"Thank you, Robins." He strapped on his sabre, then swung towards the boy. "Well? What do you think, lad? Will His Lordship be properly impressed?"
Robins nodded stiffly. "Aye, sir."
"And Mistress Russell? Will I impress her, as well?"
The slightest possible smile twitched at the corners of the boy's lips.
"Indeed, sir. I am certain you will."
Matthew grinned. "Thank you, lad. Oh, and by the way, Robins...?"
The boy's heels damn near clicked together. "Sir?"
"If you're going to sneak into the galley and raid Cookie's sweets, you must remember to wipe your mouth."
Never pausing, Matthew made his way up the ladder to the deck, and to what he hoped would be the first of many pleasant evenings. The carriage Lord Russell had sent for him was waiting at dockside. It was an elegant barouche, emblazoned with the Russell coat of arms and drawn by a pair of perfectly matched, high-stepping greys. It was also complete with a liveried coachman and footman. Both men were black. Were they free men, Matthew wondered, or slaves? Slavery was a fact of life in these islands, as it was in some of the American states, but that didn't change Matthew's dislike of the practice.
The coachman tipped his hat.
"Evenin', sir."
"Good evening," Matthew said, waving off the footman who was already scrambling down to help him into the carriage.
The whip cracked the air and they set off. Matthew looked about him with interest. Atropos had docked the day before, but save for a brief visit to the Customs Office, he had spent no time in Hawkins Bay.
Now, by the fading light of dusk, he saw that it was a larger settlement than he had thought. Front Street, which gave onto the docks, was a hodgepodge of customs houses and narrow wooden buildings that seemed to offer everything a seafarer could possibly want. Shipbuilders, suppliers of salt pork and hardtack, makers of hemp line and tar jockeyed for position. And interspersed among those establishments were the taverns, what looked to be nearly one for every ship that lay at anchor in the harbor. The tropical air was heavy with the scent of rum and cheap perfume that wafted out their doors along with the shriek of coarse female laughter.
More dignified commercial buildings lined the next street. Not that banks and trading corporations were all that dignified, Matthew thought with a little smile. His Virginia backers, for all their blueblood lineage, fine homes and fancy airs, had proven themselves as determined to wring every penny from a dollar as any ship's chandler.
The paved roadway ended and became packed dirt. They were in the residential section of town now, first passing what were surely rooming houses. Matthew had seen enough of them in enough ships' ports halfway around the globe to be able to pick them out even at a distance. Then, as the road began to climb, the houses grew bigger and stood further apart, the homes, no doubt, of Hawkins Bay's merchants and bankers.
Finally, there were no houses at all, only the now-narrow road, climbing into lush hills that looked as untouched as they must have been when Europeans had first come to these islands. Everywhere there were flowers, sending their sweet scent into the night. Birdsong had given way to the chirrups of a chorus of insect voices. It was fully dark now, save for an enormous, butter yellow moon rising into a sky bright with stars.
Matthew sat back in the leather seat. He folded his hands behind his head, stretched out his long legs, and crossed his ankles.
Surely Lord Russell's daughter would be beautiful. How could she be anything less, in such a paradise as this? Half an hour later, the slowing of the horses roused him from a light slumber.
Matthew leaned forward as the carriage drew to a halt. Years at sea had taught him the value of caution; he laid his hand lightly on the handle of his sabre.
"Driver? Why are we stopping?"
"We got to open the gates, sir."
"What gates?"
"Why, the gates to Charon's Crossin'."
Matthew stood in the carriage. Ahead, like black stripes painted against the charcoal of the night, loomed a high iron gate. As he watched, the footman undid the lock and leapt aside just as the coachman shouted to the horses, which lunged ahead and up a rise. The scent of night-blooming flowers was strong, interspersed with the ever-present salt tang of the sea.
A blaze of light filtered through the trees. Matthew whistled softly through his teeth.
"Is that the house?" he said, raising his voice over the sound of hooves pounding against gravel.
The coachman nodded. "Charon's Crossin', sir."
By the time the coach pulled up before the house, the blaze of light had sorted itself into easily a dozen candlelit windows, augmented by the flames rising from oil-burning torcheres in the courtyard.
The front door swung open at his knock. Laughter, conversation, music and the smell of fine wines and expensive foods encompassed him.
"Sir?"
Matthew looked at the liveried butler standing squarely in the open doorway. His face was black, but his accent was straight from the rarefied reaches of upper London society. And if the look on his face meant anything, so was his attitude.
Matthew smiled pleasantly. "Good evening. Captain Matthew McDowell, of the Atropos, to see Lord Russell."
The butler's nose almost twitched. "The American vessel, sir?"
"Exactly," Matthew said, still pleasantly.
The butler nodded. "I shall see if his lordship is available."
"I am sure he is."
"If you will wait here, sir..."
The door began to shut. Matthew wedged his foot in it and smiled coldly.
"I don't wait on any man's doorstep. Either announce me, man, or I shall announce myself."
"Sir, I am afraid..."
"Indeed, you had better be. I have been at sea for weeks and I am in no mood to be—"
"Brutus?" The voice coming from behind the butler was soft and feminine and delicately English. "What is the problem?"
"There is no problem, Miss. It's just this... this gentleman wants to see your father, and I've explained to him that—"
"He has explained," Matthew said, pushing the door open and stepping inside the marble-floored entry foyer, "that American upstarts are, perhaps, not quite good enough to mingle in genteel English society. And I, in turn, was explaining to him that—that..."
His words trailed away. The girl was standing at the foot of a wide staircase. Her hair was the color of night, drawn back from her face and piled atop her head, though soft ringlets of it lay alluringly against her delicate cheeks and brow. Her eyes were as blue as the sky on a summer morning, her mouth was small and full and looked as if it had been stained with wild cherries. She was wearing a white gown that looked as if it were made of gossamer, and cut so that the neckline framed her perfect white shoulders and creamy bosom.
Matthew's heart turned over. He had heard Catherine Russell was beautiful but no one had prepared him for this. By God, she was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.
"Lady Russell?" he said, when he could trust himself to speak. "Catherine Russell?"
"Sir." The butler's voice was chill with disapproval. "I ask you again to please wait until—"
The girl waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. "That will be all, Brutus."
The butler's eyes narrowed but he bowed respectfully. "As you wish."
Catherine Russell waited until Brutus had disappeared. Then she came slowly forward, smiling as she advanced.
"You have the better of me, sir. You know my name, but I fear I do not know yours."
Matthew plucked off his tricorn hat and made her a low, sweeping bow.
"I am Matthew McDowell, ma'am, captain of the Atropos, and I am your servant."
"Indeed," she said softly. Matthew looked up. She was smiling at him in a way that made his head spin. There was an ivory fan in her right hand; she raised it and fluttered it lightly before her face. "My father has spoken of you, Captain. He said you were brave and courageous." Her eyes met his. "But he never mentioned that
you were also handsome."
A slow smile angled across Matthew's mouth. "Then it is I who have the better of you," he said softly, as he covered the distance between them. He stopped inches away, so that Catherine had to tilt her head back to see his face. "For I knew, even before I laid eyes on you, that you were the most beautiful woman in all this hemisphere."
Catherine gave a low, breathless laugh. Life at Charon's Crossing and on this dreary bit of England in the New World was almost painfully dull. She had found the eligible males wanting in looks, the ineligible ones wanting in charm, and all of them wanting in wit. Her father, who had spoiled and coddled her all her life, urged her to maintain social relationships with the daughters of the bankers and rich merchants who populated Elizabeth Island, but Catherine had long ago found time spent with ambitionless members of her own sex boring.
"I wish I could do something to make you happier," her father had said, just this evening, as she had lamented the awful sameness of another dinner party at which she had no wish to pretend to be the gracious hostess.
Now, it looked as if her father had fulfilled his own wish, albeit unknowingly, for she knew instantly that Matthew McDowell was going to make her happier. She knew of him, of course. He had come to sail these waters at the behest of her father and men like him, though she knew her father spoke of him with disdain.
"We need this man," she'd heard her father say, when she'd lingered outside his study as he'd discussed the war with the French with influential friends, "but we must not forget he is little more than a pirate, a hired ruffian to do our bidding."
Ruffian Matthew McDowell might be, but he was also stunningly handsome. Those shoulders. That chest, and those narrow hips and long, long legs. And oh, that hard, gorgeous face...
Oh yes. Clearly, things at Charon's Crossing were going to be much more interesting from now on.
"Ah, dear sir," Catherine said, fluttering her ivory fan with a practiced gesture, "I am disappointed, being told I am the most beautiful woman only in this hemisphere. I had hoped for more."
Matthew smiled into her eyes. "You misunderstood me, Miss Russell. The nations of the Old World have transplanted their fairest flowers here, to the New. And since you are, without doubt, the loveliest of them, so are you therefore the loveliest in all the world."
Catherine threw back her head and gave a peal of musical laughter.
"You are quick with words, Captain," she said, laying her hand lightly on his arm. "You must come and let me introduce you to my father. I am sure he will be delighted to make your acquaintance at long last."
* * *
"Delighted" was not the word Matthew would have used to describe Lord Russell's reaction to him.
Catherine's father was coldly polite but it was clear that he would never have invited a man like Matthew to dine at his table under more normal circumstances.
But these were not normal circumstances. The French ships that plied these waters were rich prizes but the Crown could not spare its own vessels to chase and capture them. British warships were busy blockading the French ports in the Bay of Biscay and in the Mediterranean, keeping imports from reaching Napoleon's armies on the Peninsula.
It was a situation that made for strange bedfellows. Or strange dining companions, Matthew thought, smiling to himself as he sipped an excellent glass of French wine and listened with half an ear to the breathy chatter of the woman seated to his right. She was a baroness, she was exceedingly beautiful and, as she'd made clear from the moment she'd laid eyes on Matthew, she was available.
But Matthew had eyes only for Catherine Russell. Every man at the crowded table did, for that matter. And she had eyes for all of them... but none for him.
What had happened to the promises he'd read in her eyes when they'd met in the entry foyer?
By the time dinner had ended and dancing had begun in the brightly lit ballroom, Matthew was half crazed with jealousy. Catherine laughed gaily at other men's jokes, she smiled at them and danced with them...
And ignored him completely. He waited until she was, for a brief instant, alone. Then he strode up to her and took her hands in his.
"You promised me this dance, Mistress Russell," he said.
Catherine looked surprised. "I believe you are wrong, Captain. I promised this dance to—"
Matthew had already swept her onto the dance floor.
"Do not argue with me," he warned, and when they danced past a pair of French doors, opened to let in the cool night breeze, he swept her through them and out into the darkness of the terrace. "Now, madam. Tell me why you have been deliberately ignoring me?"
"I shall tell you nothing, sir, for you are no gentleman to treat a lady thus."
"Nay." Matthew drew her deeper into the shadows. "I am no gentleman, Catherine. I am a man who takes what he wishes, and what I wish most is a kiss from your sweet lips."
Catherine laughed. "You must steal it then. But not tonight," she added quickly as he began to bend towards her. "I shall meet you tomorrow, in the rose garden."
Matthew nodded. He reached out and traced the outline of her mouth with his finger, gently parting it until he was stroking softly over the delicate, moist flesh inside her bottom lip.
"Tell me the hour, Catherine, and I will be there."
Oh, she thought, as he touched her, he was good at this game. She would not be able to toy with him as easily as she had toyed with so many others. That was good. The element of risk and of danger would add to her pleasure.
She looked into his eyes, smiled, and flicked the tip of her tongue against his fingertip. Matthew felt his body clench like a fist.
She was so beautiful. So seductive. And, by God, so innocent. It was a paradox but one he was sure he understood. She had felt the same lightning bolt as he; it was why she was almost swooning as she leaned towards him, why she sucked his finger into her mouth...
"Catherine?"
The harsh voice drove them apart. Catherine swung towards the doors that led back into the ballroom.
"Father!" Her smile lost its seductive tilt. She clasped Matthew's arm and drew him forward into the spill of light from the house. "How fortuitous! I was just about to go looking for you. Father, Captain McDowell is not feeling well."
Russell's close-set eyes narrowed. "Is that why you brought my daughter out here, Captain? So that she might keep you company in your illness?"
Matthew started to answer but Catherine's hand squeezed a warning.
"It was my idea, Father. We were dancing and all at once, the captain turned pale, excused himself and bolted for the doors." Catherine let go of Matthew's arm and stepped closer to Russell. "I suppose I should have let him go, Father, but then I thought, how would it look if I shunned my duty as your hostess and permitted one of your guests to stagger off and collapse unnoticed?"
A muscle clenched in Russell's jaw.
"You could have sent one of the servants after him, Catherine."
Catherine sighed and laid her head against her father's shoulder.
"Of course. How I wish I'd been clever enough to have thought of that."
Russell's expression softened. "Go on inside, my dear, and tend to our other guests."
She smiled and kissed his cheek. "Yes, Father. Good night, Captain McDowell. I trust you'll remember what I told you? Some tea brewed from cinchona bark will have you feeling better in no time. Why, twelve hours from now, you'll be fit as a fiddle."
Twelve hours from now? Matthew's eyes shot to Catherine's and she gave him an almost imperceptible nod. That was when she would meet him, then, on the morrow.
The speed with which she'd woven a tale to deceive her father, coupled with the ease with which she'd given him the hour of tomorrow's assignation, was dazzling. Matthew revised his earlier estimate of Catherine. She was not only the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, she was also the brightest.
He smiled politely, took the hand she offered him, and bowed over it as he raised it to his lips.
"Thank you, Lady Catherine. You have been most kind and I am indebted to you."
She smiled brightly. "It was nothing, Captain. But if you truly wish, you may repay that debt by being our guest at Charon's Crossing again soon. You can tell me all the latest gossip from the colonies."
Matthew knew nothing of social gossip. And he had flattened more than one fool who still insisted on referring to the American states as "colonies." But, at that moment, if Catherine Russell had told him the moon was made of green cheese, he would not have argued...
* * *
A gust of wind, blowing in from across the sea, slammed one of the attic shutters against the wall of the house.
The book fell from Kathryn's hands. She jumped to her feet, almost totally disoriented. The shutter banged again, and she let out her breath.
Slowly, she bent down and picked up Matthew McDowell's journal. Landing face-down on the floor didn't seem to have harmed it any. She brushed it off carefully, shut it, and laid it on the rocker.
How long had she been reading, anyway? Long enough for the sun to have changed its angle in the sky. She had to lift her hand and tilt it towards the window in order to read her watch.
"Wow," she whispered.
What else could you say, when you found out four hours had passed in what felt like a minute?
The man wrote a heck of an interesting diary, she had to give him that much. Descriptive, too, she thought, and smiled.
Her smile faded. She remembered what he had written, that he had stroked his finger across Catherine Russell's mouth and she had parted her lips so she could taste his skin.
Kathryn felt the quickening beat of her heart. That was what had happened to her, last night. In her dream, Matthew had touched her mouth that same way. She could close her eyes now and still recall the eroticism of that moment, the heat of his fingertip moving across her lips, how she'd longed to do what the other Catherine had done, to draw his finger into her mouth and skim the tip of her tongue over it...
"Oh, for goodness' sakes!"
Enough already! The old book was fascinating. It was an interesting artifact and if she found the time, she'd probably pick it up again some afternoon. But that was all there was to it. The journal didn't have a damned thing to do with her or with her crazy dreams.
Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) Page 9
