The caves were near the end of the island's central ridge, with a rocky headland some twenty-five or thirty feet high jutting out into the ocean before them, and with the beach, carved into small coves, below. The knoll that crowned the top was covered with thick, tough grass and a scattering of sea grape trees, wind-blown into stunted, twisted shapes. Between the drop-off and the caves was an open area, bounded by the sandy roadway, that was shaded by tall trees. Here, games could be played, the al fresco meal could be laid out, and the lounge chairs set up to take advantage of the breeze at these heights.
Mrs. Lansing, and another obliging matron who had joined the party as chaperone, commandeered the lounge chairs and took out their needlework, settling in for a long gossip. The goombay musicians found a comfortable outcropping of limestone on which to sit while they played. A fire was built on which to heat the water for tea and coffee. Croquet mallets, balls, and wickets were unloaded and set out, ready for play. A net was erected for badminton, though it was judged too windy for the moment to make a game practical. To refresh the picnickers from their arduous journey out from town, lemonade, tea, and coffee were served, along with a selection of cakes; then, the servants got down to the serious business of setting out the repast.
The solid whack of mallets striking wooden balls carried on the salt-laden air. The cries of young men and women in frustration, triumph, and defeat mingled with the distant murmur of the surf and the calls of the gulls that skimmed now and then along the coastline. The odd rhythms of the goombay band lent lightness and gaiety to the day. Challenges were made and accepted, wagers won and lost, forfeits demanded and paid, though the last most circumspectly under Mrs. Lansing's indulgent eyes. One or two couples wandered away, climbing up through the trees above the caves, or meandering down the road toward a path that led to the beach. After a time, other couples were sent after them to bring them back.
By the time the picnic was laid out, appetites were sharp once more. The heaped platters of cold meats and fried chicken; the dishes of seafood, including a salad of conch, boiled egg, and palm hearts; the crusty loaves of bread; the pickles and relishes; the great iced cakes and trays of tarts did not last long. The wine, kept on ice, was delicious, but had a slightly soporific effect upon susceptible individuals. A few sought the shade and, adjusting veils, hats, and handkerchiefs over their faces, succumbed to the urge to nap. Others gathered around Ramon, who had picked up the guitar of one of the musicians and began to strum it quietly.
"Would you care to stroll a bit?"
It was Peter who asked, standing above Lorna where she sat a small distance apart. He held out his hand to assist her to rise. She smiled, placing her fingers in his. "Perhaps I had better before I fall asleep."
She stumbled a little as she gained her feet, and he steadied her, his fingers lingering on her arm and a crooked smile on his wide mouth. "You may nod off at any time, with my compliments. I won't mind."
"I hope I won't insult you so."
"On the contrary, I would consider it the highest flattery, since it would mean I had your trust."
She gave a light laugh. "Dear Peter, you always know just what to say to make a woman feel good."
"I said it because I mean it."
She glanced up at him and saw an unusual gravity in his dark blue eyes. "I know," she said, "that's what makes you so nice."
"Nice! Nice, I ask you!" His mood instantly turned whimsical again as he clutched his fist to his breast in a dramatic gesture. "You might have said suave, or gallant, or polished-anything, but nice!"
"Forgive me?" she murmured, her gaze soulfully entreating.
"Anything, anything, if only you will look at me that way again! Theft, piracy, murder, anything-Lorna, what have I said?"
She recovered with an effort, banishing the stricken expression she had been unable to prevent, searching for something with which to allay his concern. "Nothing, really, I…I must have stepped on a sand burr with the side of my slipper."
He went down at once on one knee beside her. "Place your foot here, on my knee. Let me see."
Lorna sent a quick glance at the others behind them, still in full view. "Don't be silly. I'm sure it…it didn't stick. Get up, please!"
"And lose my chance to fondle your ankle? You must be daft. Let me see."
"You're the daft one," she said crossly, and lifting her skirts a few inches, did as he asked.
"No," he said mournfully sliding his fingers over the leather of her slipper. "It didn't stick. No opportunity to render service to the divine one by enduring pain for her sake, no reward."
On impulse, she kissed the tip of one finger and touched it to the end of his nose. "There, consider yourself rewarded."
Catching her finger before she could draw it back, he brought it down to his mouth. Pressing the moist place her lips had touched to his own, he said, "Now I can die happy."
"Now you can get up," she snapped in mock annoyance, snatching her hand away.
He laughed, springing to his feet, and they moved on, but behind her Lorna was aware of the primitive and passionate chords of Spanish flamenco reverberating from the strings of a guitar.
The path along the northern slope of the headland led to the cove, but also wandered parallel to the water below, descending in a series of terraces to the beach farther along the coast. They took the less strenuous trail, coming out on a narrow promontory of limestone that supported a tone sea grape with a stretch of grass beneath it. As they paused, Lorna leaned against the tree, gazing out over the sea spread beneath their feet.
"Just think," she said after a moment, "that a pirate may have stood here a hundred and fifty years ago watching for Spanish galleons laden with plundered gold from Mexico."
"I hope he had as lovely a companion as I have."
She sent him an exasperated glance. "I'm speaking of history, of someone who lived and died before we were born."
"I'm not."
"You're hopeless!"
"Not quite, though there is something about you sometimes, such as that moment back there, that makes me despair."
She gave an uneasy laugh, not quite looking at him. "You mistake my meaning."
"No mistake," he said deliberately.
She turned then to look at him as he stood so tall and so very English at her side. The sea breeze ruffled his fine blonde hair and molded his shirt to his frame. His blue gaze was direct, without humor.
"I don't think I understand."
"Don't you? You are a woman in a thousand, beautiful and intelligent, made for loving. But there are secrets behind your eyes, and barriers. I would like to draw out the secrets and break down the barriers, but they can't be touched. Not yet. If the day comes that you would like to be rid of them, I want you to know I will be there."
"Peter," she began against the slow pressure forming in her throat. She had seen much of him in the last few days. He had appeared nearly every morning on the veranda of the Royal Victoria and usually wound up escorting her for a walk or a shopping expedition along the more respectable end of Bay Street, or strolling with her through the gardens of the hotel. Still, his declaration took her by surprise.
"I don't need or expect an answer." He smiled with a wry twist to his mouth. "As a matter of fact, an answer might spoil everything."
"It…it's a good thing," she said, her mouth curving with a hint of a tremor, "since I don't know what to say. It's all nonsense, you know." If the time should come when she was ready to think of another man, then she would have to explain her past; to do otherwise would not be just. For now, she could not bring herself to think of it.
"Is it? Then, there's no harm done, is there?"
She shook her head. His features grave, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing them across her knuckles. As he released her, she smiled a little, then turned to face the sea. He placed his arm across her shoulders in a light embrace as he moved to stand beside her, and so casual was it, so without threat, that she did not prote
st.
"Oh, there, a ship," she said after a moment, as her gaze settled on the only feature on the blue rim of the horizon.
"A frigate. Federal."
"It's so far away, how can you tell?"
"By the shape of her, and the set of her canvas, her sails."
The topic was a safe one; Lorna relaxed imperceptibly. "I suppose it is waiting for the dark of the moon, too."
"Like patience on a monument,' as the bard said."
Like patience on a monument, smiling at grief. She controlled a shiver as she recalled the quotation. "Does it bother you, knowing they are out there, waiting for you?"
"Gives me the most juvenile desire to thumb my nose at them."
He suited action to his words, and they laughed together in the comic release of tension. They could hear the surge and wash of the waves against the foot of the limestone rock below. The ocean breeze caressed them, lifting Lorna's light muslin skirts, billowing them about her, rattling with a dry sound in the round, tough leaves of the sea grape that tossed over their heads. To the right, the coast line sent a curving arm out into the sea, while to the left beneath them was a small cove lined with sharp coral rock where limpets clung, and edged with cream-pink sand. The salt tang of the sea joined with the sun-warmed scent of the grass they had crushed as they walked, the faint, acrid taint of wet limestone, and the delicate fragrance of madonna lilies that came from Lorna's skin.
Peter inhaled deeply, a small playing about his mouth, before glancing down at her. "Shall we sit down for a few minutes?"
She nodded, and he took out a large handkerchief, spreading it on the grass conveniently near the trunk of the sea grape, which would serve as a back support. When she was seated, he sank down beside her. Breaking off a blade of grass, he sat nibbling at it as they talked of first one thing then another, using it to gesture as he made a point, tickling the backs of her knuckles as her hand lay on her full skirts to prevent the breeze from getting under them. After a time, he stretched out full-length, placing his head on the hem of her gown in a pretense of helplessness. When she turned to speak to him a few minutes later, she saw that his eyes were closed, the spiked gold of his lashes resting on his cheeks. He was asleep.
How long she sat there watching the shifting, changing face of the sea, while the son of an English peer slept at her feet, she did not know. Her thoughts drifted, turning, coming to no conclusion. She took off her hat, there in the shade, tossing it to one side as she leaned her head against the rough tree trunk behind her. She may have dozed lightly, lulled to somnolence by the ceaseless sigh of the waves and the warmth of the afternoon.
She was roused by the sound of a voice, feminine and rather breathless. "How impetuous you are, Ramon! Such hurry is unseemly and quite unnecessary. We are far enough from the others, in any event. Why go farther?"
Lorna turned her head. Ramon, with Elizabeth clinging to his arm, was advancing toward her. His face was set, and the pace at which he was moving forced the woman at his side to some exertion to keep up with him. Ignoring the comments of the elder Lansing sister, he stopped a few feet in front of Lorna. He looked down at Peter; his eyes were dark and his voice hard as he spoke.
"Your cavalier servant seems to have had a strenuous…walk."
The innuendo could not be mistaken. Her voice cold, Lorna answered, "It would appear to have been rather boring, if anything."
Roused by their voices, Peter opened one eye, surveying Ramon. "Oh, it's you."
Ramon shifted his point of attack. "Who did you expect? Mrs. Lansing? You do realize that you have come near to compromising Lorna?"
Peter opened both eyes, then, as if suddenly aware of where he was, sat up hurriedly. "No!"
"I assure you it's the truth."
The Englishman shook his head, less in negation than in an effort to clear it of steep. He looked up at Ramon standing over him and glanced from him to Elizabeth, who stood looking on with an expression composed both of chagrin that Ramon had obviously not brought her walking for the purpose she supposed, but as a blind, and of avid pleasure at the prospect of trouble between the Louisianian and his protégée.
"What do you want, old man, an apology? Or are you waiting for an offer in form? I have trouble picturing you as the outraged guardian, but if I thought Lorna would accept-"
"That won't be necessary," Ramon broke in, his accents incisive, cutting across Peter's words. "If you can find the energy to help Lorna to her feet, we will return to the others. They are ready to go back to town."
The drive to Nassau was accomplished in silence for the most part, as with most return journeys when the enjoyment is past and tired people look forward to the quiet and comfort of their own surroundings. Charlotte was sulky, stifling yawn after yawn in her comer of the carriage. Elizabeth spent the time between worry over the redness across her cheeks and nose, gained while playing croquet, and snapping at Peter for his tactless suggestions for remedying what she considered to be the disfigurement. Ramon rode in silence, a crease between his eyes. Lorna glanced at him from time to time, thinking of the way he had behaved earlier.
He took his responsibility for her seriously. But if he was determined to see her in a "respectable alliance," as he chose to call it, why had he not allowed Peter to complete the offer of marriage he had been about to make? For all the expectations of his noble family, she thought that, once the Englishman had made public his intentions, he would not have denied them or sought to avoid the consequences. Surely Ramon had realized that also?
It had almost appeared, in that moment on the headland, that he was jealous. Could it be? It hardly seemed likely, in view of the blithe way in which he had parted from her. If so, however, it was most perverse of him. What right had he to discard her at will, yet prevent Peter from claiming her hand? She was of a mind to encourage the Englishman for all she was worth, just to spite Ramon. Peter was too nice to be used in that manner, of course, but it would give her great pleasure to see Ramon's face as he was informed of their plans to wed.
She turned to glance at Peter, who was unconscious of the smile of wicked anticipation that lighted her gray eyes. He grinned back, enjoying the benefits of it even if he did not understand it. Ramon, intercepting the exchange, scowled.
In her room at the hotel, Lorna ate a light dinner and prepared for bed. She lay reading for a time, a novel she had picked up in a stall of used books outside a shop. It held her attention only to a degree, for the heroine was insipid, the hero overbearing, and the story filled with unlikely events and coincidences. Still, it was better than the irritating company of her own thoughts. The night stillness drew in. A cluster of moths flew in the open doors from the veranda. They fluttered about the gaslight, courting death and each other in a graceful aerial ballet. Delicate, fearless creatures, they lived for so short a time and were so easily damaged.
Sighing, she set her book aside and got up to turn off the gas at the fixture, plunging the room in darkness. The moon was waning; in a few more days, little more than a week, it would be gone. Its gleam was pale far out on the heaving surface of the sea. She paused for a moment in the doorway with the night wind gently shifting the folds of her gown and the ends of her hair around her, before closing the jalousies and moving back to her bed.
It was then she heard it, the soft music of a guitar in an old Andalusian love song. Coming, she thought, from the hotel gardens, it was a melancholy yet stirring refrain in a minor key. It spoke of love and desire, of duty and of parting, an endless lament that throbbed in the darkness, tearing gently at the heart.
She tried to shut it from her mind, as she lay in bed staring through the gauze of her mosquito netting at the bars of moonlight created by the doorway, but it crept insidiously inside. She thought of Ramon, playing a guitar on the afternoon they had met. Had it been the same song? She could not remember. Twisting in the bed, she allowed the images, the feel and taste and smell, the pounding crescendo of the lovemaking she had shared with him to invade her
thoughts. She ached with unfulfilled need and loss, with suppressed anger and a pervasive fear of the future. Tears crept from under her eyelids, dampening the pillow and her hair, and she slept finally with the haunting notes of the guitar still in her ears.
She was late the next morning in making her way to the piazza. Through the doorway, she saw Peter, and also Slick and Chris, the officers from the Lorelei, as well as Frazier. Summoning a smile, she moved toward them, and the chair beside Peter that was held ready for her. She was halfway across the open piazza when a man spoke, the voice drawling, freighted with heavy irony.
"My dear Lorna, aren't you going to wish me a good morning?"
She knew before she turned. She knew, and the knowledge made her stiff and unnatural, made her skin prickle with dread. She knew, but there was nothing to do except answer.
"Good morning, Mr. Bacon."
His loose mouth curved in a smile that was not reflected in his pale eyes as he leaned back expansively in his rattan chair, sipping his mint julep before he replied. "There's no need for such formality, now is there, my dear? You may call me Nate."
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Chapter 11
The dance cards for the Lansing cotillion were in the shape of full moons, with spaces for the names of the men who would request the listed dances on the lines of the rays around them. Yards of navy blue netting sewn with silver spangles had been gathered and tented under the ceiling to form a canopy of stars. At the end of the ballroom, above the long table holding the punch bowl, was a huge full moon of isinglass lighted from behind by a trio of lanterns and suspended in swaths of clouds formed of gray cotton wool. Other than these arrangements, the long reception room used for the ball was much the same, with its long line of glowing chandeliers, banks of greenery, and massed bouquets set on tables between the rows of gilt chairs that lined the walls.
Surrender in Moonlight Page 21
