by Rainbow
Not enough time to stand here and wonder, he thought disgustedly. If only the door wasn’t locked.
He found the backdoor and tried the knob. It turned, and he said one of the few prayers he’d uttered in his life. His mutilated foot usually dragged, and he was careful to lift it high enough so that it wouldn’t make the usual shuffling noise. But the effort took both concentration and care, which slowed him.
He lit a match and went past two closed doors until he came to a staircase. Cam mounted it carefully. God knew how he would explain his presence here if discovered. By the time he reached the second landing, the match had burned down to his fingers, and he winced with pain. He lit another and climbed the next flight. At the top he had to bend his head because the ceiling was low, several inches less than his own well over six-feet height.
There were three doors. He hoped the gardener had been correct when he had said only one woman was here. He tried the first, and it opened with a creak. The austere room, with only a cot for a bed and hooks for clothes, was empty. The second one was not.
He saw the slight figure on the cot, covered with a rough blanket, and knew instantly that it was Daphne. The match flame reached his fingers again, and he blew it out. In the dark, he walked carefully to her, kneeling beside her bed, and placing his hand over her mouth.
She sprang up almost immediately, her eyes wide with panic until she heard his gentle deep voice. “Daphne…shh.”
Daphne nodded, and he released her mouth, but put a hand on her shoulder. “We’re going. Can you dress without light?”
She clutched his hand desperately, wanting his reassuring touch. She felt dazed for a moment, trying to comprehend the enormity of his being here, of what he was suggesting. Her body trembled with both fear and a new heady anticipation. But she was able to nod once more.
He turned his back, looking out the window at the moon, which had just emerged from behind some clouds. It was only a quarter moon, but it seemed brighter than usual. A beacon, he thought. A promise. He felt her touch on his arm, and her hand was steadier. He smiled to himself, wishing she could see his face and take courage.
Cam lit a third match and turned to her. She was wearing a cloak that looked heavy and warm. He nodded with approval and gave her his hand.
Her small fingers wrapped around his hand trustingly, and he had never felt quite as good. Quite as strong. He started down the steps, heard a board creak and stopped, listening intently to determine whether anyone else might have heard it. When only silence met his ears, he continued, taking care to lift his damaged ankle, to guide her so she wouldn’t stumble. When they reached the main landing, they slipped out the door and across the dark garden. He looked up. The moon had disappeared again, and the sky was filling with clouds. It would start raining soon. He could smell it.
Cam pulled Daphne closer to him, limping rapidly down the street, partially carrying her along. At the end of the street, he looked back. The hotel was still dark; the street clear.
His hand touched her cheek with tenderness and reassurance, and she gazed at him adoringly.
“How?”
“Later,” he whispered. He put his arm around her shoulders, and rushed her forward. He wished they could move faster. He had thought about bringing a horse, but it would make them seem more suspicious if they were stopped. So he clung to the shadows, going down one street and then another and another until he saw the levees and the Lucky Lady. He looked for the watchman but didn’t see him. Instead, there was a familiar dark figure standing at the gangplank, his legs lazily crossed and his arms resting on a crate.
Daphne hung back, and Cam leaned over and whispered, “It’s all right.”
“But he’s…”
“I know,” Cam said softly. He looked at Devereux, who was nodding for them to come aboard. His hand tightened on Daphne’s small one as if to say “trust me.”
But still she tried to stop him. Cam swooped her up in his arms as easily as if she were a feather. He didn’t understand why Captain Devereux was meeting them openly, but he had stopped questioning his friend a long time ago. Quinn Devereux never did anything without good reason.
Cam grinned suddenly at Daphne, pleased that the captain was, in effect, giving him permission to tell her everything. Or almost everything. “We can trust him,” he said. “He told me where to find you and suggested I come for you.”
Daphne’s eyes grew wider. Her hand tightened on his shoulder. “It’s a trick.”
“No,” he said simply, and she knew she couldn’t question him further, couldn’t tell him that she didn’t quite believe him.
Cam saw the doubt in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that Quinn Devereux was a conductor with the Underground Railroad, but he couldn’t. Not yet.
She shivered as he carried her aboard, across the gangplank. She didn’t look at his master, as if by not seeing him he would no longer be there. There was no greeting between the two men, or exchange of words, but she could tell when they passed the captain by the sudden tension in Cam’s body. They ducked through a door and he put her down. He took a lantern and lit it, then led her down into a great black space on the lower deck where most of the cargo was stored.
He moved between bales and barrels, guiding her with assurance to the back wall. He touched a panel and, as if by magic, part of the wall slid open. The pressure on her hand urged her to enter and, as she did, the lantern showed a narrow passage running inside the wall. There were pallets and blankets, a barrel, and a few boxes. She looked up at him in puzzlement.
“Can you stay here on your own…just for a few hours?” Cam said, his eyes demanding her assent.
Daphne thought of the lonely darkness. The room was like a coffin. But then she thought of other places she had stayed, and not by choice, particularly the odorous slave jail in New Orleans. At least this place smelled clean. And freedom lay at the end of the journey. She had never been able to hold that thought before. Not to be sold. Not to be used. The idea was too fine, too achingly wonderful to contain within herself. She laughed for the first time since she had been sold from her plantation home. She laughed with tension, with joy, with anticipation. For she knew she could bear anything now to be free. Anything at all.
Cam heard the exhilaration in her voice and recognized it. He had heard it before when other fugitives had found their hope. “There’s food in the boxes, water in the barrel, but you can’t have any light,” he said gently. “There’s too much danger o’ fire.”
She understood what he was telling her. This place would be black and empty, but her hand merely squeezed his in assent.
“I’ll stay wi’ you awhile,” he said. “There will be others tomorrow.”
“Others?”
“Fugitives. Goin’ North.”
“It’s true, then? Truly true?”
His solemn lips broke into a smile. “Truly true,” he agreed. “You will be safe here.”
She wanted to ask more about his master, about Captain Devereux, but when she tried, he merely shrugged and his arms went around her, holding her, comforting her, reassuring her.
Cam, feeling the too-thin body under his hands, wanted to do more, but he felt she was still too uncertain, too needful. He wanted her, but he wanted to be sure that she wanted him, that she wasn’t just grateful or scared or lonely. With his scars and his limp, and his dubious future, he had little to offer her.
His warmth and succor, his quiet encouragement, were what she needed most now. She rejoiced in it, savored it, held it closely to her heart. She had never known there was such gentleness on this earth, and she knew it was that quality, more than anything else, that had given her courage this night, that would continue to give her courage no matter what happened.
For now she knew there was a God. That there was goodness, and hope, and…love.
Quinn watched the dawn break. The ominous clouds, which had been so threatening earlier, sprinkled a few soft drops and then rushed away as if on some urgent mission. Light
came creeping through the blackness slowly, in misty gray drabness before fading into a soft pink, then gold. Bright flashes touched the dirty brown of the Mississippi and made it, for a few brief moments, luminous and shining.
The river went about its business, its currents carrying flotsam down the center, and he knew there must have been a storm someplace farther north. Idly he wondered where. He shook his head in dismay at himself. He had tried to think of anything to divert his mind from the problem at hand.
He had to face it, damn it. Questions had to be asked, decisions made.
The boat was coming alive now. Stewards were cleaning the rooms, parlors, and dining rooms in preparation for passengers. More cargo would soon be loaded. He had not seen Cam since his friend took Daphne below several hours ago. Quinn knew he should alert him, before more cargo was moved. He was beginning to learn again exactly how disconcerting a woman could be.
He thought about Meredith in his cabin. Tied and helpless. Perhaps she would be more cooperative now.
But then such tactics had never worked with him. They had only stiffened his resistance. O’Connell had taught him how to use brutality against itself, how to conquer the complete feeling of helplessness when subjected to the whims and cruelty of the lowest of his keepers. He had learned to husband his feelings, to hide his hate, to endure the unendurable to achieve an end result—escape.
His stomach plummeted as he remembered exactly how painful that helplessness had been, and he also recalled the expression on Meredith Seaton’s face as he had fastened the gag. Defiance had been there, but so had fear, the panic of a trapped animal.
Don’t make the error of sympathy, he told himself. But it didn’t work. He did feel sympathy, and something more, and it scared him as little in his violent life had.
The dawn had spread across the entire eastern sky. He could delay no longer. As he looked at the steps leading down to the cargo deck, Cam appeared, his harsh features more tranquil than Quinn had ever seen them. Quinn wondered if his own would ever mirror that look.
“She all right?”
“She’s fine. That little girl has more courage than I thought.”
“The others should arrive soon. Watch out for them, Cam. I’m going to my cabin.”
“Need any help, Capt’n?”
The edges around Quinn’s eyes crinkled. “I need a lot of help, Cam, but for the moment stay here and take care of the shipment.”
“What are you goin’ do?”
Quinn shrugged. He wished to hell he knew.
Cam grinned. “Wildcat by the tail?”
For the first time since night, Quinn relaxed slightly. “I think you could say that.”
“When do we leave?”
“Noon. No later. Particularly now that we have a guest.”
“You’re goin’ to keep her then?”
“I don’t see any other choice, Cam.”
“You know whatever you decide, I’m with you.”
“I know, Cam,” Quinn said softly. “I know.” He turned and moved swiftly toward the stairs to the upper deck. And his cabin.
Meredith watched the first light seep into the cabin. She had stopped struggling. It was futile. Instead she studied her surroundings. Perhaps it would tell her something about the enigmatic man who seemed to have so many conflicting faces.
The cabin was a comfortable one, with rich wine-colored draperies and shelves and shelves of books. She was surprised at their number. Reading was not a habit she associated with gamblers and rogues. She wished she could make out the titles. You could tell much, she knew, from what a person read.
The bed on which she lay was large and comfortable, the sheets smelling of soap and spices, a smell she remembered well and which was indelibly associated with him. It had hovered in her mind far too long after their last meeting.
She twisted around until she faced the back wall and saw the painting that dominated it. Even in the dim light, she knew immediately it was a rainbow. In shock, she recognized it as her own. Her rainbow!
Elias had said someone had been asking for her paintings. Could it have been Devereux? Had that been how he’d found her? Had he been tracking her? If so, he was far more dangerous than she had first thought. And far more devious.
When she heard footsteps and the sound of a key turning in the lock, she twisted again until she was as he had left her. But she didn’t close her eyes, nor would she try to hide her thoughts from him. Those tactics simply hadn’t worked earlier. She decided to challenge him directly.
Meredith watched as the tall lean figure entered and went to one wall, pulling the draperies apart, letting the sun pour in and fill the room. She sensed the reluctant hesitancy in his steps with surprise.
And then he was there, above her, seeming much taller. He had taken off his coat and he stood there silently in a linen shirt open at the neck, tight black trousers hugging muscular legs, and polished soft-leather black boots that came almost to his knees. There was so much power in that body, so much strength. She had sensed it before, but never in so formidable a way.
Her eyes moved slowly upward, to a face that was now slightly shadowed with new beard. All derision was gone from his eyes. Instead, there was something like regret, and that worried her more than threats or mockery or torment. She could understand those, cope with them, ignore them, tolerate them. She didn’t understand this expression, or the quiet thoughtfulness of his gaze.
His eyes broke the contact and with lithe grace he picked up a chair and placed it near the bed. He folded his long tall body into it, and she wondered once more at the leisurely elegance of his movements. He looked unhurried but again she sensed the tension in him, the silent watchfulness that made something in her react so strongly to him. After bearing his scrutiny for several seconds, she felt her own tension clawing at the walls of her body. She couldn’t believe how much she craved his touch again, the feeling of his fingers against her face….
She was desperately afraid that those wayward feelings were evident in her eyes, for she could not move her gaze away from him. Dear God, why did he affect her so? She should know only fear, loathing, caution.
Meredith saw his mouth soften, as though he could read her mind, and he leaned down and untied the cloth from her mouth. She took several deep breaths of air, partly because of need, partly to regain her composure.
He cut the bonds around her ankles, then her wrists, and his fingers were unexpectedly gentle. His mouth was set but not in a hostile gesture. Only a throbbing muscle in his cheek gave real evidence of tension.
She stretched like a cat after a nap in the afternoon sun, playing for time, praying for inspiration. She felt rather than saw his intent, searching, intrusive eyes on her and she could not disobey their silent command. Her eyes climbed slowly to his, meeting them, challenging them. A sudden fierce force streaked between them with the same wild splendor as heat lightning on a summer’s night. It paralyzed both of them.
“Who are you, Meredith Seaton,” Quinn finally asked, his deep voice soft and compelling. “What are you?”
She rubbed her wrists slowly before answering, as if they pained her. She had already discovered he was discomfited by the thought of hurting her. She decided she would use that interesting weakness to her advantage.
“You know who I am,” she said breathlessly, but her voice caught, and he heard the strain in it. “And I could ask you the same questions.”
His mouth quirked up on one side, and the cleft in his chin seemed to deepen. His eyes, those dark blue remote eyes, suddenly looked as if they had been sprinkled with light. She had never met anyone so magnetic, so mesmerizing, anyone who could turn charm on and off as easily as opening and closing a door.
“Ah, but I asked you first, Meredith, and I, at the moment, have the upper hand.”
Meredith didn’t miss the wry note in his voice as he said “at the moment.” He grew more and more puzzling by the second.
Once more, she hesitated. Her eyes traveled arou
nd the cabin and again found the painting. The sun, lying low in the east, hit it directly through the window, and she could almost see the water moving.
“That’s an interesting painting,” she observed, changing the subject. She didn’t think he knew about her own painting. She had never mentioned it to him and she was sure her brother wouldn’t have drawn attention to her efforts. She was equally sure his brother would have discreetly disposed of her gifts.
He turned away from her and stared at the painting as if it were new to him. The signature, M. Sabre, was in the right-hand corner, exactly where Meredith’s had been on the painting she had given Brett. Now he knew why something had nagged at him in Brett’s office. The scrawl of the names was similar. There was something else similar, but he couldn’t quite find it. He shook his head. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. The same hand couldn’t have produced this painting and the monstrosity in Brett’s office. Coincidence in the scrawl, in the name. That was all. Still, his curiosity was pricked. “You surprise me, Meredith,” he probed. “I didn’t realize you were interested in art.”
“Nor you,” she retorted. “I rather imagined you would have framed a deck of cards…or a roll of bills.”
“Even blackguards and gamblers have an appreciation for something well done,” he replied with the half smile that so charmed her. “Call it a whim, Meredith.” Each time he said her name, the old taunting quality came back into his voice, and she hated it.
But even the half smile disappeared and once more his eyes bored into her. “The art appreciation discussion is over. You’re avoiding my question.”
“I don’t remember it,” she said in her old Meredith-the-simpleminded tone. “I’m thirsty. The gag hurt me.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes for a moment, then fled. “It won’t work, Meredith. Not anymore. Although I must say, you’re very good at acting the simpleton. Even my brother believes it, and he’s usually very astute.”
But he went to a table where a pitcher and glass sat and poured her some water, then set the pitcher next to the bed. He sat, crossing his legs indolently as he watched her sip carefully…and slowly. More slowly, he knew, than necessary. A raised eyebrow finally signaled his impatience.
