Calhoun Chronicles Bundle

by Susan Wiggs

  Slowly, by tantalizing inches, he sank into her, and in shameless response, she lifted her hips to him.

  Neither of them spoke; they said what needed to be said with lips and hands and the long, slow embrace of deep passion. It went on endlessly; it was over too soon. She wanted his lovemaking to last forever, yet she was impatient to feel the explosion inside, to make certain the other time hadn’t been an aberration. Ryan surrounded her, engulfed her and she finally began to understand what it meant to be one with a man. For surely in this shattering moment in time they were one body, one heart, one mind, driving toward a completion they both needed as much as they needed the next breath of air.

  In the rain forest she thought she had glimpsed paradise. She had imagined she’d found a piece of heaven but that it was rare, never to be seen or felt again. Now, in Ryan’s arms, with cloudy daylight showering over them and her thoughts as clear as the glass panes in the stern windows, she felt it again, only everything was stronger, brighter, more meaningful.

  This time the experience was not blurred by a narcotic fog. Her passion crested in a burst of pleasure that left her mindless. She simply lay there, a creature of air and light, glorying in the feel of him inside her, and nearly exploding again when she felt his release.

  He lowered himself against her, his breath warm on her neck, saying her name over and over again in whispers.

  She closed her eyes and drifted, smiling secretively.

  “What is that smile for?” he asked at last, pressing his lips to her temple.

  “It wasn’t a fluke.”

  “What wasn’t a fluke?”

  “The…um…the moment of pleasure.”

  He pulled away, chuckling, and lay at her side, his hand tracing loose, idle patterns over her naked breasts and belly. “You thought the first time was a fluke.”

  “I had no point of reference, you see. And then there was the matter of the hemp cigars, so I thought perhaps they were the cause of all that, um, pleasure.”

  “Love, no drug can have the narcotic effect—” he leaned down and kissed her breasts, each in turn “—as physical intimacy with the right person.”

  “How do you know which is the right person?”

  “You don’t. Not at first, at least. It happens.”

  “And you would know.”

  “Yes. I would know.”

  “Oh, Ryan—”

  “You have to understand, I couldn’t let you return to Boston in widow’s weeds.”

  She clung to him. “Why do you bring this up now?”

  “I thought you might be wondering why I brought you in here and took off all your clothes.” He changed the subject smoothly.

  “Because they looked like widow’s weeds.”

  “Because…you’re not that person anymore. You’re not the Isadora Peabody who came aboard so wrapped in sadness, so timid, afraid of your own shadow. You’ve traveled the globe. You’ve had adventures.”

  “I’ve had adventures,” she said, “I’ve had you.” Her throat felt sore with words unsaid. “Ryan—”

  “Hush.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “You’ve got a party to go to.”

  She glumly eyed her dress and underthings crumpled on the floor.

  “Not that,” he said, getting up and putting on his trousers and shirt. “I have a better idea.”

  “But—”

  “Hush,” he said again. “So long as we’re aboard this ship, I’m the skipper. You’ll do as I say.” He dressed hurriedly in trousers and shirt, then bowed gracefully, holding out his hand. “Come here, Miss Peabody.”

  She felt wicked rather than awkward as she left the bed and went to the washstand. The water in the basin was tepid but fresh, and with a grave sense of purpose he insisted on bathing her, using the minty soap made in the kitchen of his aunt’s house. He took his time, lathering and rinsing her, pausing to kiss her in places that she should forbid him to touch, but instead she opened herself to him. He’d put a spell on her, and she was powerless to object to anything he chose to do to her, with her, for her. Trusting him utterly, she let herself be totally manipulated by him, and the washing became a sensual adventure that left her almost weeping with pleasure.

  Afterward he draped a flannel robe around her, then went to the door, murmuring something to one of the men on deck. A few minutes later, Ryan opened the door and dragged in a packing crate from the hold. Using a pry bar, he opened the stout wooden box.

  “Raiding your stores already,” Isadora said in mock disapproval.

  “It’s for an honorable cause,” he assured her. “My mother sent this as a gift for you.”

  She tilted her head to read the lettering stenciled on the side. “Seta fina—fine silks from Italy.”

  “There’s a case of paints and scent and lacquer, too.”

  “What on earth would I do with that?”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  With the grave purpose of a Paris couturier, he picked out a rich peacock turquoise gown with fiery scarlet trim. “My mother claims this will flatter your coloring,” he said. “Do you like it?”

  She laughed because he looked absurd holding it against him, yet she felt drawn to the dazzling iridescent color and the shocking cut of the dress. Then a memory flashed through her—the day she’d dressed in white for the croquet party and Thankful had ridiculed her.

  She cast her gaze down. A handsome gown would not transform a frog into a princess. “I would not be comfortable wearing that.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll be comfortable.”

  And then she recalled what he had said to her—that she was a different person. Perhaps even the sort of person who could wear a shockingly vibrant gown to a staid Beacon Hill dancing party.

  “Ryan, I don’t know—”

  He cut her off with a long kiss that evoked echoes of the pleasure they had shared. “Don’t tell me,” he said, “a woman can kiss like that and then wear black.”

  He insisted on putting the gown on her, kicking aside her stays. “The iron maiden again. I’m feeding it to the sharks.” He allowed her only one petticoat no matter what she said. Then he made her put on a pair of silk stockings so sheer she could see through the fabric.

  It felt good, sinfully good, to experience the whisper of silk against her skin. The dress was snug but not tight, enveloping her like a kind embrace. She loved the slippery smoothness of the costly fabric.

  After a long time of fussing and fumbling with the gown, Ryan stood back and regarded her with a critical eye. “This is beyond me. I need some help.”

  She flushed scarlet, certain he was making sport of her, but in total earnestness he went to the door and whistled, calling out to various members of the crew. Standing outside the door, he held a murmured conference with the men. Long, horrible moments passed. She stood trapped like a startled doe with nowhere to hide. And then the most extraordinary thing happened.

  They all came. Every man aboard, as well as Delilah. Like the daintiest of handmaidens, each man on the crew contributed to dressing her up. They comported themselves like acolytes in a ceremony, paying homage.

  Journey brought a pair of embroidered dancing slippers from the crate and slid them on her feet. Gerald Craven, calling on his skill as the resident tattoo artist, used kohl and carmine to highlight her eyes and lips. Luigi, the sail maker, brought out his needle and thread to nip in the dress at the waist where it hung a little too loose. The Doctor presented her with a necklace of abalone shells that glowed with the opalescence of a full moon. Even Chips contributed a surprising item—an atomizer of rare hibiscus scent. Delilah took great delight in lacquering her fingernails while the wide-eyed children looked on. Last of all, with deep concentration, Timothy Datty did her hair.

  Isadora took it all in with the stunned inertia of a weary Cinderella. They were fairy godmothers in rugged sailors’ garb, and as she came to understand what they were doing, she felt a hard, painful lump in her throat.

  “You
all planned this, didn’t you?” she said thickly.

  “’Deed we did,” the Doctor said proudly. “Can’t send you back into the world without doing something special for our own Isadora.”

  “Don’t forget to point your toe when you curtsy,” Gerald advised, pantomiming the gesture.

  “And hold your little finger out when you drink your tea.” Journey demonstrated with a cup.

  “It’s the least we can do, seeing as how you did so much for us,” Timothy added, patting a mother-of-pearl comb into place.

  “So much,” she said, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Ryan stood back, smiling at her like some sort of benevolent god. “You touched every one of us, Isadora, in your own way.”

  “Whoa there.” Journey handed her a wispy lace-edged handkerchief. “Don’t go crying on us now. You’ll ruin Gerald’s work.”

  She shut her eyes and pressed her rouged lips together, taking a deep breath. It didn’t help, not much, but because Gerald looked so proud and expectant, she dared not let tears smudge the kohl. “You are,” she said, her gaze sweeping the crowded stateroom, “the first true friends I’ve ever had.” She tried to dispel the tension by brushing out the silky folds of her skirts. “But heavens be, what in the world is Boston going to think of me?”

  “Why don’t you see for yourself?” Chips nodded to Luigi, who brought in a crate marked Fragile. Using the pry bar, they took out a fine gilt cheval glass.

  As they set it up, Isadora realized she hadn’t seen a mirror in months. Ryan’s shaving mirror was so tiny it only showed part of the face. She was almost afraid to take a peek, for she had never enjoyed seeing the unhappy reflection of her gawky, large self.

  But the crew seemed so proud, she didn’t want to disappoint them. She waited, shoulders straight and chin held high in the new way she had learned to carry herself. They positioned the tall mirror and turned it toward her. Then, for the first time since leaving Boston, she confronted herself in a full-length looking glass. What she saw stunned her speechless.

  She was looking at a stranger.

  A beautiful stranger.

  The ugly duckling had become a swan.

  She wasn’t pudgy and pale, but fit and strong, thanks to the Doctor’s galley rations and an active life on shipboard. A mass of sun-gilt curls framed her astonished, almost elegant-looking face. Sun and wind had turned her pallor to a vivid gold hue, unconventional yet curiously attractive. The daring dress and dancing shoes completed the picture of a bold beauty, unknowingly transformed in ways that she knew went far deeper than looks alone. She realized that it was not so much her looks but her very deepest inner self that had changed.

  Completing the voyage, coming to know these men and especially Ryan, had given her the self-confidence she’d always lacked, and that confidence showed in her proud posture and upright carriage. Her dealings in Rio had taught her to meet the most intimidating eye without flinching; her late nights on the midships deck and at Rose’s villa had given her the poise to dance with the handsomest of men without feeling inferior; her masquerade in Virginia had taught her that anything was possible if only she dared to believe herself worthy.

  Ryan and the crew—her own personal charm school—had given her this.

  Isadora couldn’t help herself. She burst into tears.

  “Don’t,” they all begged at once, but she couldn’t stop. She embraced each man in his turn, and finally Journey and Delilah, soaking first one handkerchief and then another.

  “You are all so very dear to me,” she said. She indicated the sad, lovely vision in the mirror. “Your friendship has made me into someone I was never able to be before.”

  Delilah bathed her face with a cool cloth and Gerald repaired the makeup.

  “It’s time to go,” Ryan said, taking her hand.

  As if in a dream, she went out on deck and they were lowered away in a launch. Ryan himself manned the oars, pulling them smoothly and cleanly through the waters of Boston harbor. She twisted around to look back at them. They all lined the rails of the Silver Swan, and with the sails reefed and the storm brewing on the distant horizon, there was a drama and poignancy in the moment that almost brought on more tears.

  “Don’t,” Ryan said, reading her mind. “I haven’t got Gerald’s hand with the makeup, so don’t start crying again.”

  She turned to face him. “I won’t.”

  She watched him row, and with the powerful rhythm of his strokes, every moment of their time together flashed before her eyes. The night she’d met him, like a drunken Bacchus on his throne, a woman draped across his lap. Casually handsome in the garden at her father’s house, getting a glimpse of her discontented life. On the deck of the ship, issuing orders and laughing as the wind filled the sails. And finally, she thought of how close they had been, how intimate, and how she should be ashamed but could not for the life of her summon shame at what they had done, what they had been to one another.

  Too soon, they reached the city dock and he helped her out. The solid ground seemed to list beneath her feet and she leaned against him, catching his scent of wind and sea. He supported her with one arm while signaling to the Easterbrook coach with its crested bridled horses. The doors were painted with the familiar company emblem—the silver swan on a field of blue.

  “Have fun at the ball tonight, princess,” he told her with a wink. “You do know how to have fun, don’t you?”

  She smiled, feeling a blush steal up to her cheeks. “I do now. You’ll come to the reception later, won’t you?”

  “Later.” He touched her beneath the chin. The bustle of workmen, fishermen, distillers and laborers at the harbor faded into the background. She didn’t care who saw them, didn’t care what they thought. “I promise.”

  “Ryan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Why—after that day at the waterfall—why did you keep your distance from me? Why couldn’t we be…close, as we were today?”

  He laughed, yet his mirth held dark tones of irony. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “You really don’t understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  He bent slightly and kissed her. “Isadora. I fell in love with you that day.”

  For several moments she was too stunned to speak. The raucous cries of seagulls pounded like thunder in her ears. “Don’t tease me. It’s cruel.”

  “I’m not teasing.” He regarded her steadily, and deep in his eyes she saw an abiding affection that she wanted to close into her heart and keep forever.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What would have been the point?” He kissed her again, then he turned and walked her to the buggy, handing her up to the coachman. “Make your way carefully,” he instructed. “She is precious cargo.”

  And that was how she left him. Standing on the wharf, a quickening wind plucking at his hair and shirt, his hand at his waist and hip cocked to one side. She had the horrid, irrational notion that she would never see him again, even though he’d promised he would come to the reception.

  A scream built in her chest, but she couldn’t let it out, for if she did, everything inside her would follow and she would be empty, with nothing, not even memories, to help her survive.

  Twenty-Four

  Whereto answering, the sea,

  Delaying not, hurrying not,

  Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,

  Lisped to me the low and delicious word death.

  —Walt Whitman,

  Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

  “Here we are, miss.” The driver opened the door of the coach and set down a battered wooden step stool. “And I hope you have a fine evening.”

  Isadora thanked him absently but made no move to exit the vehicle. She stared at the ornate entranceway of the Easterbrook mansion. Marble steps, flanked by
tall urns, led up to double doors that had been flung wide to accommodate the press of people who flowed into the foyer. Gaslight glowed in the early evening, creating a soft warmth that surrounded the elegant crowd.

  Dancers swirled past the tall bowed windows in a bouquet of color and music. She wondered if she would see her family at the party. Arabella would be married now.

  Getting married used to be the beginning and end of all Isadora’s dreams. But now she was not so certain. Now she realized that the key to happiness had less to do with setting up housekeeping with an appropriate spouse and more, far more, to do with finding someone who gave one confidence and peace and passion, gifts so rich she had no words for them.

  “Miss?” the coachman prompted. He cleared his throat and held out his leather-gloved hand.

  “Yes,” she murmured, allowing him to help her down. A brisk wind, heavy with rain, gusted along Beacon Street, blowing her feather-light skirts. She walked slowly up the stairs to the door, suddenly conscious that she looked nothing like the other guests. She wore a vivid-colored gown cut in a style that Boston would hardly recognize; her hair was a mass of loose curls rather than the customary Psyche knot with its streamers; days in the sun and wind had ruined the snowy pallor the other ladies strove for.

  Isadora smiled. She had never fit in before and she was accustomed to this feeling. Yet unlike before, she didn’t wish to be invisible. She wanted everyone to see her, wanted to do honor to the gifts Ryan and the crew had given her.

  With her head held high and her smile fixed in place, she stepped into the foyer and greeted her hosts.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Easterbrook, it’s so good to see you again.” She felt the frank heat of dozens of stares fixed upon her. The former Isadora would have melted into a puddle of nerves to find herself the object of such avid attention. But the present Isadora merely smiled wider as she dipped into a polite and graceful curtsy.