“Fish bait, you say?” He lifted her wrist off her lap. Her hand was clenched into a fist. Gently, he spread her fingers over his open palm. Her skin was smooth as silk.
“A river man’s wife,” she said quietly, trying to pull her hand away. He held it. “Married. With five children.”
“So many?”
She was beautiful, Edward thought, studying her profile. She’d removed her bonnet as soon as they got into the carriage, and he had no objections, at all. Chestnut ringlets, having escaped their confines, danced against her beautiful skin and delicate ear. He studied the pulse of the vein in her neck. He brought his mouth close to kiss it.
“The waterfront!” she blurted out, tearing her hand away and moving to the seat across from him. “Could we go someplace where there are ships?”
He smiled at her. She was flustered, breathless. He could tell she would do anything to delay the inevitable. “Are you afraid of me?”
“No.”
He was relieved when she met his gaze. There was no fear, only nervousness evident in the way she quickly averted her eyes.
“Then are you concerned about what is happening between us? About what will happen between us?”
“I am only thinking of my husband and five children,” she said, a smile touching the corner of her lips.
“Oh, yes. How could I forget those five children?”
Edward realized she was trying to buy time. The easiest way would have been to take her back to bed this morning and simply ravish her. This would have eased the tension for both of them. But right now, he had to admit, he was entertained by the chase.
“So you want to see ships,” he repeated, shaking his head in amusement. “Do you have any specific type of ships in mind?”
She cocked her head in surprise. “Seagoing ships.”
He leaned out and directed the driver to take them to the West India Docks.
As they traveled through the city, Sophy asked questions about different locations where ships arrived and docked in London. He answered her questions, telling her that for decades, the great merchant shipping trade was centered east of the city, in dockyards constructed on the Isle of Dogs, where the Thames dipped in a large circuitous bow.
“But you will never travel where we are going on foot in the middle of night or in the day, either. Do you understand?”
“I believe your instructions were clear.” She coughed slightly, put on a frown too much like his, he realized, and continued with a tone too mockingly similar to his. “No straying on your own, Sophy. No exposing yourself to the dangerous lowlifes of the city. You will venture out only in the company of someone I agree to. And that is only in the daylight. Do you understand?”
He reached over and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her in one sweeping motion onto his lap.
She gasped and he kissed her, a hard bruising kiss that ended before she could fight him. He pulled back.
She didn’t move. Her face was inches away from his. Her eyes wide. A beautiful blush was blooming on her cheeks. He could have sworn she’d stopped breathing entirely. But her heart was beating so hard that he could hear it, or was it the sound of his own heart.
“So beautiful,” he murmured against her lips, staring into specks of gold in her dark eyes. He brushed a finger across one smooth and perfect cheek. He touched her bottom lip, still wet from his kiss. He felt her shudder, her eyes half closing. There was no nervousness now. He could see desire in her eyes.
His lips lowered to hers again, this time gently. Caressing, tasting the fullness of her bottom lip.
“Sophy.”
He dug his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her neck, bringing her mouth closer to his, teasing the seam of her lips with his tongue.
Her surrender was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. A soft moan escaped her throat, her eyes closed, and her hands fisted before fluttering open against his chest. He deepened the kiss, thrusting into the sweet opening of her mouth, sampling, exploring. She trembled in his arms, becoming soft.
Edward pushed her arms around his neck and gathered her closer against his chest until there was not a breath of air left between them. Their mouths danced in a passionate rhythm that continued on as the carriage rolled down the streets.
She was still timid, only following his lead and doing what he showed her to do. It took great effort to go no further when all he was thinking of was how exciting it would be to lift her skirts and have her straddle him here in the carriage. He ached to bury himself deep inside of her—take her right here, right now.
The carriage eventually lurched to a stop. He knew where they were. The sounds from the docks surrounded them. He drew back from the kiss and looked into her face. Her eyes were slow to open. She was still in a passionate daze. He traced her lips with his fingers. They were swollen from his kisses.
“We have arrived,” he told her. “The West India Docks. Are you certain you want to get out?”
Her hands withdrew slowly from his shoulders. The blush was back in her cheeks as she tried to move off his lap. But he held her there.
“We can delay this visit. We can come another day if you’d rather go back to Soho and engage in an activity much more satisfying.” He let his finger trace slowly down from her lip to her chin to her neck and down the front of her dress. She caught his hand when it reached her breast. Her eyes were wide and fixed on him as she moved to the seat across.
“No, I . . . since we are here, I’d like to see the dock. If you please.”
He nodded, thinking himself a saint not to finish what they'd started. He wondered when patience had become one of his personal qualities.
“You need to remember, this is a wild place, packed with ships and warehouses and unsavory men. I’d prefer not to have to fight my way out of here. Everything you need to see can be seen from the steps of the carriage.”
She nodded, her fingers quickly going to her hair, tucking in the tendrils of brown hair that had worked loose.
He gave her time, watching her, and at the same time trying to will his body to behave. It had been too long since the simple act of kissing had nearly undone him like this.
“Tell me more about it, so I understand. Is this a place for Royal Navy ships, as well as merchant vessels?”
“These docks are for merchant ships from the West Indies. The Royal Navy has an old yard across the river in Deptford, but most ships--including mine, in fact--sail from Portsmouth.”
“And how did we come to get here?”
“Did something distract you along the way?”
She blushed at his teasing.
“As I told you before, we are downriver from London. Perhaps three miles or so from the Royal Exchange in the city.”
She adjusted the tie of the cloak around her neck and pulled up the hood. “Can we get out?”
Edward was amused by her interest. “We’d better. That is, before I try to change your mind again.”
A familiar scene greeted him as he stepped out of the carriage. A sea of humanity on the broad quays, an army of workers carrying loads and rolling hogsheads from the ships and barges to the rabbit warren of warehouses. He offered a hand to Sophy, and she joined him outside.
Standing next to him, she took her time scanning the scene in silence before her. She took a deep breath in and smelled the air as if trying to test the familiarity of the place by its scent. Looking across the wide rectangular basins filled with a forest of masts, she seemed to be seeing something that was hardly new to her.
“Is all the cargo arriving on the merchant ships loaded and unloaded here?”
“This was the way it used to be done, but that was too slow and dangerous,” he explained. “Twenty or thirty years ago, these wet docks were built with secure boundaries and ample warehouses on each quay. This allowed ships arriving from the West Indies to unload in this northern dock, sail round to the southern dock, and load up with export cargo. The efficiency of the design allows ships to come in and
out in a fraction of the time that it took them before.”
“This place is huge,” she said under her breath. “But I can’t help but feel that someone was explaining all of this to me not too long ago.”
Edward looked at her. She was entranced by the sights. He thought of the exotic language that she spoke. He could not subdue the thought that there could be a man, some seaman, perhaps, that she belonged to. And with the thought came an unpleasant twist of jealousy in his gut.
“Can you tell me more?” she asked, reaching for his hand.
He took her cold fingers in his, holding tightly. “The import dock here consists of over thirty acres of water.” He motioned beyond the basin. “Over there, the export dock is slightly smaller. Together, they have space for more than six hundred large sailing vessels. At each end of the docks, a smaller basin connects them to the river, with locks to control the flow of water between the docks and the Thames.”
“So ships enter on the Blackwall side of the basin and the lighters go in at the Limehouse end,” she said quietly.
Edward looked at her, impressed. She knew the names of waterways for each side of Isle of Dogs. “How do you know this?”
She shook her head. “It just came to me. Facts with no context.” She gestured straight ahead. “And those warehouses are five stories each.”
“What else do you remember?”
“Information, the history of these docks, unimportant things.”
“Tell me.”
“Before these were built, the problems were at their worst for ships arriving from the West Indies. The delays and difficulties for loading and unloading were choking the merchants. The larger ships discharged their cargoes into lighters that unloaded at the legal quays and wharves, but the frontage was terribly restricted.” She looked into his face. “I sound like a page from a book.”
“What else?”
“The problems were increased by the reduced depth of water at the quays and in the river’s channel, all caused by silt and sewage and ballast from ships. Building these docks was the first major improvement of London since the rebuilding of the city after the Great Fire.”
“You are a veritable gazette.”
She stopped. Holding his hand tighter. She shivered slightly. “But I did not read this. Someone told me all of this because he thought I would need to know it.”
“Do you remember who? Or when?” he asked.
She looked down, obviously disappointed. “I have the same empty feeling that goads me when I realize that I can speak another language but have no idea how I came to learn it.”
“Captain! Captain Seymour!” Someone’s shout, followed by others calling his name, drew Edward’s attention to a half dozen men standing on the deck of a large merchant vessel that was being unloaded. He recognized some of the faces as they started toward the gangway of the ship.
“Would you be kind enough to wait for me inside?” he asked Sophy.
Two of these men had served him as midshipmen on a voyage to the West Indies a few years back. The others had served in the same crew. He was not unhappy to see them, but he didn’t want the presence of a beautiful woman at his side to lengthen the chat.
She nodded and he helped her back inside. With a nod to his driver, Edward pushed his way through the crowd to greet the former crewmen.
These men were no strangers to the news of the disappearance of Henry Robinson and Edward’s niece. With the bluntness of sailing men, each expressed his own opinion of the character of young Henry and his surprise at what had transpired. As they talked, Edward faced his carriage, making sure Sophy remained safe.
A group of dark-skinned dockworkers, several wearing long, collarless shirts, walked by him and moved by the carriage. As they passed, Edward was surprised to see Sophy open the carriage door and step out and address them. He was too far away to hear anything, but he was sure they replied to her greeting.
One of the men separated from the group. He stopped in front of Sophy and stared at her for a moment before bowing deeply. She spoke to him, and he answered, gesturing excitedly and repeatedly bowing to her.
The men he was speaking to forgotten, Edward moved quickly toward his carriage. At that moment, a gang of rough-looking sailors saw the man speaking to Sophy. Without a word to her, they lifted him clear off his feet and carried him down the quay. Sophy cried out and went after them.
The crowd thickened, slowing his progress, and Edward momentarily lost sight of her. Shoving his way through, he reached the carriage and found his driver physically barring her from following. By the time Edward reached her, she was ready to fight his man. Beyond them, the sailors and the dockworker had disappeared.
“Who was that? What was that about?” He took her by the arm. She looked pale, shaken, and kept looking anxiously in the direction the man had disappeared.
“He wasn’t bothering me. He knew me. He said he worked for me,” she said in a rush. “He said he thought I was dead. He said everyone assumed I was dead!”
CHAPTER 14
From the window of the carriage, Sophy scanned the crowd. She could no longer see the captain, but she knew he was going in the right direction.
He had gone off after the dark-skinned dockworker, and Sophy had reluctantly complied with his order to wait inside the carriage for him. She waited, angrily eying the stone-faced driver standing guard outside the door. The few words she’d exchanged with the stranger played over and over in her mind.
After Captain Seymour went to meet with those men who called to him, Sophy had every intention of remaining inside the carriage. But when she realized that she understood the conversation of the men who were passing--and that they were not speaking English--she was not about to sit idly inside. Climbing out, she’d greeted them and asked what language they were speaking. One answered that it was the language of India. That was when one of the men had approached her. The stranger stared at her as if she were a ghost. She’d asked him in his own language if he knew her. It was then that his excitement had overwhelmed him.
You are not dead. The same words were repeated again and again. He had also addressed her as if she was someone important. He said he had worked in her kitchens. She tried to recall anything specific that he’d said. No name, no location of where it was that he lived or she lived. He was too excited to let her ask any questions. And then suddenly, that group of brutes had swept him up, screaming that he had no cause to be speaking to an English lady. Sophy had tried to go after them, but the driver had interfered.
And now she didn’t know what was to become of the innocent man.
This was the first time that she had seen anyone who knew her, who knew anything of her past. She had to find him.
Captain Seymour had been gone too long. Sophy opened the carriage door to get out, but the solid figure of the driver blocked her path.
“No, miss,” he said plainly but politely. “You know the captain will have my hide if I allow you out.”
She sat back down on the bench. The driver closed the door, resuming his position.
Sophy was frustrated. Minutes ago, something quite important had been confirmed. She was supposed to be dead. Death was final. She had been saved from the river by a ghost. She had been frequently visited by this ghost. Had she been dead and brought back to life for a purpose? Had someone killed her? She couldn’t have been floating willingly on the river tide. Sophy’s head pounded with all the possibilities. And why was it that she couldn’t remember?
Some relief came to her in the form of the captain climbing back into the carriage. He sat across from her.
“I couldn’t find him,” he said, his frustration evident on his face. “The good news is that some workers on the quay saw the man get away from the sailors. So whoever he was, he is not badly harmed by that gang.”
“Perhaps the two of us should go out looking for him,” Sophy suggested. “Perhaps if he were to see me?”
He shook his head. “There are thousands of people w
orking these docks. If he belongs to one of the ships, he could be anywhere. And if he is a dockworker, he’s probably long gone from here. I think our time would be better spent if I were to have a sketch of you printed on a handbill. I can have it distributed throughout the docks. He might see it and come forward.”
She sank back on the seat, thinking about what result a poster bearing her likeness might produce. The memory of Jack Slade and his man Trencher was too fresh. She’d already had an ugly and firsthand view of some of the criminal element plying their trade on the streets of London.
“No,” she said. “How am I to protect myself from anyone who comes forward and says he is a relation of mine? I cannot remember anything. Even this man I met a few minutes ago--he was apparently honest, but how do I know? I didn’t remember him.”
He leaned forward and took her hands in his. He didn’t say a word, but she could see that he understood.
“I will not make you more vulnerable. You are right. I withdraw the suggestion.”
The carriage had not moved, and she gazed out at a ship tied to the quay.
“Tell me again everything that you remember of the conversation.”
She repeated, word by word, all she recalled. She wished she could tell him the truth about the ghost. But that part of her life was too unbelievable to be shared with anyone.
He sat back. “He said everyone thinks you are dead. But he didn’t say how you supposedly died?”
“No,” she said sadly. “Or where. Or if anyone is grieving for me. Or if someone is accused of murdering me.”
His dark eyes met hers. “Do you think foul play was involved?”
“You saw the gash in my head. You know the condition I was in better than I do. I was floating in the river. How can I trust anyone?”
He was silent again, deep in thought. The muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched. She wanted to reach over and smooth the deep lines in his forehead. Sophy knew she was much more trouble than he’d bargained for.
As for her—in spite of it all—the thrill of their kiss remained in her mind. For those minutes in his arm, she’d been able to forget her troubles. She’d been swept away to a place where the whispers of passion shut out the loud jarring buzz of reality. And she’d adored the feeling of being the center of his attention—of being wanted by him.
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