Brett Reall was gone. She further proved the fact after dinner when she slipped off before the drama to see for herself. If Brett were still on board, she reasoned, Pierre would be standing guard. It took a good thirty minutes, but she managed to walk the passageways alongside every cabin and stateroom on the three decks that houses passengers. No sign of Pierre. She hadn’t even seen Gabriel again since the fire.
Brett Reall was gone, and the melancholy that fact instilled inside Delta caused her to want to run to her cabin and bury herself in her bed.
But her bed was the last place she wanted to be when plagued by thoughts of Brett. Her bed, where they made love. Made love. His words, spoken in bitter tones, echoed through her pain. Yes, they had made love. But, oh, it had been so much more. For her. And for him. Now she was left with only her dreams.
And her bed was the last place she wanted to be; her bed, where she dreamed incessant dreams of him.
By the time she returned to the salon the drama was about to begin. She slipped into a chair Zanna had saved for her on the front row.
“Did Nat ever show up?” she whispered.
Zanna shook her head, her attention trained on the stage where Frankie and Iona had begun their opening number. Frankie strummed a banjo and Iona, costumed in dance-hall flounces, warmed up the audience with a not-so-bawdy ballad.
“Stuart agreed to play the lead?” Delta quizzed, again in a whisper, for Elyse had come on stage, looking like a birthday gift, gowned in soft blue lawn and tied up with ribbons.
And she sounded like an angel, Delta thought. By the time the last clear notes of “She Wore a Wreath of Roses the Night When Last We Met” faded, the audience was in tears, along with the songstress.
Sniffles turned to gasps, however, when Albert leaped onto the stage. Garbed and groomed as an exquisite villain, he knelt before Elyse, clasping both his large hands about her slender waist.
“My love, my one true love!” he cried. “You will come away with me tonight.” While Elyse struggled, Albert turned beady eyes to leer at the audience. “Little does this foolish damsel know what is in store for her. I will have my revenge on that weasel of a sheriff. Hee! Hee! Hee!”
“Boo!” came a cry from somewhere behind Delta. “Hiss!” from another part of the salon. “Boo!” “Hiss!” All in accordance with the sign posted near the stage: You may boo the villain.
In the melee, a new character bounded onto the stage.
“The sheriff!” someone called. The audience applauded.
“About time you showed up,” a man shouted from the rear of the salon.
“He’s perfect,” Delta whispered. And indeed Stuart Longstreet looked the part of the hero, six-guns drawn, wearing a white hat, vest, and a star above well-fitted denims. His blond mustache waved when he spoke; his voice carried into the audience, strong and threatening.
“Take your hands off my woman, you lily-livered, egg-suckin’, cross-eyed son of a sick baboon!”
While the audience cheered, Stuart stepped out of character to doff his hat to Zanna, favoring her with a wink and a grin as bright as the dozen chandeliers in the room.
“What gallantry!” Delta whispered to Zanna. “If I may venture a guess, Stuart Longstreet is auditioning for the part of leading man in a different context than on that stage.”
Zanna’s face turned as red as her hair. “Do you think so?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Are you playing matchmaker? Like you did with Elyse and Nat?”
At mention of Nat, Delta’s insides took a tumble. “Fortunately that didn’t work out,” she admitted. “On our ride to Miss Strahan’s he admitted it wouldn’t be right for him to pursue the courtship.”
The melodrama ended with more cheers and applause. While actors dismantled the set, Albert returned to the stage and began his monologue.
“What’s the story behind Nat?” Zanna whispered.
The melodrama had given Delta a respite, however brief, from thinking about the recent developments in her life. Zanna’s questions brought them back in a rush of despair. “Ask Stuart.”
Albert’s monologue ended. Frankie and Iona returned with two chairs and a springboard for their acrobatic act. Zanna leaned over again. “I’m sorry about your gambler.”
Delta pursed her lips, blinking back tears, unable to answer.
“Stuart says it’s best things didn’t work out between you,” Zanna whispered. “He said your family would never approve of you getting involved with a gambler, or whatever Brett turns out to be.”
“Stuart’s right,” Delta admitted. The same thoughts had tormented her for days. All her life she had done exactly what others expected. Ginny and Hollis had expended a lot of time and effort and love raising her, and she felt a heavy debt to them.
At least that debt had become heavy lately. For months she had been beset by guilt over rejecting the various suitors who presented themselves to Hollis. She had known that sooner or later she would have to choose one. And she did so want to please Ginny and Hollis with her choice.
And her brothers, too. She loved them every one. They were not saints, of course, not a man of them. But they were good men, dependable, responsible for their own actions, and dedicated to seeing justice done around them.
Even Kale, who had shot a carpetbagger back in Tennessee and afterward acquired a reputation with his gun, was a genuinely honest and upright citizen.
How would they react to a man who traveled under an assumed name, who was wanted by authorities in two countries for a crime she dared not question for fear of learning the truth?
They would give him a chance, she knew that much. They were fair-minded men. But if Brett’s secret past was truly contemptible, what then? They would never approve of her marrying a criminal.
Marrying? Where was her brain? Brett Reall was gone.
Tears filled her eyes, tears of self-pity. Even if he hadn’t been forced to leave the boat, she admonished herself, he would never have allowed them to continue a relationship. He had ended things that day in his cabin, forcefully and intentionally. All she had now were her dreams. Those vile dreams that were certain to drive her mad.
Applause signaled the end of Frankie and Iona’s act, jolting Delta out of her reverie. Zanna took the stage to thank the patrons from St. Francisville, who then returned to shore, while the crew of the Mississippi Princess prepared to shove off for its nighttime trip to Baton Rouge.
Refusing Zanna’s invitation to join the cast for a midnight snack, with the excuse that she needed to prepare her article on St. Francisville before she retired, Delta headed for her stateroom.
By the time she felt the boat move into the current of the big, muddy river, she had dressed for bed and sat propped up by pillows, trying to compose her article on Miss Eliza Strahan’s plantation, Camelliawood, and her famous relative John James Audubon.
Only with great effort was she able to concentrate on the lovely plantation, its eccentric owner, and the beauty of Audubon’s artistry.
Her brain preferred to dwell on Brett Reall—and on the increasing loneliness she experienced as the boat traveled down the river, leaving him farther and farther behind with every turn of the paddlewheel.
The premonition engendered by the red crest of Mr. Audubon’s ivory-billed woodpecker remained with her, even though the subsequent fire in Brett’s cabin had claimed nothing but his belongings.
Fear for him increased with every new thought. She dreaded retiring, for this night was sure to be filled with nightmares. Or sensual dreams of Brett, which were, in truth, one and the same.
At times she wished she had never known him in the flesh, because then she wouldn’t feel a physical loss. But there was no turning back, and no matter how painful the loneliness, she wouldn’t trade one moment of the time they’d spent together for all the peace of mind in the world.
Glancing at the little gold locket clock that had belonged to her mother, she was amazed to discover the time nearing midnight.
Reluctantly she knew she must retire. Tomorrow they would arrive in Baton Rouge and she would arrange a new round of interviews, whether she had the will to conduct them or not. Hollis would be waiting for her articles and Cameron would be waiting for her wire. And Kale and Carson and Cousin Brady were waiting for her in New Orleans. She sighed, suddenly overwhelmed by relatives, well-meaning though they were.
She had just fluffed the pillows and turned out one lamp when a knock came at the door. She paused, holding a pillow in the air. The knock came again.
Oh, Zanna, she thought. Well-meaning relatives, well-meaning friends. Where would a girl be without them? She considered calling out that she was already in bed. But which did she dread more—the nightmares she knew would come when at length she fell asleep or Zanna’s well-intentioned snooping into her personal life?
At the third knock she relented and opened the door, only to stand there stunned. Her heart lurched to her throat.
“May I come in?” Brett’s eyes bore into hers, and she thought crazily how they had never looked so sad.
Suddenly her reflexes returned. With haste borne of the fear she had felt for him for such a long time, she reached for his arm and drew him inside. Closing the door, she slumped back against it.
She remained that way—one hand on his arm, the other gripping the doorknob—while he stood deathly still, favoring her with such a melancholy expression she felt tears brim in her eyes and spill over.
“They said you’d gone overboard,” she finally managed to say.
“For enough money folks’ll say just about anything.”
His voice was husky and desperate. His eyes held hers, speaking eloquently of the love he had denied feeling only two days before. For one horrible instant she thought this must be her dream. Involuntarily her hand squeezed his arm. It was warm and real.
“I’ve been so worried,” she said.
Reaching toward her for the first time he brushed the tears from her cheeks with the back of his fingers. “I know, chère. I’m sorry.”
Her tears stopped and in their place questions began to flow. “What about the fire? How did you escape?”
His brows narrowed. “By the skin of my teeth.”
“Was it Nat?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Oui.”
“Then who?”
He remained silent, so she did not press him.
“It’s all right.” Her heart began to resume its regular rhythm—regular for when she was around Brett Reall. “You’re here. We’ll work everything out.”
She watched his jaw clench before he spoke. “Don’t count on it.”
She stopped short of a rebuttal, of reminding him of her dreams. He might refute them the way he had in his cabin, and she didn’t dare remind either of them of that confrontation. “Anything is possible.”
“Not this. I told you I was up against powerful people, Delta. You can’t get more powerful in Louisiana than a governor who’s been in office going on ten years and still running strong.”
“But—?”
“I didn’t come to argue, chère. We have little enough time as it is. I came because … the things I said the other day … I couldn’t leave them between us.”
“Leave—?”
Lifting a hand, he traced his fingers lightly across her forehead, brushing back strands of hair. “I was cruel, heartless. I didn’t mean a single word of it. It tore out my heart to hurt you like that.”
Her hand crept up his arm. “I know why you did it. But you’re wrong to try to put me out of your life, Brett. You can’t.”
He grinned, a wry, sad grin. “You may be right. Perhaps you’re a psychic like my mother. Stretching facts a bit, your dreams could fit my situation.”
“Our situation,” she corrected. She started to tell him about her latest nightmare, about Anne Bonny and the baby. Especially about the baby. But again she was reluctant to hear him discredit them. “Tell me how they fit.”
His eyes turned cold. “I’m innocent, Delta. I’m innocent. But if you heard what they’re accusing me of, you might think me guilty, too.”
“Never,” she vowed.
“That’s a chance I won’t take. The only thing that could make my life worse than it is right now is if you thought me guilty of such a heinous crime.”
Despair washed over her like a fine river mist. Despair at the hopelessness he expressed. Despair mitigated by the hope his words instilled. He cared for her. She knew it. Together they would work things out—some way. Flinging her arms around Brett’s neck, she buried her face in his shoulder. Tears seeped through her shut eyelids.
His arms came around her then, holding her tight, close, and steady—soothing, comforting, setting her body on fire.
Finally he drew her head back and covered her lips with his own. She felt his groan rumble against her chest, quiver against her lips. She opened her mouth to his delving exploration. Her brain swirled with happiness, giddy happiness. Only moments before she had despaired of ever seeing him again. Now she was in his arms. In his arms.
She snuggled against his body, feeling the powerful evidence of his arousal warm and hard through her nightclothes. She nuzzled closer.
With a sudden swoop, he lifted her in his arms. Sidestepping the first bed, where her notebook and lead pencils were strewn, he made his way around the confines of the small room, depositing her on the far bed. For a long moment he stood over her, staring deeply into her eyes.
She had begun to wonder what he was thinking when he sat beside her, framed her face with his hands and brought his lips close to hers.
“Before we go any further, chère, let me correct a terrible lie.” With great tenderness he touched his lips to hers, then feathered her face with light kisses, returning to her lips for a deeply sensual kiss filled with tender passion.
“I have fallen in love with you, Delta Jarrett. I’ve loved you for … it seems like all my life. I’ve never loved anyone more, not even nearly as much. I love you and I always will. And if things were different, I wouldn’t rest until I’d convinced you to become my wife.”
Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. “I’ve loved you forever, too. At least, it seems that way.” Circling her arms about his neck, she pulled his face to hers. “So, let’s make love tonight, and we’ll let tomorrow take care of itself.”
The words had been easy for her to say, because deep inside she knew she and Brett were meant to be together. A stirring of doubt in the back of her mind, however, told her that she wasn’t quite as confident as she tried to sound.
He was dressed as she had last seen him, in chambray shirt and denim breeches, and when he didn’t immediately begin to undress her, she started unbuttoning his shirt. His liquid black eyes held her gaze while her fingers fumbled with first one button, then another, until at length, she pulled the two sides apart, tugged his shirttails out of his breeches, and shoved the shirt over his shoulders.
She felt his heart throb against her palm, watched his eyes stare solemnly into hers. Holding his gaze, she played her fingers through the soft, dark hair covering his chest. Something was different about him tonight. She sensed it in the way he stared at her, as though to memorize every feature, in the way he smiled. Tonight his mouth smiled, but his eyes remained deathly serious. Fear diffused the joy she felt at having him here—in her arms, in her bed.
Pulling him down against her, she buried her face in his furry chest. “Please don’t close me out, Brett. Not again. The things you said that day in your cabin don’t matter. I knew you didn’t mean them. What hurt was that I couldn’t reach you. Please don’t close me out again.”
His arms slipped beneath her, drawing her close, smashing her face against his chest, where she felt his wildly thrashing heart.
After a while he sat up, bringing her with him, and began to remove her gown. When it was bunched around her chest, he moved apart and proceeded to pull it over her head. At last he spoke.
>
“I didn’t tell you the whole truth a while ago.” His voice came to her, muffled by the roll of muslin he was struggling to extract from her body. Freeing the fabric at last, he tossed it aside, catching her head in his hands.
His eyes pierced hers. “I came to explain and to tell you I love you.” He kissed her face, feature by feature, sending shivers down her now nude body. “But I also came to make love with you.” Reaching for her hand, he guided it to the bulge at his crotch, holding her hand there in intimate communication. “You see? I’m as eager as you.”
She felt her face flush, but she wouldn’t have removed her hand if her life had depended on it. Gently she began to stroke her hand over the bulge, much as he stroked her. She watched his face tighten.
But this time it was an expression she recognized. Passion.
“Don’t you see how easy it is?” she whispered. “Our love is great enough to drive away all our demons.”
“Oui, chère, for tonight.” His voice was husky as he set her back against the bed, dislodging her hand. When she reached to reclaim her hold, he grasped both her hands, lifting her arms above her head, where he placed them on the bed, tracing his own hands back down her arms, her shoulders, resting at length on her breasts. “We must go slow,” he mumbled in his oh so familiar monotone. “I want to … ah, to enjoy every moment.” Sweeping his hands down her body, he stretched her legs out, so she lay straight and exposed on the green damask bedspread.
Like a person devoid of sight, he began to trace her body with his fingertips, starting at her forehead, moving across her eyebrows, her hairline, her nose, her cheekbones.
Inch by inch, she watched him feast on her nakedness. He concentrated as though he were studying a book and she wished she knew what was on his mind. His eyes followed his fingertips in sensual exploration down her chest. He gripped her breasts, fondling them until she felt her nipples go rigid and her face glow. Then his hands and eyes left her breasts, trailed down her midriff. He spanned her waist with his hands, touching thumbs in front, fingers in back. Releasing her, he ran his palms over her belly.
When his fingers paused to play through the triangle of hair at the base of her abdomen, she could bear it no longer. Already she felt as though she lay on a bed of coals. Heat radiated through her in waves of fire. She reached for his head, tried to pull him to her. Her knees came up reflexively.
Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three Page 23
