Veil of Pearls Page 29

  Mrs. Wallace stopped at the door and turned. “He said you’d be a bit out of sorts this morning, miss. Especially after all that crying and whining last night. But don’t vex yourself. After you’ve had a bit of food and fresh air your mind will clear. I’ll bring your breakfast in a minute.”

  But Adalia didn’t want any breakfast. In fact, her stomach rebelled at the thought of it. Instead, she quickly donned her undergarments and gown and left her cabin in search of Morgan. Ignoring her queasiness, she followed the light to a ladder leading upward, and in moments, she emerged onto the main deck to a blast of wind that tugged at her hair. Squinting in the bright sun, she scanned the deck. Sailors stopped their tasks to stare at her but soon returned to their duties. The snap of sails drew her gaze above, where white canvas was bloated with wind and more sailors shuffled over the yards like monkeys. The sound of Morgan and another man conversing on the deck above her spun her around. At least she thought it was Morgan. With his back toward her, he looked more like a pirate in his tight breeches, white shirt, and cocked hat.

  “Mr. Morgan Rutledge!” Clutching her skirts, she darted up the ladder and charged toward him.

  He faced her, his momentary look of terror fading into exaggerated aplomb. “Ah, milady, you’re awake. Sleep well?”

  “No, I did not sleep well.” Adalia halted before him, glancing at the other man, who stared at her with a most peculiar look on his face. A young face that belied the graying at his temples. A strong jaw, short-cropped brown hair, and blue eyes that matched his coat completed a look that was more cultured than most seamen.

  “May I introduce Captain Kane Bristo.” Morgan gestured toward the man. “Captain, this is Miss Adalia Winston.”

  “A pleasure.”

  When Adalia did not offer her hand, the captain simply bowed. “Are your quarters to your liking, miss?”

  Was everyone aboard this ship mad? “No, they are not to my liking!” Adalia pressed a hand over her churning stomach.

  “I told you she was a bit cantankerous, Captain.” Morgan took her arm to lead her aside.

  Adalia tore from his grasp and stormed back to the captain. “If you do not turn this boat around and take me back to Charleston at once, I will charge you and your crew with kidnapping!”

  He flinched and glanced at Morgan. “First of all, it is a brig, miss. Secondly, you are here as Morgan’s guest, are you not? Did he not rescue you from your abusive employer?”

  “Abusive …” Adalia slowly faced Morgan. She clenched her fists, her nails stabbing her palms. Morgan, however, seemed to be having trouble meeting her gaze. Instead, he shifted his boots over the deck and glanced aloft.

  “Why, you unscrupulous, debauched, lying, swaggering, worthless muck-rake!” She pushed him with all her might. But he didn’t budge. Pointing a finger his way, she turned to the captain. “This man stole me from my bed in the middle of the night.”

  Sailors stopped to listen. Some of them chuckled. Others whispered amongst themselves.

  The ship plunged over a wave. Salty moisture showered over Adalia as she held out her arms to catch her balance.

  The captain’s eyes narrowed on Morgan. His jaw bunched. “In my cabin. Now!”

  “By all that is holy upon the seas, what is the meaning of this?” Captain Bristo stormed toward the stern windows then spun around. Rage battled across his face. His eyes sparked like cannon fire.

  Morgan couldn’t remember ever seeing him so angry. Blast that Mrs. Wallace! Morgan had instructed her to inform him when Adalia awoke. That way he could speak to her before she met the captain. And he wouldn’t be standing before the captain’s desk about to lose his position aboard the ship.

  “I can explain, Captain.” Morgan’s voice betrayed his guilt. There really was no logical explanation—none an honorable man like Bristo would accept.

  Captain Bristo planted his knuckles on his desk. “Did you kidnap that poor woman?”

  “In a sense, I suppose, but—” The captain’s upraised hand halted Morgan’s tongue. Bristo took up a pace behind his desk, crossing through spears of sunlight that stabbed through the window panes. “Do you know what this means? You have made me party to a crime. Even if I return to Charleston immediately”—he shot Morgan a seething glance—“which my schedule does not permit. I could lose my ship. I could be tossed in jail.” With each word, his voice grew louder and louder.

  “I made sure that would not happen,” Morgan said. “Before we set sail, I told the constable what I was doing and why. As long as I bring the lady back unscathed, he will ignore any charges she might bring against us.”

  Captain Bristo gave him an incredulous snort. “And why would he do that?

  “Because he knows me. He knows I mean her no harm. And because I am privy to information”—Morgan wouldn’t divulge that the constable had a tryst with the mayor’s wife—“that could ruin him.”

  “Kidnapping and blackmail. This gets better and better!”

  Morgan sighed and lowered his gaze.

  Captain Bristo circled his desk. “And what of her employer? Surely he will notice her missing? Was he abusive at all? Gad’s fish, you lied to me!”

  “I had no choice.” Morgan met his gaze, hoping his friend would see the sincerity in his eyes. “You wouldn’t have let me bring her on board, otherwise.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have.”

  “But I did send Doc Willaby a post telling him where she was and not to worry.”

  Bristo gave a sordid chuckle. “You sent him a post? Are you daft, man?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Why would he believe anything you say?”

  “Because I signed it from Miss Winston.”

  Shaking his head, Bristo picked up a pistol from his desk. “Now we add forgery to the list.”

  Morgan wondered if he intended to shoot him. Faith, this was not going well.

  “That’s why she was pounding on the door, then?” Bristo ran a finger over the engraving on the barrel of the gun. “She wasn’t suicidal.

  She didn’t want to toss herself into the sea …”

  Morgan swallowed.

  “I cannot believe you lied to me.” The anger fled Bristo’s voice, replaced by sorrow.

  The man’s disappointment stabbed Morgan like a blade in the gut. Until this moment he hadn’t realized how much he valued Bristo’s approval—lived for it, in fact. Morgan’s heart plunged. “I had no choice. I had to speak with her.”

  “And this was the only way you could think of? Why not simply call on her like a normal gentleman?”

  “She wouldn’t see me.”

  “I hardly blame her now that I see what you are capable of.”

  “Come now, Kane, you know me.” Morgan hoped the use of his given name would remind the man of their deep friendship. “I’ve told you of my feelings for Adalia. I was desperate. Doc Willaby was keeping us apart, probably feeding her lies. I know it was rather rash of me, but I had no recourse.”

  “Other than to kidnap her? By thunder, Morgan. When will you learn to think”—he tapped his skull—“before you act? This sort of behavior may be acceptable in your frivolous circles, but it will not do here. Nor, I imagine, will it do much to engender the lady’s affections.”

  Morgan suddenly regretted his brash actions. And the lies that had gone with them. He hadn’t considered the impact it would have on his dear friend. He raked a hand through his hair. “I promise she will calm down after I speak with her.”

  Captain Bristo leaned back against his desk. “Well, there’s naught I can do about it now. I must get this cargo of rice and indigo to Wilmington, or it will rot in the hold. You’d better have the best of intentions, Morgan. If I hear you have mistreated Miss Winston in any way …” He clenched his jaw.

  “How can you say such a thing?” Morgan wilted beneath the man’s lack of faith. “I love her. I would never harm her.”

  A flicker of pain crossed the captain’s blue eyes. “I never would have
thought you would have lied to me either.” He set the pistol down.

  “I was wrong. I should have told you.”

  Captain Bristo crossed his arms over his blue coat. “When are you going to stop trying to run your own life and rely on God?”

  Rely on God? Morgan bit back a bitter chuckle. “God takes no care for the likes of me.”

  “Indeed? Have you asked Him?”

  “What? If He cares for me?” Morgan did laugh this time. “I’ve disappointed Him too much for him to pay any notice … even if He does exist. Besides, I find His standards too high, His strictures too confining.”

  “Then you don’t know Him at all.” Captain Bristo gave him a sad smile. Morgan hoped he was done proselytizing.

  “Very well.” Bristo sighed, then his gaze hardened. “You should know that I will deny any knowledge of this should charges be brought against you.”

  “Of course. And I will tell them you had nothing to do with it.”

  The captain nodded, squeezing the bridge of his nose. Morgan noticed a white sheen covered his face.

  “Are you feeling all right, Captain?”

  “Yes, just a bit tired. Back to your duties, Morgan.” He gestured with his head toward the door.

  Morgan turned to leave.

  “And, Morgan?”

  He spun around.

  “She’s lovely.” The captain grinned. “A bit spirited with a rather tongue, but lovely, nonetheless.”

  Groaning, Adalia lay back on her cot and pressed a hand over her belly. Darkness consumed the cabin, but she hadn’t the strength to get up and light the lantern. She prayed the ginger Mrs. Wallace had brought her would begin to work soon. She’d only recently discovered that the poor woman also suffered from mal de mer and had a ready supply of the soothing herb on hand. If only Adalia had spoken with the lady earlier. Instead, she’d spent the entire day in her cabin alternating between bouts of singing into her chamber pot and swaying in dizziness on her cot.

  She had not seen Morgan since he’d followed his enraged captain below deck. She hoped the man locked him in the hold or better yet, keelhauled him. A fitting punishment for his crime. Not only in kidnapping her but also in forcing her to endure such agony. And why was he on this ship, anyway, looking more like a seaman than a spoiled aristocrat? Did his father own a merchant fleet? If so, Morgan had never spoken of it.

  Part of her was curious to hear the reason for his temporary madness.

  Part of her didn’t want to know. There would be no explanation, no justification, nothing that would open her heart to a man who’d flown into the arms of other women so quickly.

  Or who kidnapped women in the middle of the night from their beds.

  He had said his father agreed to their courtship. He had said he loved her. Yet everything she had recently discovered about him, everything she knew about his father, stood against the truth of his words.

  The door creaked open. Morgan entered with a lantern. Light bathed the room, shoving the darkness aside.

  “Go away.”

  He closed the door and set the lantern on the table. “Not until we talk.”

  “If you have an ounce of mercy within your lecherous body, please leave me be. I’m ill.” She turned over in her cot, facing the wall.

  She heard him take a seat on the chair. “Mrs. Wallace informed me that you refuse to eat.”

  “I cannot eat. Thanks to you.”

  “I didn’t know you got seasick.”

  “I was given no opportunity to inform you.”

  “And I was given no opportunity to ask since you refused to speak to me.”

  “I don’t speak to libertines or kidnappers.”

  “Lib …” He huffed. “I only kidnapped you so I could speak to you uninterrupted.”

  The squeak of the chair and thump of his boot told her he’d risen. She peeked at him through her lashes then struggled to sit. She would meet this man face-to-face, not lying down. She regretted the action instantly. Both because her stomach rebelled but also because Morgan looked more handsome than she’d ever seen him.

  Gray breeches molded to his muscular thighs before disappearing within knee-high boots. A cream-colored shirt, ruffled at the cuffs, lay partially open on his chest. His windswept hair was tied behind him, cavalier style. The sword strapped to his thigh winked at her in the candlelight. She remembered the feel of him on top of her. All muscle and steel. Heat rose to her face. She hated that she reacted to him so. “You look like a pirate,” she spat.

  “Thank you.”

  She gazed up at him. No, no, no. Anything but that grin. But there it came, curving on his lips and sending her heart thumping. “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  “Too late to recant.”

  She frowned. “What do you want?”

  “To tell you once again that my father has agreed to our courtship.” The words flew from his mouth as if he feared she would interrupt him again. Still they refused to penetrate the shield around her mind. Or her heart.

  She gave an unladylike snort. “And now you lie to me.”

  He planted his hands on his waist. “Why would I lie? And more importantly, why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because I heard your father’s opinion of me. He would never agree to a courtship. And because for three weeks I have not heard a word from you.”

  “I was at the plantation for over two weeks. My father refused to let me go until … Well, it doesn’t matter. But I sent you a post nearly every day. Flowers and gifts as well. And after I came into town, I called on you several times.”

  Adalia closed her eyes against the urgency in his voice. She rubbed her temples. Why couldn’t everything stop spinning? The cabin, her head—her heart. Posts and gifts? Could Morgan be telling the truth? Yet, where had they gone?

  Doc Willaby. His concerned face arose in her vision, the sad tale of his daughter swirling in her memory. But he was a godly man. A godly man wouldn’t steal and lie, would he?

  Opening her eyes, Adalia gazed at Morgan and saw nothing but sincerity in his green eyes. Either he was an excellent liar or he meant what he said. She mustn’t believe the latter, for that would mean engaging her heart once again in a game she was sure to lose. She struggled to rise—lifted a hand to stave off his advance—and made her way to the window. A night breeze tossed her hair behind her as it filled her lungs with the scent of brine and wood. Her stomach began to settle. Thank God. The last thing she wanted was to be sick in front of this man.

  “Adalia, tell me what I’ve done to deserve your scorn. The last time I saw you, you were dressing my wound and looking at me”—he paused—“well, looking at me quite adoringly.”

  Adalia spun around. “I suppose that’s what all your women do.”

  The ship rose over a swell. She staggered and started to fall. In two steps, Morgan slipped an arm around her waist, steadying her. “What are you talking about?”

  Heat inflamed her skin beneath his touch. The scent of him nearly broke down her resolve. She wrenched from his arm and sauntered away, her back to him again.

  “I know about your affairs, Morgan.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” His voice rang with sarcasm.

  “Yes.” She leaned a hand on the chair to steady herself. “Hadley told me, so there’s no use denying it.”

  “Hadley what?” His tone was incredulous. “Scads, woman.” She heard the shuffle of his boots on the deck. “I swear to you I have not touched another woman since I met you.”

  Something in his voice, his tone, a ringing of truth, brought her around. She had to look at him to know for sure. He always showed his true emotions through his eyes. And there it was, burning in the center. Sincerity, honesty. It stunned her. Shamed her. Threatened to moisten her eyes with tears. But she could not let them flow. Not yet.

  A knock on the door broke the trance between them. “Morgan!” An urgent voice penetrated the wood.

  Morgan hesitated, groaned in frustration, then opened it, never taki
ng his eyes off of Adalia.

  A young lanky sailor stood on the other side.

  “What is it?” Morgan asked.

  “It’s the captain. Mrs. Wallace sent me to tell you he’s quite ill.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Morgan stood at the taffrail, gazing at the waves of foam-capped sapphire fanning from the bow of the ship. Waves that were restless and turbulent like his nerves—like his heart. The rising sun blanketed his back and cast golden spires over the water, transforming the blue into glittering peach. The Seawolf pitched over a roller. Spray showered over Morgan, and he gripped the railing. Despite the beauty before him, he hung his head. He’d certainly made a muck of things. Why did he always dash into action without considering the consequences? Was he so spoiled, so self-serving, as Adalia had once called him, that he never thought of how his actions might affect others? Now, he’d disappointed—no, betrayed—his good friend and one of the few people whose opinions Morgan valued the most. And for what? Quite possibly nothing. For after all his efforts, all his explanations, Adalia remained unmoved.