The handle turned. Tonight, at least, he had no one in his bed.
Sheridan sat up abruptly. "Who's there?" It was a rough demand, one he fully expected to be answered. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the door. He heard it click closed and could make out the darker shape against it, but not the intruder's identity.
"It's me," Rachael said quietly.
Grant threw off the covers. His nightshirt gave him a ghostly appearance as he crossed the room to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. She had brought some of the cold night air in with her. He guided her to the fireplace and let her warm herself at the dying embers. Kneeling in front of the hearth he began to build a fire.
His thoughtfulness touched her. She had not expected this kindness. When the fire was blazing she took off her cape. Under one arm she held some papers. She handed them to him.
"What are these?" Grant asked, rising to his feet. He thumbed through them quickly once, then more slowly the second time. It was quite clear what they were. He didn't bother asking that question again. "Where did you get them?"
She hadn't yet determined what she would say to that. If she told him she had come upon them in a common room, like the library or one of the parlors, it might not be so readily apparent who was interested in them. Her hesitation cost her. Grant's free hand snaked out and caught her by the throat. He applied no pressure, merely held her captive, but the threat was there. The pad of his thumb moved lightly across her windpipe.
"I found them in Captain Thorne's room," she said.
Grant studied her. Her eyes were as wide and dark as a fawn's. Her delicate features were set in stillness. "Tell me, is it fear that makes your voice so appealingly husky?" he asked. "Or the fact that it gets so little use at Jonna's."
Was she supposed to answer? she wondered. Did he expect her to say she feared him?
Grant's hand slipped away. "Never mind." He sifted through the papers again. "How did you know to bring these here?"
Had she made a mistake? "Aren't they yours?" she asked.
"They are. But that begs the question. How did you know they were mine?"
She pointed to the letterhead on the uppermost paper he held. "It says Sheridan Shipping. Some of the others are marked the same way."
"It does indeed," Grant said softly. His regard was frank, curious. "When did you learn to read?"
Until now she had kept it from him. Even on his visits to Mrs. Davis in Jonna's absence, she hadn't told him about the housekeeper's lessons. It had been easy to keep that secret then. There had been so little time for him to talk to her on those occasions. Her situation forced them to keep any exchange to a few words. It had been his idea that she shouldn't speak. He told her more confidences would be shared with someone who couldn't give them up.
There were times when he came to the house that he didn't see her at all. He may have suspected that she busied herself elsewhere in the mansion when she knew he was about, but he couldn't prove it. And he couldn't ask after her. Knowing that she could frustrate him was one of her guilty pleasures.
"I've been learning at Miss Remington's," she said. Intuitively she understood that she should not refer to Jonna as Mrs. Thorne. "I have been since I arrived."
"Jonna's teaching you?" His tone was harsh, incredulous.
She shook her head quickly. "No, Mrs. Davis. She teaches all the girls."
"But it's Jonna's idea."
"I suppose." She almost recoiled from his black look. "Yes, she approves of it. She makes certain Mrs. Davis has time in the evening for the lessons. She asks for nothing while we're engaged. Anything she needs, she gets for herself. Anything that needs to be done, waits, or Miss Remington does it alone."
"How very accommodating."
She pretended she hadn't heard the sneer in his voice. "Yes," Rachel said. "She is."
Grant's eyes narrowed. Was he imagining her quiet defiance, or was it really there? There was nothing about her posture that was challenging, quite the opposite. Her eyes were turned away from him; her arms hung loosely at her sides. Even her fingers were extended. No clenched fists here.
He put the papers on the mantel and reached for her crippled hand. She didn't recoil from his touch, but he felt her tremble. He held her hand in his larger one and raised it. Firelight burnished her dark skin. "It seems there should have been another way," he said.
Rachael said nothing. There was no real regret in his voice, no sorrow, just the quiet conviction that he had acted as he had because it was the only recourse open to him.
Grant stroked her hand gently, not at all repelled by the disfigurement. It was proof of her sacrifice, proof that she would surrender herself to him. He led her toward the bed. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he released her. He watched her as she began to disrobe.
"What do you think of your new master?" he asked. His eyes followed her fingers as she removed her apron and began to unfasten her bodice. "Have you been of service to him?"
His question provoked a pause in her fingers, but she didn't answer it.
"Perhaps he finds himself satisfied with Jonna," Grant went on. It was hard to imagine that being the case. Jonna Remington had never revealed herself to be a particularly responsive woman. "Do they share a bed?"
"They have separate bedchambers." She pushed her gown over her hips and let it fall to the floor. Grant touched her wrists, and she came to stand between his outstretched legs. "They're joined by a dressing room. I can't say if they share a bed." It was a lie. She had changed the sheets. She knew.
Grant's eyes were almost as black at the outer edges as they were at the center. They roamed over Rachael's slim neck and narrow shoulders. He pushed the neckline of her chemise over her arms. For a moment the high curve of her small breasts kept it in place, then it fell. She withdrew her arms. Grant stared at her breasts. He let his hands slide over them, rubbing her sensitive nipples with his thumbs. They were already hard. His right palm moved to rest just above her heart. He captured the frantic beat under his large hand.
"Why did you come here tonight?" he asked. "Was it to bring me those papers?"
She nodded, and leaned into him. She was a slight weight against him, and he supported her easily.
"Was it only to bring them here?"
There had been another reason. She thought about the man sleeping in the guest wing of the Remington house and about the man sleeping with Jonna Remington. But she knew what Grant wanted her to say. He actually made it simple for her to tell him what he wanted to hear and to delay the betrayal. "No," she said, as he took her breast in his mouth. "Not the only reason."
* * *
"Falconer?" Decker repeated. Nothing that he knew about
her involvement with the Underground Railroad had prepared him for this. "You actually built Huntress for him?" He pulled his hand away from hers and sat up. "I think you'd better explain yourself."
Jonna sat up as well. She crossed her legs in front of her, tailor-fashion, and drew a pillow to her chest. Her position blocked Decker from reaching the oil lamp. She had no wish to bear his scrutiny and no desire to witness his amusement. "I will explain," she said, "but you mustn't rush me. It's not so simple a thing as you might think."
He chuckled softly. "Jonna, the very last thing I expect is that it will be simple. Just find a place to start and go from there."
"Do you remember our conversation about the abolitionists?" she asked him. "It was months ago. It's all right if you—"
Decker held up a hand and stopped her. "I remember," he said. "We were in your dining room. You were of the opinion that the publisher of The Liberator was a lunatic."
"A fanatic," she corrected. "I'm still of that opinion. But most of what I told you then was something less than I believe. I've never attended meetings at Faneuil Hall. Grant's fervor on the subject always unsettled me. I took a different tack and acted on my principles in a quieter manner. Or perhaps it's that I'm really just a coward, Decker. I know how Remington Shipping would su
ffer if I spoke out. I watched it happen to Grant. His Charleston and Baltimore trade is only a fraction of what it was five years ago. No matter what I've been able to accomplish, my actions may reflect more selfishness than nobility."
She is so very earnest, he thought. He caught a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and tamped it down.
"I'm not such a good person, Decker. You shouldn't think that I am."
"All right," he said solemnly. "But what is it that you've done?"
"These past three years I've been a conductor on the Railroad," she said in a rush. "I know you have no strong opinion about abolition. I used to be critical that you took no position on it, or for that matter about anything much at all. Now I think you're simply more honest than I've been. There's no pretense about you."
Decker shifted slightly, made more than a little uncomfortable by this observation. "I'm not certain that's entirely true," he said carefully. "You could—"
Jonna didn't let him finish. "You've never tried to change my opinion of you," she said. "You've simply been here, haven't you? Day after day... for years now. In and out of my life, knowing there were times I didn't notice at all, and knowing there were times you came to my attention for all the wrong reasons. I never fully considered the kind of man who could do that, but now I realize it's one who's so comfortable with himself that he doesn't require the good opinion of others to define him."
Decker tried to shift the subject from himself. "I thought you were going to tell me about Falconer," he said.
"I was... I am." Jonna pushed the pillow away from her. She reached forward and laid her hand on Decker's thigh. "It's just that it doesn't matter very much anymore. I built Huntress to carry men and women from slavery to freedom. I designed her with that single purpose in mind and named her to fit the purpose. I thought that only Falconer could take her helm, or perhaps that only he would want to, but I think you're a man of similar compassion and conscience."
Decker shook his head. "Jonna, you said yourself that I have no strong opinion about abolition."
She leaned forward. Her voice was quiet with intensity. "But you have a passion for freedom. You risked your own once for Mercedes. I asked if it meant so little to you. You told me you did it because it meant so much."
"So I did," he said. He had forgotten it until now. "Perhaps you're wrong about me. I might only have been trying to impress you."
Jonna shook her head. "I won't believe it. I think it was as honest an answer as any other of yours. And I don't think you feel any differently about freedom when we're talking Tess or Amanda or Delores or Rachael or—"
"I take your point," he said gently, before she went through an entire litany of names. "And no, I don't."
"Huntress is your ship now, Decker. I would never take it back. But I'm wondering if you might use her from time to time for the purpose for which she was built?"
He was a quiet a moment; then he nodded.
Jonna threw her arms around him. "I'm not wrong, am I?" she demanded. She planted kisses on his cheeks, his mouth, his jaw. "You are the right man."
"I don't know if I'm the right man," he said. His arms circled her waist. "But I am Falconer."
Chapter 14
It was still dark outside when Jonna woke. She raised herself on one elbow and studied Decker's sleeping profile. His features were relaxed. The lines at the corners of his eyes had softened. His breathing was steady. His thick, dark hair was tousled, and a lock of it fell forward over his smooth brow. Gently, so as not to disturb him, she pushed it back. Then her hand lingered a moment, her fingers trailing lightly over his temple, his cheek, and finally his jaw.
He was really quite a beautiful man. Had she told him that? Or was it only one of the things she had meant to say as he was making love to her? So many thoughts had remained half-formed and unspoken as his body covered hers. Jonna felt a measure of heat surface and spread upward from her breasts to her face as she remembered the things she had been able to tell him. Darkness had made her bold.
Love made her reckless.
Smiling, Jonna sat up carefully and moved to the edge of the bed. There was no reason that both of them should be up so early. She padded quietly into the dressing room and rang for help. Half an hour later, when sunlight was just beginning to break through the drapes, Jonna was sitting shoulder deep in a steaming hip bath.
She leaned back against the rim. The nape of her neck was cushioned by a folded towel. Her arms rested lightly on the curve of the tub and her fingertips dabbled in the water. She thought about picking up the soap and the cloth lying on the chair at her side. It seemed a monumental task. Instead she closed her eyes.
The water lapped at her sensitive skin. Heat seeped into her flesh. It was not difficult to imagine that she was still joined to him. There was a lingering sense of fullness between her thighs and a warm, pleasant ache in her breasts. Jonna pressed the faintly swollen line of her lips together. She could still feel his mouth on hers, taste him on the edge of her tongue.
Falconer.
It mattered so little. Even now it surprised her how unimportant it was that Decker Thorne was the man known as Falconer. She had come to admire him apart from that secret self, just as he had hoped she would. His patience is truly remarkable, Jonna thought. She would not have been half so restrained.
Explanations had come in fits and starts throughout the night. She had wanted to hear what he had to say, but she had wanted to love him more. In the end her curiosities, both intellectual and carnal, were satisfied.
Jonna's eyes opened as she heard Decker stir in the other room. She waited, wondering if he would call out for her. When he didn't, she realized he had merely turned over in his sleep. She smiled to herself, the shape of her mouth a trifle smug. It was a rather heady notion that she might have exhausted him.
Sitting up, Jonna reached for the bar of scented soap. Water dripped from her hand onto the washcloth. As she picked it up, it attached itself to some papers that were lying under it. The papers loosened almost immediately, and Jonna had to react quickly to keep them from falling into her bath. She let the soap and cloth drop, making a grab for the papers instead. Two sheets fluttered to the floor but several others clung to her damp fingers.
More annoyed than curious, Jonna placed them back on the chair. Hadn't Rachael seen them when she'd set the soap and washcloth down? But then the girl had been almost asleep on her feet, Jonna reminded herself. Rachael shouldn't have been sent to prepare the bath in the first place, not after night duty with their injured guest. Her eagerness to please should not be taken advantage of, Jonna thought, and she made a mental note to speak to Mrs. Davis about lightening the young woman's duties.
Sighing, Jonna leaned over the tub and picked up the sheets on the floor. She was on the point of putting them on the chair with the others when the heading of one caught her eye. Sheridan Shipping. She frowned. How on earth had this come to be here?
Jonna glanced over it quickly, then the one under it. Neither was a particularly important piece of information. One was a schedule, the other a correspondence to a Charleston supplier. She set them down, took up the others, and skimmed the contents.
* * *
Grant Sheridan rose from his bed. Slipping on his dressing gown, he walked to the window and drew back the drapes. Sunlight bathed his hard features as he looked out onto the street. There was no chance that he would see Rachael there. She would have left hours ago, under cover of night, fleeing his home as quietly as she had come upon it. Still, he knew it was why he stood there.
She had been exceptionally accommodating last night. The memory of her in his bed stirred his body. If he had heard her get up to leave he would have stopped her and taken her again. Perhaps she had known that given the chance he would have proved he wasn't finished with her. It would account, in part, for her quiet exit from his bed.
As willing as she had been to make herself available to him in any manner he chose, Grant had never been less certain o
f her, or of his hold over her. It was not so easy to define the change in Rachael, but he felt it, not in what she gave him, but in what she held back. Perhaps it was some newfound confidence that he detected. She had learned to read, after all, and that was not something he could take away from her.
He cursed softly and shrugged his powerfully built shoulders. He let the drapes drop back into place and rang for his manservant. The measure of anger that he felt was not directed at Rachael, but at Jonna. If Rachael was really possessed of a new confidence, then Jonna Remington was at the root of it. His mouth curved in a derisive smile. He would not think of her as Jonna Thorne. The name would never suit, and he would not accustom himself to it. Why should he? he wondered, when Jonna was going to be Mrs. Sheridan. It only required Decker's removal. Because of Rachael's timely help, he was one step closer to that end.
Grant went to the fireplace to retrieve the papers Rachael had carried with her. Had she understood what she held in her hands, or had she merely delivered them to show good faith? Or, as he had begun to suspect last night, had she brought them as an excuse to be with him? It was a pleasant irony, Grant thought, that he could reward Rachael's loyalty by keeping her as his mistress while punishing Jonna.
Surveying the mantel, Grant's small, satisfied smile faded. His brows drew together. The papers were no longer where he had placed them. He looked over his shoulder at the table in the sitting area and then at the table at his bedside. Both were bare of the documents. Turning on his heel, he knelt on the floor and looked under the chairs. He poked at the fireplace for some evidence that they had been swept inside by a draft. It would have been a consolation to know they were destroyed by the fire. That outcome was better than having them returned to Decker Thorne's hands, or worse, to Jonna's.
It was on that point that Grant had questioned Rachael several times. Did she know if Jonna had seen the documents? How could she be certain her employer hadn't? Had she overheard Decker discussing them with Jonna?
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