Veil of Pearls Page 5

  Morgan gazed over the blue expanse of glittering whitecaps. This was his world. The only place he felt at peace. In control. Happy. “I thank you, Captain, for taking a risk on this landlubber and teaching me to sail.”

  “Not just sail, Morgan. Command a ship of your own someday.”

  Morgan’s heart both leapt and shriveled at the thought. “That is but a dream.”

  Sails thundered above. The captain lifted his gaze to the bosun on the main deck. “Reef topsails, if you please, Mr. Granger.”

  The aged sailor nodded and began braying commands to the crew, sending them leaping into the ratlines and scrambling aloft.

  The captain eyed Morgan, his blue eyes brimming with wisdom. “Dreams can be made realities with determination, hard work, and God’s help.”

  “My father would not see it so.” Morgan snorted. “And God has not taken note of me in years.” If ever.

  Captain Bristo gripped the railing as the ship canted to starboard. “As to the first, you are not your father’s son. As to the second, you are your Father’s son.”

  Morgan rubbed the stubble on his chin and pushed aside yet another of the captain’s many references to the Almighty. “You make no sense as usual, Captain.”

  In fact, if Franklin knew Morgan was learning to sail from a common merchant, he’d disown him on the spot. Yet ever since Morgan had turned ten years old and had been permitted to walk about Charleston on his own, he’d spent hours standing at the South Battery gazing at the sea, watching the ships sail into port, longing to hop on them and sail away to faraway lands. When he’d mentioned this desire to his father, the man had laughed. His laughter had turned to insults, then threats when he’d realized Morgan was serious.

  “What’s wrong with you, boy? The Rutledges are not common merchants. We are not pitiful sailors. We are landowners. We sit on the city council, respected and honored members of society. And by all that is sacred, you will not ruin that standing or our good name, or you will no longer be a Rutledge. Do you understand me?”

  At age twelve, Morgan had simply nodded and skulked away.

  But like a desperate lover, the call of the sea was relentless. It beckoned to him during the day as he strode past the docks and admired the masts of the ships waving at him from the harbor. It lured him at night in the sea breezes flowing through his window. Until he could stand it no longer. So, years later, when he befriended Captain Kane Bristo in the White Street Tavern and the captain offered to teach him to sail, Morgan could not turn him down.

  Now at age twenty-two, he had accompanied Captain Bristo on several trips to the Caribbean, two to Baltimore, and five to Boston. All during the social season in Charleston when Morgan and his brother Hadley spent several months at the family townhome in the city, away from the plantation.

  Captain Bristo slapped him on the back. “Yes, I’d say you are nearly ready to command your own ship, Morgan. The men respect you. You have a natural talent for sailing, an ability to lead.”

  Morgan tipped his hat against the bright sun and squinted at the captain. Waiting for him to laugh at his joke. But instead, when he only nodded in affirmation, mist covered Morgan’s eyes, and he turned away, thankful when the breeze quickly dried it. He’d never received a single compliment from his father. In fact, quite the opposite. He’d been told his entire life that he was nothing but a disappointment and a wastrel. “I can hardly believe you think so highly of me.”

  Captain Bristo winked. “I never lie.”

  No, the man didn’t. He was far too godly to lie to anyone. The most honorable, decent man Morgan had ever met. “Sail Ho!”

  “Where away?” Plucking the scope from his belt, Captain Bristo raised it to his eye.

  A speck popped over the horizon like an ant crawling from its hole. The crew halted their work, staring at the intruder. Tension stiffened their postures. Many a story had filtered through Charleston’s taverns of British war ships boarding American merchantmen and impressing their crews into the Royal navy. Not to mention that a few of Charleston’s ships had gone missing recently and had never been heard from again. And of course they must always be on the lookout for pirates. The sea was not the safest place to be.

  Yet Morgan could think of nowhere he’d rather be.

  “She flies the Union Jack.” Captain Bristo lowered his scope and slapped it against his palm. He faced Morgan, a twinkle in his eye. “Your command, Morgan.”

  “Me?” A twinge of fear poked him.

  “Aye, you know what to do. Evasive action. Bring us out of danger.” The captain nodded toward the crew awaiting command on the main deck, all eyes on Morgan.

  He drew in a deep breath, feeding off the confidence he saw in Bristo’s eyes while bringing to memory all the sailing knowledge he had learned the past few years. He glanced at the British ship. The ant had sprouted wings. White wings glutted with wind. And she was heading their way. He swallowed and faced the crew.

  “Lay aloft and loose topsails! Up staysails. Clear away the jib.” He glanced behind him at the quartermaster at the wheel. “Two points to larboard, Mr. Hanson.”

  Medical satchel in one hand, skirts clutched in the other, Adalia crossed the cobblestone street, weaving in between a horse and rider and a four-wheeled landau. The clip of Joy’s shoes sounded behind her as they made their way down Church Street. A cool January breeze swept in from the bay, stealing the warmth of the sun from her shoulders and bringing the smell of horseflesh and fish and sweet yellow jessamine, which combined into an oddly pleasant aroma. She smiled. The smells of Charleston. She’d been in the city for a month and a half—two weeks of which she’d spent in Dr. Willaby’s employ. And she’d never been happier. Well, not since she was a little girl. She had already learned a great deal about medicine from the doctor, and he seemed equally interested in her knowledge of herbal remedies. Besides which, she enjoyed bringing comfort to the sick. Just as her mother had done. Not only did Adalia carry on a family tradition, but she was also able to independently support herself. How many women could lay claim to that?

  Especially Negro women.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Joy, please walk beside me.” She gestured for the girl to move forward.

  “It ain’t proper, miss,” the young slave responded.

  “You may be Doctor Willaby’s slave, but you aren’t mine. You are my friend.” In fact, the more time Adalia spent with Joy, the more she liked the girl who lived up to her name so well. No matter the work, no matter the long hours, or menial tasks, no matter that Dr. Willaby oft scolded her, Joy always had a smile on her face.

  Tugging the girl up beside her, Adalia turned down Chambers Street on her way to the apothecary, where she needed to purchase some additional herbs. Dr. Willaby informed her that the weather would soon be warm enough for her to grow her own herbs in the garden beside the house, but until then, she would have to purchase what she could.

  She turned another corner and nearly bumped into a man. Leaping back, she threw a hand to her chest.

  “Pardon me, miss.” He tipped his top hat, his eyes appraising her as a slow grin replaced the frown on his mouth.

  “Quite all right.” Clutching Joy’s arm, Adalia forged ahead, only to see a group of young dandies across the street looking her way.

  Now that the social season had begun, Charleston’s streets overflowed with men and women dressed in silks and satins, feathers and top hats, lace and gloves—displaying all the fineries and fripperies representing their class.

  Fingering the top buttons of her modest gown, Adalia avoided the men’s gazes. The last thing she wanted was to attract the wrong kind of attention.

  Joy stumbled, caught her balance, then leaned toward Adalia. “Lots of handsome men stare at you, miss.”

  “I assure you, they grant the same courtesy to anyone wearing a skirt.”

  “Not to me.”

  Adalia looked at her. Skin as smooth and glistening as café-au-lait, dark curls that would be the envy of
any lady, and chocolate eyes framed in thick lashes. “You are lovely, Joy.”

  Joy gave her a disbelieving smile before they started on their way again. Regardless of the young girl’s beauty, it was obvious she didn’t receive the same attention as Adalia. Or any white woman, for that matter. And only because she was a Negro. Yet, Negro blood flowed through Adalia as well.

  Pondering the injustice, she turned down Queen Street. A bell rang from the harbor. Chickens squawked as a young boy chased them across the avenue. Up ahead the masts of ships spired toward the sun.

  A merchant ship must have just arrived, for boats carrying all manner of goods lined up at the public landing off Gibbs Wharf. A tall commanding man leapt from one onto the long quay. He adjusted his cocked hat, and bade another man farewell.

  Something familiar about him kept Adalia’s gaze locked in his direction. Only when he looked her way did she remember. The spoiled impish Rutledge son. The one she’d pushed into the creek. Tugging her straw bonnet lower on her face, she turned, spun Joy with her, and hurried in the other direction. The last thing she needed was trouble with the wealthiest family in town.

  Morgan blinked. It was her. The audacious healer woman. The one who had stomped on his foot. The lady he hadn’t been able to force from his thoughts these past weeks. The one he’d been unable to find, though he’d gone to Dr. Willaby’s house more than once. And now, she was snubbing him again! He had just evaded a British frigate, so surely he could command such a lowly woman. Morgan charged forward, threading in between slaves carrying loads from the ships, a group of sailors, and a horse and carriage. He gazed across the sea of bobbing feathers, top hats, and flowered bonnets, finally spotting her plain straw hat and wool shawl. Shoving his way through the mob, he nodded at passing ladies and answered a friend’s greeting, and then finally, he leapt into her path.

  Instead of looking at him and acknowledging his presence, she skirted around him, muttering a “Pardon me, sir.”

  Incredible! He stepped before her again. “Miss Winston, I believe.”

  She stopped and raised her gaze to his, a look of annoyance on her lovely features. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Rutledge?”

  The slave girl took a step back, where she belonged.

  Morgan gave Miss Winston one of his most beguiling grins. “So, you do know who I am.”

  She huffed and gazed across the street as if he were bothering her. Him? Morgan Rutledge. Bothering her? She should be thrilled he even spoke to her.

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.” Dragging the cocked hat from his head, he suddenly remembered he must look a fright in his seaman’s clothes. He raked his hair, pressing down the wind-frayed strands. Regardless, he still had his good looks and Rutledge charm. Not to mention great wealth. Surely one of those would suffice to garner a smile out of her. Although why he needed one, he couldn’t say.

  She tilted her head. “Since you know my name and I know yours, I don’t see the necessity.”

  She spat the words with an assurance and confidence usually found lacking among those of her station. But all he could focus on was the sensuous way her moist lips moved. She was as lovely as he remembered. With hair glistening like liquid obsidian, her tawny skin smooth and glowing, her deep, fathomless eyes, now sparking with …

  Disdain?

  He shook off what surely was a misunderstanding. “Since we did not meet under the best of circumstances, I thought we should make a better attempt.”

  She gaped at him as if he’d grown horns on his head. “Very well. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rutledge.” She dipped a curtsey then reached behind her to grab her slave’s arm and proceeded past him.

  Of all the—His name floated on the brisk wind, and he turned to see a group of ladies eyeing him from across the street. Yet this woman, this common servant girl, dismissed him as if he were a mere slave. Egad, she treated her servant better than him.

  He followed her. Surely the woman was confusing him with someone else. “Miss Winston, if I may have a moment of your time.”

  “Unless you are ill, Mr. Rutledge, I fear not,” she shot over her shoulder. “I have duties to attend. A concept that I’m sure escapes you.”

  Stunned, Morgan stared after her. He caught up to her again and touched her arm. She tore it from him as if he’d branded her.

  Ignoring the fire in her eyes, he lifted his brows. “I wondered if you’d join me at the Bay Coffee Shop for a spot of tea. Or perhaps lemonade?”

  Frowning, she looked at him as if he’d asked her to drink horse urine.

  Adalia brushed away a fly, wishing she could rid herself of this pompous rogue as easily. A spot of tea? What was he after? Men like him were always after something. And the only thing she could think of caused her stomach to curdle. By the way the ladies lining the marketplace gaped at him, Adalia assumed Mr. Rutledge was quite the Don Juan. Perhaps he wished to add another feather to his cap with the new lady in town. No doubt most servant girls would swoon over any attention paid them by this handsome, wealthy rake. For he was handsome, indeed. Even more handsome than she remembered. His face no longer held that look of abject boredom so often found on the spawn of the tediously affluent. In fact, he seemed much more alive. Maybe his common attire—a simple linen shirt, waistcoat, and trousers tucked within high boots—brought his usual arrogance down to a manageable level. In any case, it couldn’t hurt to enjoy the way his wheat-colored hair flung about him in wild abandon, the sprinkle of dark whiskers on his chin, and even the spark of mischief in his stark green eyes. Though she’d spurned him, he held himself with authority as he awaited her reply. The scent of the sea clung to him, reminding her of her father.

  But he was nothing like her father.

  And she wanted nothing to do with him—or his kind. Like Sir Walter, men like him thought they ruled the world and all the women in it.

  She intended to tell him just that when a gentleman called his name, and he and two ladies darted across the street toward them.

  “Morgan, we’ve been looking for you. Hadley said you came to town weeks ago.” A comely woman with brown hair addressed him.

  Never moving his eyes from Adalia, Mr. Rutledge seemed annoyed at the intrusion. Not until the woman tugged on his arm. “And now you have found me,” he responded curtly.

  The other lady, a stunning woman with hair the color of alabaster, sidled up to Mr. Rutledge and brazenly looped her arm through his. “Morgan, do say you’ll join us at Dillon’s tonight.” Her icy gaze locked upon Adalia then swept away. “And who, pray tell, is this?”

  The gentleman with dark hair and an even darker scowl on his face tugged upon his lacy cravat and glanced at Adalia with curiosity.

  Mr. Rutledge freed himself from the woman’s clutches. “Miss Winston, may I present Miss Emerald Middleton, Mr. Joseph Drayton, and Miss Caroline Johnson.”

  Adalia dipped her head. “A pleasure.”

  But the feeling—as false as it was—did not seem to be mutual, especially not from Miss Emerald. She studied Adalia as if she were studying a disease through a microscope. “Miss Winston, how are you acquainted with my Morgan?”

  Adalia did not miss the possessive form. “I am not acquainted with him in any way, miss.”

  “Then how did you come to speak to him?”

  “He was speaking to me.” Adalia flashed him a curt smile and found him gazing at her with delight. Straightening her shoulders, she collected Joy. “Good day.” She dipped her head and headed down the street.

  “Will you join us for tea later?” Mr. Rutledge called after her.

  “No, I will not, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Joy raised a hand to her mouth, restraining a giggle. She glanced over her shoulder. “You’ve gone an’ offended the richest bachelor in town, Miss Winston.”

  “Call me Adalia, please.”

  “He fancies you.”

  “Don’t be absurd. He doesn’t even know me.” Yet how could she expl
ain the interest on his face when he gazed at her. As though she were valuable, precious. No one had ever looked at her like that before. Especially not someone in such a high position. She had searched his eyes—those moss-green eyes—and found no salacious or nefarious intent. His pompous friends were another story. She knew how to handle the contempt she saw in their gazes. It was all too familiar.

  One last time, she glanced over her shoulder and found his gaze still locked upon her even as Miss Emerald attempted to drag him away.

  Facing forward, she forced down the confusion caused by his attention. She would never be a part of his world. Never.

  CHAPTER FIVE