To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  Mrs. Crain was making good sense and Chelsea knew it, but it was more her concern for Honoria that made her feel the journey was unwise. “Mrs. Crain, would you come and have a look at her? I’d feel so much better if you would.”

  A few minutes later Chelsea stepped out of her cabin into the companionway behind Mrs. Crain’s portly figure. Even before she spoke, the woman was shaking her head.

  “That’s a sick woman in there. It’s simply inadvisable to take her on to Australia. She’ll never make it, and it’s my guess there’s more wrong with her than simple seasickness. I declare I’ve never seen such a ghastly complexion! I insist you speak to the captain about putting her off in Plymouth, Mrs. Harris, or I will be forced to speak with him myself.”

  Just then Quaid’s cabin door opened. He had heard Mrs. Crain and saw the effect her words had had on Chelsea. “What’s the trouble, Mrs. Crain?”

  “Oh, Mr. Tanner, I’ve just been in to see Mrs. Harris’s maid, and I tell you the poor woman will never make it to Australia. If you ask me, there’s something more amiss here than seasickness, as I was just telling Mrs. Harris.”

  Quaid glanced at Chelsea, looking for her reaction. “She has no one left here in England,” Chelsea explained.

  “When I suggested she leave the ship she became so upset I’m afraid to mention it again. But I do want to do what’s best for her.” He saw Chelsea’s genuine alarm and believed her to be sincere.

  “No matter what a servant wants, Mrs. Harris, you must think of the rest of us,” Mrs. Crain interjected. “Something like this can affect the entire ship, don’t you agree, Mr. Tanner? There is also Mrs. Harris’s convenience to consider.”

  Chelsea glanced at Quaid, then looked away quickly. There had been speculation in his dark eyes that perhaps she would find it more convenient to dispose of Honoria after all. Then she would be spared the embarrassment of explaining about the mistaken identities.

  “I’m certain Mrs. Harris will do what’s best, Mrs. Crain. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe it’s time for lunch.”

  “Oh, yes, it is, isn’t it? Never skip a meal, I always say, especially at sea. Don’t you agree, Mr. Tanner? I didn’t see you at breakfast. I hope you weren’t indisposed. So often a sea voyage can deplete one’s energy, don’t you think?”

  “I only expend my energies in the most worthy endeavors, Mrs. Crain.” When his dark eyes smiled at Chelsea, she could feel herself flush.

  “I’ll see you in the dining room, then. I must meet Porter and see to it he takes his elixir before eating. Helps the digestion, you know.”

  Mrs. Crain braced herself along the walls of the companionway to return above deck in search of her husband. The Southern Cross was heaving and pitching with greater force than before, and Chelsea looked toward her cabin door, thinking of poor Honoria.

  “What will you do, Chelsea?” Quaid asked. “Will you have her put off before we leave the coast? If so, you must act quickly. Very soon now the captain will turn the Cross southward, and England will be far behind.”

  “What do you think I should do? I hate to see her suffer this way, and yet I’ve no power to set her ashore if she refuses.”

  “I’m certain you’ve considered the benefits of setting her ashore,” he said dryly. “It will relieve … let us call it a ‘compromising situation.’”

  “I knew you’d be thinking that!” Chelsea cried angrily. “Is that how little you think of me?”

  “No, Chelsea dear, it’s how much I think of you that bedevils me.” His voice had grown soft, intimate, reminding her of the night before when he’d persuaded her to say things she never meant to say. His arms came around her, pulling her close to him, crushing her breasts against his powerful chest. “All morning I thought of nothing else but you,” he whispered before his mouth came crashing down over hers.

  Chelsea turned her face away and struggled to break free of his embrace. “That was last night, Mr. Tanner, and this is today!” she told him coldly. “And as every actress knows, repeat performances can be boring.”

  He held her for an instant, then released her. “And as any actress can tell you, Chelsea, there’s nothing so rewarding as a part well rehearsed.”

  Chapter 7

  Quaid stretched his long, lean frame on the too short bed, careful not to disturb Chelsea, who was sleeping beside him. She needed her rest; tending to Honoria Harris nearly sixteen hours out of twenty-four was taking its toll on her. The past two nights she had slipped across the companionway and through his cabin door, which he now kept unlocked for her. This she only did once her patient was sleeping heavily under the sparing doses of laudanum and the stench of their cabin became unbearable.

  Because of the rough weather, it had been impossible after all to insist that Honoria go ashore at Plymouth. The passage to Plymouth’s inlet was hazardous at all times, but the concealed rocks and sandbars made it almost impossible to navigate during a storm. The next port on the Southern Cross‘s itinerary would be Lisbon, Portugal, nearly eight days away. Quaid doubted Honoria Harris would live to see it.

  His arm tightened gently around Chelsea. Whatever charade she had started out to play, her devotion and attention to Honoria now was admirable. Lips caressing her cool brow, he inhaled the rosewater scent of her softly waved hair. There was something about this woman that stirred a tenderness within him, something that excited him at the same time. When she made love with him she was a goddess, and when enraged she was an imp. He liked the way she could see to the unpleasant tasks of nursing a sick woman and then appear at dinner refreshed and lovely, complete with impeccable manners and an air of good breeding; in fact, she was a better actress offstage than on.

  Chelsea’s eyes opened sleepily to find him looking at her. “Do you always watch me when I sleep?” she asked, annoyed.

  “And are you always angry even before your eyes are opened?”

  In reply she turned her back to him, the sheets slipping down from her shoulder to reveal a graceful length of smooth back and the barest hint of full hip, which invited the caress of his hand.

  “And are you always randy in the morning?” she countered then. “Have you nothing else to do or think about?”

  “I’m always thinking about you, Chelsea.” To prove his point he pushed against her, making her aware of his arousal as he slid his hand around her to cup her warm full breast.

  “It’s too early,” she groaned. “I can barely feel my toes wiggle and you want to tumble.”

  “It’s not the wiggle of your toes that intrigues me,” he whispered close to her ear, nipping lightly at her earlobe.

  “You rascal, where did you learn such bad manners? It’s not gentlemanly to awaken a lady.” Pushing her face into her pillow, she pulled farther away from him.

  “Did I ever say I was a gentleman?” he asked, moving closer, his lips beginning an exploration of her neck and shoulder.

  Chelsea’s eyes widened and she rolled over onto her back, clutching the sheets around her breasts. “Aren’t you? A gentleman? You seem to dress well enough, and you are traveling first class.”

  “And is that all that’s required to make a gentleman?”

  “Well, it’s obvious you’re not the village idiot. Just who are you, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters! You seem to know enough about me!” Now her curiosity was piqued, and a worried frown creased her brow. “Just what is it you do in Australia?”

  “I grow grapes to make wine. In essence, Chelsea dear, I suppose you could say I’m a farmer.”

  “A farmer! You mean with chickens and a cow and … and …”

  “Sheep,” he added for her. “I keep sheep to tide the farm over when the grapes fail.” He tried to keep from smiling over her disappointment. Chelsea was at her best like this when she was directly honest. It was obvious the idea of his being a common farmer was abhorrent to her, and more likely she would have liked it better if he’d told her he was a grifter,
one of those confidence men who picked pockets and separated country bumpkins from their seed money by playing shell games on city street corners. “You’re not prejudiced against working men, are you, sweet?”

  “Somebody has to do it—farm, I mean.” She scowled. “Only I never thought you … what I mean is, I’m not surprised. Not at all. Your complexion gives you away, you know. Tanned and ruddy. You’ve the look of a man who spends long hours out of doors. Are you rich?” she asked bluntly. “Your wardrobe is quite good, and you are traveling first class. I know for a fact that costs a pretty pence.”

  “Rich? Hardly. I’ve told you, I’m a farmer. A working man. Clonmerra, that’s my farm, requires my labors, and I give them. I’ve a few hands who work for me, but I keep myself close to the land.”

  Chelsea was truly alarmed now, and she looked it.

  “Chelsea, sweet,” Quaid said wryly, “I’m thinking you’re a snob.”

  Now she was incensed. A snob! She jumped to her knees, still clutching the sheet, glaring down at him. “Quaid Tanner, I’m no such thing and you know it. I come from humble beginnings myself. But I can’t help wondering what else you haven’t told me. I suppose you’ve a wife and seven children stashed away on that place you call Clonmerra.” The idea of his being married settled like a stone in the pit of her stomach. Fool that she was, she’d allowed herself to turn down another blind alley. When would she ever learn?

  “Would it make a difference?” he asked, taunting her deliberately. He wanted her answer, he wanted to hear her say it would make a difference because she wanted him for herself. He wanted a commitment, and then he would tell her the truth.

  “Do you?” she demanded.

  “Have seven children? No, Chelsea, I don’t have seven.”

  She struggled from the bed, feet becoming tangled in the sheets, almost throwing herself onto the cabin floor to escape his touch. “Once before I called you a bounder, and you’ve said nothing this morning to make me revise my opinion!” Gathering together every shred of dignity she could muster, she grabbed up her nightdress and robe and hobbled to the door. “Good day, Mr. Tanner! I suggest you keep your cabin door locked from now on, because if you have any midnight visitors, they won’t be friendly.” She flung open the door and paused only for an instant to make certain the companionway was empty before stalking across to her own cabin.

  Quaid rolled over onto his stomach, fist beating into the pillow, which carried the scent of her hair and was still warm from her body. Now why in hell had he done that? So much for his aptitude at pillow talk. He wanted her, yet he’d driven her away. There wasn’t much he actually knew about Chelsea, but one thing about her was undeniable—her ambition. Perhaps that was why he had led her to believe he was an itinerant farmer scratching a living from the land. He wanted her to want him for himself.

  Quaid’s fist beat into the pillow again. He was a fool and he knew it, just as he knew he wanted Chelsea for himself under any circumstances—even if he had to appeal to her ambition and greed to get her.

  Chelsea moved her stool closer to Honoria’s bed. She was waiting for Mrs. Crain and the captain. Since returning to the cabin earlier that morning, she’d found Honoria doing much worse than before. It wasn’t just the seasickness; there was something more. Honoria was dangerously ill. Chelsea grasped the woman’s hand, hoping to impart some of her own strength.

  It seemed that everything had gone wrong since she’d first heard Honoria scream that her purse had been stolen. And certainly this morning had done nothing to cheer her. She knew Quaid must think her a fortune hunter, and nothing could be farther from the truth. The whole purpose of this voyage was to give herself a new beginning, to allow her to make something of herself, to better her life. Why did she have to meet this man, this farmer? Why hadn’t she set the record straight from the start, told him she wasn’t Mrs. Harris directly? Why, why, why? If she’d been truthful, she wouldn’t be in this mess now. Wouldn’t have flagrantly given herself to a man in exchange for his silence. Wouldn’t have allowed herself to fall in love with him.

  The thought caught Chelsea unawares, and she winced. No, it couldn’t be love. After all, what did she know about him? Only that he kept sheep and grew grapes. Not enough to love, surely. But the touch of his hand did desperate things to her pulse, as did the expression in his eyes when he made love to her, telling her all the things every woman wanted to hear. He meant them; even now, she believed he had meant every word. Only why did he have to be a farmer? A man with no fortune, except endless prayers for good weather and high market prices. It wasn’t the future she wanted.

  There was something more waiting for her in Australia; she could feel it in her bones. She wouldn’t lose sight of her goals now. Especially not now.

  “Am I going to die?” Honoria raised herself weakly on the narrow bunk. She tried to focus, but the laudanum made everything look fuzzy and disjointed, and just this small effort of raising herself exhausted her. She called Chelsea’s name weakly, but there was no response.

  Wearily she closed her eyes, knowing she would sleep if she gave in. She wanted to fight this seasickness, but she knew it was a losing battle. And it wasn’t just the seasickness. Her heart had been fluttering wildly all day, just the way it had when she’d made her last visit to Dr. Chaters in London. He’d been crotchety and cranky when she’d refused the medicine he’d tried to force on her. He’d gotten even crankier when she’d told him about her scheduled trip to Australia. Actually, he’d exploded in rage, threatening to notify her brother-in-law about her condition. She’d begged him not to get in touch with Jason and had accepted the medicine. She didn’t want to be a burden, she’d explained, and this trip and the man waiting for her meant a new life. She’d seen the pity in his eyes and had ignored it. But the last thing the good doctor had said to her was if she stepped on board ship, she’d never step off.

  She’d gone home that day to her cramped apartment and finished sewing the lace on one of her nightdresses, a frilly bit of nonsense far too grand for someone like her. But Jason had insisted on paying for her beautiful trousseau, and in the end she’d accepted his generosity. Now it was hers, every exquisite item. All hers, for all the good it was going to do her now. She’d been a fool to attempt this voyage, and she knew in her heart that she would have changed her mind at the last minute if Chelsea hadn’t agreed to accompany her. One could hardly die alone. God was being merciful to her when he’d allowed Chelsea Myles to enter her life.

  Yet Chelsea hadn’t just entered her life, she’d catapulted into it. Almost as if it had been arranged. Honoria leaned back against the pillows and sighed. She might be a sick woman, but she wasn’t as stupid as some people thought. She’d been suspicious of Chelsea from the beginning, and now she was certain that the money Chelsea had used to pay her way to New South Wales had been taken from her, Honoria, that night at the theater. The thief who had picked her pocket had given the purse to Chelsea, who was using its contents to buy herself a new life. The newspapers would call it a scam. Well, she didn’t feel too guilty now about using Chelsea because she was sure Chelsea had used her.

  Chelsea ought to take care of her. Honoria had to admit, however, to being more than a little surprised and comforted by the way Chelsea waited on her, almost as if she really cared what happened to her.

  The wild flutterings in her chest increased, making her cry out.

  Chelsea opened the door and raced across the small cabin, the slop pail banging against her knee. “What is it, Honoria? Tell me.”

  Chelsea’s cool hand on her forehead seemed to ease the fright Honoria felt. Her heart seemed to quiet, too, at Chelsea’s touch. Panic, that’s all it was. Honoria sighed deeply and reached out for Chelsea’s hand.

  Chelsea clasped the frail, dry hand in both of hers. “I wish there was something I could do for you, Honoria.”

  “You’re doing more than I had any right to expect. I want to talk to you, Chelsea. I have things I must say to you, and I wan
t you to be honest with me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Honoria, you’re so weak. Why don’t you wait till later to talk when you feel stronger. It’s such an effort for you. I can tell.”

  “Of course you can tell, you’re no fool. I’m the one who’s the fool. There isn’t going to be a later. I know how ill I am. So do you. I want you to tell me truthfully what you plan to do once you get off this ship. I don’t want any lies; I want the truth.”

  For Chelsea it was a relief to share her story. When she got to the part about Honoria’s purse, she took a deep breath, trying to find just the right words, when Honoria interrupted gently.

  “I know all about it. I wanted to believe you, the way I wanted to believe I was going to live to marry Harlow Kane. I couldn’t prove you were involved, and I didn’t want to have the police making trouble for Jason or myself. I just wasn’t up to handling something like that. It was so nice of you to have tea with me and to intervene for me with Jason. He really wouldn’t have given me the money if you hadn’t shamed him into it. Barbara was so jealous.” A dry little laugh accompanied her words. Chelsea smiled. “So, what are your plans now?”

  “I have no idea. The little money, your money, that’s left will tide me over unless you want it back. I’ll have to get a job, I suppose. I was looking to put my past behind me. I’m young and healthy; I can find work of some kind.” She lowered her voice. “I met this man aboard ship, and he seems very interested in me. He lives at a place called Clonmerra. Something might develop with him. That’s the best answer I can give you, Honoria.”

  “Tell me,” Honoria asked, wistfully blunt, “have you been taking care of me because you felt guilty?” Without giving Chelsea a chance to answer, she continued, calmly and purposefully. “I don’t blame you for being angry because I signed you on as my servant, but I was angry and it was my way of not letting you get away with my money. None of that’s important anymore. What is important is I don’t want to die alone. That’s the main reason I made this trip. I was hoping against hope that I would be strong enough to weather the voyage, but I’m not.”