He’d never seen skin so white. It was almost translucent. Hair that black usually lacked luster, but hers reflected every color of the rainbow. He studied the eyelashes that were fanned out on her cheekbones, wondering if they were real.
Of course they were real. He’d known enough women in the past to recognize artifice when he saw it. He’d thought she was a child the first time he’d seen her.
She wasn’t a child. If she’d been a child, his body wouldn’t have reacted the way it was reacting to the sight of her in his bed, lying between his satin sheets, with her hair spread over his pillow.
You’re a rotten, black-hearted scoundrel, McKnight. The woman’s under your protection. At least, she is until you can find someone to take her off your hands.
“Kathleen? Katy? Miss O’Sullivan?”
*
Katy awoke to the smell of tea. Real, honest-to-goodness tea. Smoky, rich, and strong enough to tan leather, with a hint of something that reminded her of her father. The watery brew she’d been served aboard the train hadn’t been strong enough to stain linen.
She opened one eye cautiously and waited to see if the sky would come crashing down on her head. Nothing happened except that her belly rumbled.
At least it no longer ached quite so much. There were no more dots dancing before her eyes. So she opened the other, and it was then she saw the man across the room, sprawled in a chair in a way that was hardly respectable, much less respectful.
Feeling at a disadvantage, she struggled to sit up. Saints preserve us, her hair was all about. And she was unbuttoned halfway down her chest! She was all set to jump out of bed and run for the door when he held up a fat brown teapot. “I believe you requested tea and toast?”
Narrowing her eyes on the teapot, she said in a voice husky with sleep and exhaustion, “I never said anything about toast.”
“No? Maybe my housekeeper did, then. She’s gone below to see to some supper for your sister. I thought you might want to start out with toast and ginger conserve instead of Willy’s pork stew.”
The temptation, not to mention the sight of a familiar-looking brown Betty teapot, almost like the one they used to have, was too much to resist. She swung her legs off the edge of the bed, embarrassed to see that someone had removed her shoes and left on her stockings with the gingham patches where the toes had been darned too many times to hold.
“Stay there, I’ll serve you. You’ll feel more like getting up once you’ve had a bite to eat.”
Not at all sure she wouldn’t have fallen flat on her face if she’d tried to get out of bed, she leaned back against the pillows.
“Thank you,” she said in that same husky voice she’d heard before coming from her own throat. She could yell and screech with the best of them when she wasn’t so awfully, terribly tired.
She accepted a cup of tea, sniffed and wrinkled her nose.
“It’s whiskey. Ila said it would help whatever ails you. If you’d rather have it plain, I’ll send down to the galley for more.”
She sipped and said, “No, this is fine,” and then sipped again. It was more than fine, it was wonderfully restoring. When half the cup was empty, she took a deep breath and said in a far firmer voice, “Now, sir, I believe there’s talking to be done.”
He regarded her steadily as she helped herself to a second cup of tea. She took a scalding gulp and shuddered. Finally, he said, “Ladies first. Would you care to tell me just what—that is, just why—oh, devil take it, what I mean is—” He tipped back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, and Katy, watching him, decided that whereas Tara’s eyes were the color of a summer sky, his were more the blue of the winter sea. Perhaps not as cold as she’d first thought, but hinting at storms and mysterious depths.
“What you mean to say is that you never expected us,” she said with a quiet dignity. “You never meant us to come here, after all, did you?”
The two front legs of his chair hit the deck with a loud thud, and Galen glared at her. “Dammit, no such thing! Although I will admit I was somewhat surprised,” he conceded.
“That you were. I can set your mind at ease, then. I have plans of my own, so I’ll not be a burden to anyone.”
How, he wondered, could any woman look so damned proud and so forlorn at the same time? “Oh? Might I inquire as to these plans of yours?”
“Well . . . I suppose telling won’t hurt anything. First I mean to find a place to stay, and then I’ll find a job and earn enough so that I can pay my debts, and after that I mean to save up enough to go into business for myself.”
“Go into business for yourself, hmm? And what type of business did you have in mind, Miss O’Sullivan?”
He hadn’t meant to sound so skeptical, but dammit, didn’t the woman have a grain of sense? Nobody came to a brand-new country and set up in business, just like that. Certainly not a woman. Respectable women didn’t work. At least, not outside the home. Not unless they were widows. Or orphans. Which she was.
Oh, hell. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair.
She poured herself another cup of tea and sipped it.
They continued to glare at one another, neither of them willing to give an inch. They were still glaring when someone rapped on the cabin door.
Chapter Three
With an impatient exclamation, Galen strode to the door and jerked it open. “Not now!” he snapped.
“But, Cap’n, Pierre says—”
“Tell him I’ll be down shortly. Oh, and go by the galley and ask Willy to send up a plate of whatever’s left over from supper, will you?”
“Aye, sir.”
From across the room, Katy couldn’t help but overhear. The boy called him Captain. He didn’t look like any boat captain she’d ever met. Not that she’d ever met that many men. But then the captains back in Skerrie Head wore rough baggy woolens, not fancy frock coats, ruffled shirts, and black boots polished bright as a mirror.
Under the silky sheets, she stretched her legs, wriggled her toes, and studied her surroundings. There were books, all neatly lined up on a shelf, with a picture of a horse, and another picture of a woman.
She stared at the smaller one, wondering who the woman was. If she could truly be as lovely as she appeared. There was a look of serenity about her that was vastly appealing.
Katy yawned. Whatever had ailed her before no longer did. She was no longer rolling about or being rattled to death on a noisy, smelly train. Her belly no longer felt achy and heavy. To be sure, she was disappointed that Mr. Galen neither needed nor wanted them, but that had been Tara’s dream, never her own.
They didn’t need him, either. She had brought them this far. She would provide for them well enough. Still, a friend would have been nice.
Lifting her chin, she said quietly, “If you’ll have my trunk set out on deck, then we’ll be on our way, sir.”
He turned back into the room. He wasn’t smiling. “And which way is that?”
She looked at his nose, which was a fine, brave nose, but not as beguiling as his eyes, which were dangerous. Spellbinding. Hinting at all manner of deep, dark, brooding secrets that were none of her business.
It must be the tea, she thought, for she’d never been a fanciful woman.
“Katy?”
“Oh. Sir? Which way is what?”
Sounding exasperated, he said, “You might as well take time for a bit of supper before you go. You can start with the toast. I’ve sent down for something more.”
All of a sudden, she was starving. All her life she’d made do on short commons and thought little of it. Tea and a bowl of porridge of a morning, scad and a potato of an evening. More for the menfolk, to be sure, and that washed down with a good strong ale, but for the women and children, a fish, a potato, and a bit of hard, yellow bread made of Indian meal, served well enough.
“Oh, well, if you insist, I’d not say no to a bit of mutton stew.”
“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you there. Here in North Carolina, we ru
n more to swine than to sheep.”
Bacon she liked well enough, but she drew the line at pig stew. “Then I don’t believe I’m hungry, after all, sir.”
He looked fit to be tied. Katy knew it was mostly her fault. If she could have thought of a comforting word, she’d have offered it, but the best she could do was bid him farewell and take herself off his lovely boat with the wide, soft bed and the fine silk sheets, and the loveliest tea in all the world.
“Dammit—I beg your pardon, but it’s been a long day, and for me, it’s only just beginning. What I mean to say is, you’d do well to eat something before you try to get out of bed.”
“Would you care for some tea? Oops. The pot’s empty, but never mind, we’ll just ring for more. I read that in a book once. Ring a bell, and tea comes on a fine silver tray.”
He leaned closer, peering at her suspiciously.
As always whenever something came too close to see clearly, she reared back. She mistrusted the look on his face. Clearly, he thought she meant to latch on to him, like a winkle onto a rock.
“Did I say how skilled I am at reading, writing, and sewing?” In a strong light, she was. At arm’s length. “My mother taught me.”
There, that should set his mind at ease. She would never be a burden to him. There was bound to be work for someone who could do so many things, and do them well. Although she’d as soon not have to sort and salt fish, for she hated the smell that got on her hands and stayed there.
Feeling warm, relaxed, and not at all frightened of the future, she went on to say, “Did I tell you about our mother? She was the loveliest lady in all Dublin, Da said, he was that proud of her. Gifted, she was. Not the sight—that comes hit or miss, and I’m that glad it passed me by.”
“Gifted?”
The way he was looking at her, you’d have thought she’d claimed to be able to spin gold from straw. She tried to think over what she’d just said, but her head felt as if it were floating somewhere in the clouds. “Aye, that she was, gifted with a voice that could bring a strong man to his knees. I’m a right fair lilter, myself, come to that, but never a match for Ma. Besides,” she said artlessly, “there’s no money in it, only joy.”
“Only joy,” he repeated slowly.
“Aye, only joy.” She beamed at him, wishing he would send for another pot of the lovely, fortifying tea. The last time she’d felt so uplifted had been at her father’s wake. It had taken two whole barrels of porter to see Declan O’Sullivan on his way, for the village had lost a fine and hardworking man.
From the look of him, Mr. Galen had never done a day’s work in all his blessed life, for all he was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on.
Taking a deep breath, she resumed her recital. “Now then, I can cut and cure peat—turf, as some call it—but I’m told you’ve not much use for it hereabouts.”
Galen, his eyes half closed, tipped back in his chair and steepled his hands before him. How well he remembered the pungent smell of burning peat. A whiff of the stuff burning in the Dismal Swamp never failed to remind him of the weeks he’d spent lying on a crude pallet in a fishing camp, hurting like hell, burning with fever, trying to remember his own name and what he was doing with a gang of cutthroats who didn’t even speak the King’s English.
“Is that it?” he inquired.
“It?” She stretched both arms over her head, teacup dangling from her fingers. The skin on her arms was the color of buttermilk, the color of moonlight on snow.
He had to get rid of her, the sooner, the better.
“Katy, maybe you’d better . . .”
She went to set her empty cup back in her saucer and missed. Shaking his head, Galen removed cup and saucer from her hand and set them aside. “Is that the extent of your accomplishments?” Just how much whiskey, he wondered, had Ila dumped into that teapot? There was a flush on her cheeks, and she’d sloshed tea on his bed.
Unless he was very much mistaken, she was soused to the gills. He had a drunken woman in his bed, hardly more than a girl, one he didn’t want, only he was having the devil’s own time convincing his body of that.
Now what? She leaned forward and propped her chin in her hand, her elbow on her bent knee. He cleared his throat and reminded himself that it was late. If he intended to get rid of them, he’d better see about it pretty damned fast. He could hardly send them away after dark, not knowing a soul in town.
“Toast,” he said gruffly. “You’ll feel better once you’ve had something to eat.” Slathering a thick layer of ginger conserve on a slice of toasted bread, he held it out to her.
Instead of taking it, she glanced around, looking uncomfortable. Looking embarrassed, as a matter of fact.
Belatedly, it occurred to him what her problem was. “It’s behind the screen. Shall I send for Ila? She can give you a hand if you need it.”
With a gasp that struck him as theatrical—comically so—she flung a protective hand over her bosom, looking as shocked as if he’d offered to hold the pot for her.
“Thank you—that is, no thank you,” she said, and began easing her legs out from under the spread.
The weight of the heavy spread tugged her skirts up high enough to reveal a flash of white petticoat, a sliver of pale, silky thigh and a homemade garter anchoring a coarse cotton stocking.
She nearly tumbled out of bed in an effort to cover herself, and Galen told himself he felt sorry for her. It wasn’t temptation he was feeling, it was pity.
Keep talking, Cap’n, maybe you’ll convince someone.
“I’ll leave you to your privacy,” he said. “If you need any help, pull the cord. Someone will be here in two shakes.”
Stepping outside onto the balcony, he stared out across the tranquil harbor, hearing the soft beat of a ragtime band from Bellfort’s boat a few lengths upriver.
What the devil had he gotten himself involved in now? For two cents, he’d walk out on the whole mess, find another way to make his stake, and start all over again somewhere else. He might even head out to gold country.
Then again, maybe he’d stay put. He’d rambled enough for one man, sailed more seas and visited more countries than he could count on one hand. After a while a man needed to pick a place and settle down.
He’d picked the town of Elizabeth City, in the state of North Carolina. He’d followed Brand south a few years ago, liked the area, and thought, why not? It was as good a place as any to set about making a dream come true.
He’d been attracted at first to Aster Tyler, but that hadn’t lasted much beyond the time it took to get to know her. If he left now, she’d be the first to wave him off. Once he was out of the way, she’d waste no time in turning the Queen into a floating fairground, with banquets and dancing, play actors and weekend cruises.
Oh, yes, she’d give Bellfort a run for his money, all right. And the leaky old Queen would sink with all hands before she even cleared Knobbs Creek, and he’d have one more black mark against him.
At the moment, however, Aster, the Pasquotank Queen, and his own personal plans weren’t his most pressing problem. What the devil was he going to do with the O’Sullivans? A greener pair, he’d yet to meet. He was still searching for answers when the sound of footsteps pounding up the main stairway alerted him to the fact that he was about to have company. Moving down the balcony, he stepped into the covered passageway that separated his quarters from those of the Tylers.
Oscar, the boy Brand had sent him last year, raced up to the head of the stairway, gasping for breath. “Cap’n, sir, you better—you better—”
“Slow down, catch your wind first, boy. I take it we’re not on fire? We’re not sinking?”
“No sir, but, Cap’ n, sir, you’d better come a-running, there’s trouble in the main salon.”
Glass eye slightly askew, the boy waited only for Galen’s nod before racing back down the stairs, eager not to miss out on anything as exciting as “trouble.”
Trouble. Well, hell. If that wasn’t just wha
t he needed. He rapped on his cabin door and called out, “I’ll be back shortly, Miss O’Sullivan. I’m sending up a plate of dinner, and I want you to clean up every last bite, is that understood?”
No answer. Either she’d gone back to bed to sleep off all her tea or she was primping in front of his shaving mirror.
“Cap’n? I think you’d better hurry,” Oscar called up from the bottom of the stairwell.
“Coming,” he called down.
Captain. It was a mockery now. There’d been a time when it had meant something. He’d sailed aboard every one of the McKnight ships. The Mystic Winds, the Mystic Lady, and last of all, the big one. At 746 tons, the three-masted Mystic Wings was the pride of the McKnight Brothers’ small fleet.
Of the three, the Lady was his favorite, but he’d sailed aboard the Wings to find out who was taking on unauthorized cargo, diddling the manifests, delivering it on the sly and pocketing the proceeds. There’d been complaints from several brokers whose promised deliveries had never arrived. While Brand had gone over books, bills, and manifests looking for proof, Galen had shipped aboard the Wings to catch the culprit in the act.
He’d found proof, all right, but before he could do anything with it, the ship had gone down with all hands.
Halfway down the stairs, Galen set aside the past and focused on the problems at hand. Evidently they were multiplying faster than he could deal with them. Before he even reached the main deck, he heard the sound of loud angry voices from the main salon. Taking a deep breath, he dusted off his hands, ready to do whatever it took to bring order. Brawls, he could deal with.
Women were another thing altogether.
Pierre was waiting for him. Buck, the lookout, was right behind him, looking worried. Trouble was rare, but now and again some young blade with a skinful, out to prove his manhood, would start something and Galen would be called in to sort things out.
“Buck, what the devil . . . He broke off, staring at the slight figure standing before his dealer, Pierre’s soft, white hands clamped onto her bony little shoulders. “Want to tell me what’s going on here?”
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