a good family. A churchgoing family,” Doc Willaby added. “It’s good to see you making such friends.”

  Friends. She would hardly call Emerald that. Even so, the man’s criteria for social approval seemed somewhat jaded. Morgan was a far more honorable, generous person than Miss Emerald. Wasn’t he? Suddenly she found herself questioning her own judgment. What did she know about such things when she’d been locked up as a slave for seven years?

  The doctor turned to leave. “Very well, then. I best go attend to my attire.”

  Joy exchanged a tremulous look with Adalia.

  Drawing M to her cheek, Adalia snuggled against his soft fur. “You’re just like your owner. Wild, impetuous, and naughty.” The thought sent renewed warmth through her, and she handed the kitten to Joy with a huff. She needed no reminders of Mr. Rutledge. “Can you please put M in my chamber, Joy? We’ll finish the garden tomorrow.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  A moment later, Adalia entered the sitting room, suddenly realizing, in light of Miss Emerald’s impeccable appearance, that she too should have changed her attire. She dared a glance at the dirt stuck beneath her fingernails and staining her sleeves. Quickly she clasped her hands behind her back.

  Miss Emerald’s lips slanted. “Oh, my, my, my, this will never do.” She shook her head, scanning Adalia from head to toe.

  Only moments before, frolicking in the garden, Adalia had felt alive like a fresh sprout in spring. Now, beneath this woman’s perusal, she wilted like a flower in the bright sun. “What a pleasure to see you, Emerald. Shall I have some tea brought in?”

  “Tea? Oh no, dear. I don’t intend to stay.” She glanced around the ro
om as if spending any more time in the place would somehow corrupt her. Sashaying to the window, she eased aside the curtains and gazed down into the garden.

  Adalia forced down her annoyance. “What may I do for you, Miss Emerald?”

  “For me?” Emerald laid a gloved hand on her chest as a grin rounded her painted lips. “I believe the question is what may I do for you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know we got off to a rather”—she hesitated—“disagreeable start. I am sorry for that. Morgan considers you a friend, which makes you my friend as well.” Though the ice hardening in her eyes told a different story. “And as my first act of friendship, I thought how fun it would be to go shopping. For a proper gown, of course. Now that you’re part of society, you must look the part, don’t you agree?”