Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three

by Vivian Vaughan

Seeing him now, dressed in denim pants and a chambray shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, he resembled the man from her dreams more than he ever had. He could have been one of her brothers standing there in the doorway glaring at her. He looked like them, the Jarretts, his size, his physique—except for his jet black hair and cold black eyes.

  Except for the way he made her blood run hot even beneath his glacial stare.

  Pierre hesitated and Brett demanded again, in a lower voice. “Bring her in before someone sees her.”

  Once she was inside, the charged atmosphere buzzed in her ears. Brett turned his back to her and she glanced around the room—from the bed, larger than her own, to the sofa and chairs, then back to the bed.

  “What do you want?” he demanded, startling her from her reverie. Blood rushed up her neck. Had he seen her stare at the bed? Was he thinking the same thing she was? Remembering the same things?

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Talk.”

  “Alone.”

  “Why?”

  If his question had been a dagger, it couldn’t have wounded her more. As though he had pierced her heart with that one cold word, she recoiled, then willed herself to straighten her shoulders. She had not met his gaze and dared not do so now. She stared instead somewhere between the bed and the cabinet where he stood. She heard liquid splash into a glass, then into another one. She envisioned taking a glass from him, touching his hand. She clasped her damp hands tightly together.

  So much time passed in silence that she feared he would refuse her request, but he surprised her by saying, “Leave us, Pierre.”

  “Certainement?”

  Delta seethed inside. She wanted to scream, Of course he’s certain. Get out of here! Leave us alone! Involuntarily her hands balled into tight fists. She wanted to fall on the man and drive him from the room like a shrew.

  “Oui,” Brett replied.

  She dared not glance at either man. She stood still, struggling to bring the present into focus. She was here. She had found Brett. She had a message to deliver. That was all. But it was dreadfully important.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard the door close. When Brett spoke again, they were alone.

  “Talk,” he repeated. She heard a glass thud against the table and saw where Brett had placed her drink. She watched him motion toward it. Obviously he was no more anxious to touch her than she was him.

  She picked up the glass, took a sip, and recognized the contents for whiskey. Before she thought otherwise, she said, “I see your cabinet is stocked with stouter stuff than mine.”

  Her statement was met with silence and she instantly regretted calling the past to mind. She was here with a purpose and she must accomplish it.

  “Why did you come, Delta?”

  Why is your voice so cold? she wanted to cry. “You’re in danger on this boat.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s a Pinkerton agent aboard. Cameron sent him. He will travel with us the rest of the way to New Orleans.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it? What if he recognizes you?”

  “He won’t.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “He won’t recognize me, Delta.”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer for you to travel on land? Hire horses or something?”

  He sighed and she chanced a look at him, still avoiding direct eye contact.

  “Pierre thinks so,” he admitted.

  “Then why—?”

  “Because I know the men I’m up against. They won’t risk exposure as long as I’m on this boat. This is the safest place for me. Likely the only safe place.”

  Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Every time they discussed this nebulous threat to his life, it became more foreboding. He was in danger, terrible danger, and he admitted it to her in increments that rendered the situation increasingly terrifying.

  “Nat caught me alone and made threats that he’s going to get you. He said he’ll wait and one day you’ll make a mistake and he’ll be waiting and—”

  “Sh, Delta. I know what he said. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Stuart Longstreet, the Pinkerton agent, forced me to look through a stack of wanted posters—” her voice cracked and she paused, then continued, breathless “—for a picture of you.”

  She waited for a response, watching him stand stoic, silent. “How can you be so calm, so—?”

  “I’m not calm,” he replied in even tones that belied his words. “I’m confident, though. So don’t worry about me.”

  “I can’t help it,” she admitted in a near whisper.

  “Yes, you can. Just stop thinking about me.”

  Anger fought for control inside her. “That’s hard to do. My nightmares have returned.”

  “They’re only dreams.”

  “Only dreams! It’s you in those dreams, Brett, it’s you.” She almost told him about the baby, about Anne Bonny dropping to her death clutching her baby to her breast, but she stopped herself in time.

  “No,” he was saying, “it isn’t me. You don’t know me, Delta. I’m sorry if I led you on, but that’s past now. Put it out of your mind.”

  “When forces are mounting against you on every side? Stuart wired the Canadian Mounties, for God’s sake.”

  Again she watched him for a reaction, but he merely shrugged. Would nothing provoke this man? Nothing crack that iron-hard facade and expose the warm and gentle man beneath?

  “Forget it, Delta. And forget me.”

  “That’s impossible. I dream about you every night.”

  “God’s bones! Stop your nonsense about those dreams. We’re in real life. I’m alive, here and now. I did not live a century ago. I am not a pirate. I did not fall in love with you.”

  Her eyes flew to his, surprised at his words, at the vehemence with which he had spoken them. She felt as though he had reached inside her chest and grabbed her heart in his fist.

  “I made love to you,” he continued. “Made love. That’s physical, not mental. Carnal, not emotional. Get me out of your mind, Delta. Forget you ever knew me.”

  Abruptly he turned to face the far window, staring at it even though the damask draperies were drawn tight. “Go on now, get out of here.”

  As in a trance she set the glass on the chest and opened the door. It closed behind her and she stood in the passageway a moment, breathing in the soft river air, numbed to everything else.

  Suddenly from inside Brett’s cabin came a thundering crash followed by the sound of shattering glass. Inside her chest her heart lurched. Tears fell from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, while she envisioned whiskey running down the paneled wall from the glass he shattered—the same way he had just broken her heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time the Mississippi Princess arrived in St. Francisville two days later, Delta had accomplished one thing: She’d channeled her unmitigated despair into determination to save Brett from the forces that threatened not only his life, but their relationship. How she would accomplish this monumental task, she had not determined. But at least thinking about it kept her from going mad.

  Following Brett’s brutal rejection she had returned to her cabin by the stern stairs, intending to seclude herself there for the remainder of the trip. But Zanna would hear of no such thing.

  “That Pinkerton agent is on pins and needles asking about you,” Zanna told her, after Delta finally consented to open the door.

  “He’s been sent to keep an eye on me,” she retorted. “By a member of my meddling family.”

  “No matter why he wants to see you, Delta. He’s a decidedly handsome man. You should give him a chance.”

  “If he’s so desirable, Zanna, you go after him.”

  “Me? It’s you he’s interested in.”

  Knowing Zanna would not let up in her efforts to entice her to come to dinner, Delta stuck a few pins in her wayward hair. “Come on, then. Let�
�s see if we can’t convince him he’s chosen the wrong woman.”

  It didn’t take much, for once Zanna was satisfied Delta wasn’t interested in Stuart, she set her cap for him in a determined way. And Stuart responded.

  Not that he relaxed his surveillance of Delta. But instead of the romantic innuendoes he had been interjecting into their conversation, he became more professional. And she was glad for it.

  The extent of Stuart’s dedication to keeping his eye on Brett Reall, even though the gambler had not shown his face since the Pinkerton came aboard, was evidenced in the fact that Stuart did not accompany Delta into town when the boat docked at St. Francisville.

  Captain Kaney himself had arranged her interview in St. Francisville. “That’s my old home turf,” he told Delta. “And the lady in question is a … shall we say, a dear old friend. Descendant of the late naturalist and artist, John James Audubon. He painted many of his bird studies in this part of the state.”

  Captain Kaney, in fact, had intended to accompany Delta to Miss Eliza Strahan’s plantation for tea, but an emergency in the galley prevented him from leaving the boat at the last minute. She received his message while waiting at the rail for the boat to dock.

  Zanna offered to go.

  “No,” Delta told her. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my way.” She glanced around the docks at the familiar group of boys hopping from foot to foot, eager to get on board. “St. Francisville isn’t so large that I’m likely to get lost. And even if I did, I’m sure the people are friendly enough to guide me back to the boat. Or I could wait for dusk and follow the calliope.”

  She glanced around to where Stuart and Nat stood apart, talking. She had seen them thus several times since Stuart joined the passengers on board the Mississippi Princess. Now, as on the other occasions, trepidation filled her at the sight. What had Nat told Stuart? What had Stuart told Nat? And what did it mean for Brett?

  Zanna laughed, then sobered. “I’m surprised Stuart doesn’t go with you. From the little I understand about his presence, it has something to do with protecting you.”

  Delta sighed. “That isn’t all of it. Besides, what he’s protecting me from isn’t in St. Francisville.” It’s on board this boat.

  Leaving the gangplank she exchanged glances with Gabriel, who stood in his usual spot, playing his fiddle. He was around so often, they were coming to know each other without ever speaking. At that thought her mind drifted back to the night Nat had waited outside her cabin and the strains of fiddle music that ran him off. She recalled how earlier on the docks, Nat had approached her, intending to speak. He had suddenly changed his mind and fled—at the sound of fiddle music.

  Her brain began to buzz with what this meant—with the only thing it could mean. Brett had sent Gabriel to watch her. She knew she should feel piqued, but she couldn’t work up her ire. Brett was having her watched, not because he would hope to discover something, not because he didn’t trust her. No, that wouldn’t be the purpose at all. He was having her watched for her own safety. And that could mean only one thing—he cared.

  He cared for her. He cared enough to give up one of his own bodyguards to protect her.

  When he was the one in danger.

  Gaining the docks, she turned and stared back at the ship. What she wouldn’t give for a glimpse of him. Just a glimpse.

  Strange, she thought, realizing what she was doing. Only once had she seen Brett standing at the rail, staring after her. Yet, every time she left this boat she felt his eyes upon her.

  No matter that he had professed not to have fallen in love with her. No matter that he was determined in his bullheaded way to keep them apart.

  She knew he didn’t want that any more than she did. How could he, when every night he came to her in her dreams. Not nightmares now, since her last devastating encounter with him. Now her dreams were no longer of pirates. They were of Brett, here on this boat, in her stateroom. Of Brett and herself, making love, yes, but loving each other all the while. He could never convince her otherwise. No matter what he told her in the daytime, at night he loved her with an intensity that was almost as real as life itself.

  Almost. At least the baby had stopped crying. She wondered whether that were significant, coming, as it had directly after her dream about Anne Bonny’s hanging. And if so, did it carry an ominous meaning, a portent of death yet to come? Or did it signal an end of the danger she had so long feared imminent? Was the danger over?

  “Hold up, Delta.”

  She turned at Nat’s voice. Since the night he accosted her outside her stateroom at Vicksburg, Nat had kept his distance. Approaching her now, he reached for her elbow. Same old Nat, she thought, pulling away from him.

  “Stuart suggested I escort you to your interview since the captain has been detained.”

  Delta looked for Stuart, finding him on the observation deck, engaged in conversation with a couple of men she recognized as St. Louis bankers. She waved to attract his attention, but he wasn’t looking her way.

  “Don’t you believe me?” Nat quizzed.

  “Believe you? Of course I don’t believe Stuart suggested such a thing.” On the other hand, her worried brain teased, if Nat were with her, he couldn’t go after Brett. Briefly she considered Cameron’s warning.

  “If I agree do you promise not to try anything stupid?”

  His eyes flirted. “I’m a gentleman, Delta. You know—”

  “I know the Pinkertons are looking for a reason to pounce on you, Nat. If you lay one finger on me, they’ll have that reason.”

  Nat grinned mischievously. “I accept the challenge, Miss Jarrett. By the end of the day you’ll see that I’m much better at doubling as a gentleman than that … gambler.”

  Following Nat away from the boat, Delta’s heart suddenly skipped a beat. Two horses were tied near where Gabriel entertained the crowd. Was Brett planning to come ashore? At the thought she stubbed her toe and Nat caught her arm. This time she didn’t think to pull away as he continued to usher her toward the nearby livery stable. Her mind was on Brett.

  While Nat went inside to wrangle with the hostler, she remained outside the large double doors, watching the steamboat from afar. Then, sure enough, after the cast had cleared the docks with the gathered crowd following in their wake, Brett and Pierre sauntered down the gangplank, ignoring Gabriel when they passed him.

  She held her breath, lest the vision evaporate like mist on the river. Tears rushed to her eyes. Brett, she thought, I love you so.

  He looked across the expanse of wharves. His eyes found hers, held hers for precious seconds. He loved her. She knew it. He loved her.

  She smiled. He tipped his hat. A quick flick of his finger against the brim, no more, but oh it was something wonderful to see. Then he turned and mounted his horse.

  Crazily, she wondered where he could be headed in his gambling attire. Why, that vest shone like a beacon in the midday sun.

  “Well, what’d you know,” Nat whistled beside her. “The bird has flown his coop.”

  Quickly she glanced away, as though she had not seen the two men on horseback. While Nat assisted her onto the sidesaddle, then climbed aboard the horse he had rented for himself, Brett and Pierre disappeared from view.

  Nat had obtained directions to the estate of Miss Eliza Strahan from the hostler, and they rode out of town without seeing Brett and Pierre again.

  But Delta’s heart began to make plans quite apart from her brain. If she could manage to return to the boat at precisely the right time, she could see Brett again before he secluded himself in his stateroom. The odds, of course, were against two such encounters. But so were her dreams.

  Nat talked on about first one thing, then another, surprising her by not mentioning Brett again.

  “I haven’t seen you and Elyse together lately,” she told him once.

  He laughed in a self-deprecating sort of way that enhanced his image in Delta’s eyes. “Guess I’ve gone and gotten downright virtuous. It must
be your influence, Delta. I couldn’t see leading a sweet girl like that on, me being a bounty hunter and all. You’ll have to admit that’s not the most respectable of professions.”

  “Then it was considerate of you not to pursue her,” she replied, thinking suddenly of Brett’s assertion that he hadn’t intended to lead her on.

  Camelliawood Plantation was not over two miles out of town. Its main house, a magnificent Greek-revival structure that, unlike many she had seen in towns up the river, was impeccably maintained. Magnolia trees in full bloom lined a curving drive. In front of the house, a groomsman hurried to take their horses. The grounds were abloom with camellias and azaleas and many flowers Delta could not put a name to.

  Inside, imported marble vied for prominence with polished hardwoods and gilt tracings. Miss Strahan—not a day under ninety, Delta was sure—hurried to greet them, a sprightly figure gowned in regal black crepe and sporting a head full of pure white curls.

  “Miss Eliza Pierre,” their hostess commented when, after introducing herself and welcoming them to Camelliawood Plantation, she saw Delta’s attention drawn to the life-size painting of a beautiful young woman. “My grandmother. She’s credited with bringing Mr. Audubon to West Feliciana Parish.”

  After touring the public rooms of the house, Miss Strahan escorted them through her gardens—“twenty acres of formal designs, modeled after the palace gardens in Versailles,” Miss Strahan told them.

  “These azaleas,” she added, “are cuttings from Rosedown. Of course you know that Mrs. Daniel Turnbull of Rosedown Plantation introduced azaleas to our country.”

  Delta scribbled notes, since, of course, she had not known the facts Miss Strahan seemed to feel everyone had learned in the cradle. The question foremost in her mind would have gotten them thrown out on their ears for its impropriety. How, since the devastation of the war, did Miss Strahan afford the servants to keep this enormous plantation in such exquisite condition?

  The closest their hostess came to supplying an answer to the unasked question was to say that the cane crop had been good this year. Delta made a mental note to discuss the interesting Miss Strahan with Captain Kaney, who professed to being a close personal friend.