“You’ve given up on Sherwood?” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed slightly as she watched him. Quint turned away from her and resumed his pacing.
“Lily told me she didn’t want to see me again.”
“Lily,” Eleanor repeated. “You’re on a first-name basis?”
“When she damn well feels like it.”
Eleanor shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “She’ll change her mind.”
Quint shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Even if she doesn’t,” Eleanor reasoned, “you’ve accomplished a lot. You can do more.”
Quint snorted in disgust.
“In a matter of days, Captain Wright’s ship will be intercepted, thanks to you. Do you know what would happen if that shipment reached the Confederacy? If those ironclads went to sea powered by those engines and fitted with the armaments that very well could be aboard as well?” Eleanor half rose, then seated herself again.
“And John Wright?” Quint asked.
“The foreign crewmen are usually detained no more than a few weeks, until the prize court is held.” Eleanor drummed her fingers on the desk, and her eyes hardened.
“John Wright is from Galveston,” Quint said quietly.
“Then he will probably be sent to the prison at Fort Warren in Boston, or perhaps Fort Lafayette in New York Harbor.” She dismissed his distressed look with a shrug. “Either of them is a sight better than Point Lookout Prison.”
“I like John Wright,” Quint said quietly, as much to himself as to Eleanor. Many nights the man had talked about his family rather than his lucrative and risky shipping venture. He had a mother and four sisters in Texas, and he sent them money and food and bolts of fabric. The youngest sister was only twelve, Quint remembered. How would they survive while he was in prison?
Eleanor leaned forward, giving Quint a stern and almost angry look. “You can’t afford to like Captain Wright, or any of the others. They’d kill you without a second thought if they knew you were a spy. You can’t afford to let Lily Radford lead you around by what you’ve got hanging between your legs, either.”
Quint simply raised his eyebrows at the proper widow’s sudden vulgarity.
“Don’t tell me you don’t realize that’s exactly what she’s doing.” Eleanor leaned back and relaxed visibly. “It’s the way women like her operate. Come hither. Go away. Come hither. Go away.”
Quint finally took his usual chair. “Do you really think that’s what she’s doing? Playing with me? Leading me along?” He tried to remember all the changes he had seen in Lily. Her apparent vulnerability that came and went like the tides. One minute she was a simpering idiot, the next an expert chess player. He felt like a foolish boy, and his chagrin must have showed on his face, because Eleanor laughed kindly.
“Don’t feel so bad. We Southern women are taught from a very early age how to wrap a man around our little finger. Lily Radford may not be very bright, but I have a feeling that she was raised to know exactly what I’m talking about. I wish you could see yourself. You look like a whipped puppy.”
Quint’s anger with himself grew. She was right. He should have recognized the signs. Just like Alicia. His frown deepened at the thought of the woman who had been his fiancée for three years. Beautiful Alicia, with her dark hair and eyes so like his own. He had believed that she was as close to perfect as a man could ask for, even as she continually postponed their wedding. They were young and had all the time in the world. Or at least they had believed that was true.
But his decision to leave his home, to leave the plantation that should have become his one day, had shown him a side of Alicia he had never even suspected. She refused to join him, refused to leave behind the security of her home. She had wanted, had planned for years, to one day be mistress of Quint’s father’s plantation when it passed to him, and she wanted no part of what she called Quint’s foolish gesture.
Foolish gesture.
A year later, she married Quint’s younger brother, Dalton. Quint had been in Baltimore when he’d received the news. The sense of betrayal he’d felt had filled him with bitterness and had made it impossible for him to completely trust anyone.
Alicia had gotten what she wanted all along. She was mistress of the plantation that had once been his home.
“You’ll reconsider?” Eleanor asked softly.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Wonderful. We have it on good authority that the Chameleon is putting out to sea tomorrow night. Perhaps with the Captain away, Miss Radford will be more receptive to your persistent attentions.”
“How do you know he’s sailing? I haven’t heard…. ”
“I told you that you’re not the only operative on this island.” Eleanor smiled brightly. “There’s a pretty redhead who works in the cathouse across the street from your hotel. A young seaman from Sherwood’s crew is quite taken with her and has been bemoaning the days he will be away from her bed.”
Quint massaged his aching head. “All right. I’ll give it another try.” His voice had the ring of defeat, but deep inside he was glad of the excuse to pursue Lily a while longer. Playing with him, was she?
Well, she didn’t have him in checkmate yet, and it was his move.
Eight
Lily leaned into the wind that brushed across her face, and she raised her hand, a signal for the engines to be cut to dead slow. With the hinged mast down, the gray-painted hull low in the water, and a mist of fog surrounding her, the Chameleon was almost invisible as she neared the coast. The pilot, Cyril, had the wheel, having taken over from Lily as they neared the Cape Fear River to enter via New Inlet.
There was not a sound from her crew, not a sniffle or a sigh, not a single whispered word. The engines had earlier been cut to half-speed, and then, at Lily’s command, to the dead slow. Even the sound of the hull pushing against the water was lost in the roar of the surf.
As always, Lily felt a surge of excitement. They had spotted the Union blockaders in the distance, but had remained unseen. It was an exciting game, profitable and exhilarating, and she felt almost as if she were thumbing her nose at the Union Navy. It was a thought she dismissed as childish and unlike her, simply a product of her competitive nature. But the gesture was perhaps more like her than she cared to admit.
What would they say when they discovered, as one day they would, that a woman had commanded a ship that had been so easily able to elude their navy? Sometimes Lily imagined what it would be like to stand before her enemy and declare to him what she had done. In her daydreams it was always the captain who had been present at her father’s slaying whom she faced.
Once under the protection of Fort Fisher, the entire crew relaxed. You could almost hear the release of their collective breath, the quiet sighs and satisfied murmurs slowly building as they threaded their way toward Wilmington.
Lily enjoyed the voyage from Nassau to Wilmington and back, in spite of the dangers, much more than she enjoyed the days spent in Wilmington. In port, it was necessary that she either stay in her cabin or dress in one of the gowns she kept in a trunk in that small cabin. Even if the Chameleon was in port for only two or three days, she could rarely abide to be confined for the length of their stay.
Tommy, as her first mate, handled all business transactions for her. It galled her that she was unable to perform that part of the venture herself, but there was nothing to be done for it. The merchants and Confederates Tommy dealt with had all come to accept the fact that they would never meet the mysterious Captain Sherwood. It was enough that his ship came through the blockade, laden with the goods that enabled them to survive.
“Captain?” Tommy prompted softly, and Lily, lost in her own thoughts, grinned at her uncle.
“I know, I know. Bloody nuisance, hiding below decks.” In spite of her objections, Lily turned away from him and disappeared through an open hatch, her feet sure on the ladder. She could find her way around her ship in total darkness, and had been called upon to do just that once or twice
. She felt no trepidation as she disappeared into the dark hold, taking the correct number of steps down the narrow hallway with one hand against the wall until she reached her cabin.
Inside, with the door closed, Lily lit a lamp. Already she knew she would not be able to stay there. The cabin was small. There was no luxurious captain’s cabin for Lily. Space was critical, and she wouldn’t waste an inch simply to provide herself a finer cabin than was necessary.
The bed was small, not much more than a narrow cot. That suited Lily just fine. On board the Chameleon, she rarely slept more than three hours a night, even when they were in port. There was a small bookcase built into one wall, filled with a few of her favorite books. A round table was bolted to the floor, with two plain chairs bolted alongside. The only item that might be called indulgent was a saber that hung on one wall, its decorative guard a fouled anchor and leaf design with a twisted rope on the bow-guard. The leather scabbard housed a polished and deadly sharp blade, and the upper scabbard throat was engraved with an anchor. Even the grip was beautiful to Lily—black polished bone that felt smooth and cool when she wrapped her fingers around it.
It was a French naval sword of a kind many Confederate Navy officers carried. Lily had transported a crate of those weapons on her first trip and had instructed Tommy to purchase one for her personal use. She found it to be similar to her father’s sword, the one that had been taken from her on the day of his death.
Against one wall, away from the bed, was a large trunk. As of yet, there had been no call for the trunk to leave her cabin, and hopefully there never would be. The trunk was a full three by four feet, and there was a shallow false bottom where she could hide maps, her saber, and gold coins. Piled in the trunk were several gaudy gowns, the special pink one on top. It was hideous, necessarily so, and Lily prayed she would never have to wear it. So far it hadn’t been needed, but Lily had planned for every contingency.
Before the hour was out, Lily was pacing her cabin. She should have been able to sleep, but knew she would not. She tried to keep her mind on the business at hand—her business—and to drive all other thoughts from her mind.
Guilt. She couldn’t remember ever feeling guilt before. She had clear-cut and important reasons for everything she did, and she never felt guilty over the consequences. Her purpose drove even the prospect of guilt from her mind.
But she couldn’t forget Quint’s face as he’d sat in the garden and believed that she’d simply been using him to make her Captain Sherwood jealous. He’d been hurt. Really hurt. She hadn’t expected that. Quintin Tyler struck her as a man of the world, a man for whom the days fled too quickly because there was so much pleasure to be had. He gambled, he smoked cigars, he drank, and with his looks it would be a miracle if he wasn’t a womanizer. He should have been jaded and hard, but he wasn’t. She’d hurt his feelings. Maybe he had really liked her after all.
Well, if he had, he certainly didn’t like her anymore. And why should he? She’d been heartless and cold, in his eyes.
And in her own eyes as well.
Lily lowered herself to the small cot and closed her eyes. Sleep, she commanded. Sleep and dream of happier times that once were and will be again. But when she closed her eyes it was Quint she saw. She couldn’t afford to remember the hurt expression on Quint’s face. She couldn’t afford to feel guilty.
“May I wait?” For the second day in a row, Quint was waging a sort of battle with Cora. The little housekeeper was winning.
“No, you may not,” Cora said sternly. “Miss Lily does not wish to see you.”
“Could I rest my leg for a while?” Quint was growing tired of using his bad leg as an excuse to linger, and from the look on her face, Cora was tired of hearing it.
“You may sit in the garden, if you like,” Cora said, frowning mightily. “But Miss Lily will not be joining you.” With that she slammed the door in his face for the second day in a row, and Quint followed the path to Lily’s tropical garden.
He sat on the wrought-iron bench and looked toward the house. From where he sat he could see only a portion of the second story, two open windows letting in the sea breeze. He stared at those windows, hoping for a glimpse of Lily, hoping she would come to one of those windows and look out at him.
The knowledge that she was baiting him should have angered him, but it didn’t. As hard as he tried to convince himself that he was sitting in Lily’s garden out of a sense of duty, he knew it was Lily herself who drew him there, not his dedication to the Union. He wanted—he needed—to see her.
Finally, Quint got his wish. He saw Lily. At least, he saw the lavender dress she’d been wearing that first day he’d met her, when he saw her in Terrence’s shop and she took his breath away. She stood close to one of the windows, but didn’t move close enough for Quint to see her face. She just stood there, stiff and unyielding, a lavender blur through the lace curtains that danced in the wind. She didn’t move forward; she didn’t move away. She just stood there and watched him for several minutes. Then she turned and disappeared.
Quint waited. Maybe she would join him in the garden, in spite of what Cora had said, but he waited in vain. There wasn’t even another glimpse of Lily at the window.
After a tortured wait, Quint left the secluded tropical paradise and climbed the walkway slowly and tenaciously. He allowed himself a wry smile. All the walking he’d done, from his hotel to Lily’s house and back again, must have helped his leg to heal. The surgeons had told him to rest, to keep off the leg as much as possible. But immobility was impossible for Quint. He felt the strength returning to his leg a little every day. A few weeks ago, he couldn’t have taken the small incline from Lily’s garden without working up a sweat.
He turned for a final glance at the house, hoping for a glimpse of lavender in one of the windows, and there it was, a blur of color in an upstairs window. Her bedroom? Captain Sherwood’s bedroom? She was watching him, standing back from the window as still as a statue.
Quint stared at the window, watching and waiting. Waiting to see if Lily would come to him. But she didn’t, and eventually she turned away and vanished from view.
To hell with her, Quint thought as he turned his back on the house. He wouldn’t come back for a day or two. Maybe three. If she was really playing the “come hither, go away” game that Eleanor suspected, maybe she would become anxious when he didn’t show himself for a while.
Cora cursed quietly, borrowing a couple of Tommy’s favorite vile phrases, which she would never have dared use were she not alone, as she removed the lavender gown and draped it across the bed. That Quintin Tyler was a persistent devil.
When the Chameleon was back in port, she’d have to see if Tommy couldn’t dissuade the bloke from hanging about.
Nine
Quint waited as long as he dared and as long as he could. Days passed, and he had to force himself not to begin the trek to Lily’s house. He played the part he had been told to play, the itinerant gambler, lazy and happy-go-lucky, gambling and drinking until dawn, gathering the tidbits of information that were dropped as the bourbon and rum flowed freely.
His favored companions, Dennison and Wright, were absent. Quint wondered if Wright had been captured, or if he had made it safely to Charleston with his cargo. Even with the knowledge of when and where the smaller ship would be, there was no guarantee that the Union blockaders would be able to intercept Wright’s steamer. He could move faster and into shallow waters, where the larger ships didn’t dare to go, and with skill and a little luck, anything was possible.
Dennison had simply disappeared, as he was wont to do. While he wasn’t close-mouthed, neither was he as gabby as Wright. The English captain was moody, sometimes remaining silent, other times grinning and laughing with his companions. He never said a word about his business—at least, nothing Quint could use—and he disappeared on an irregular basis. He would be gone for days, sometimes weeks at a time, and never offer an explanation. Quint knew better than to ask for one.
It was early afternoon, a bright and muggy day on the island. Quint decided he had waited long enough. If Lily sent him away again, that was it. He was finished. No matter how much useful information he might glean from her, it wasn’t worth this torture.
Why did she do this to him, anyway? And how? She was pretty, that was true, but there were prettier women in Nassau—women who’d made it clear they wouldn’t push him away, as Lily did. He barely paid them any attention. They paled next to Lily. Lily, with her affectations and changing moods. Those damn gloves. He wanted to peel them off her hands and kiss her palms and then her fingers, lingering over each one. Quint had never thought about a woman’s hands much before, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Lily’s.
Because she kept them covered. Was that another ploy? Did she realize how obsessed a man could become with that which was withheld from him?
Probably.
As he neared the inviting house with the red door, Quint felt his determination grow. She would not send him away this time. He wouldn’t leave until he saw her. He knew, deep in his heart, that his determination had nothing to do with his assignment. He didn’t care if Lily never mentioned Captain Sherwood or his activities. If Quint had his way, he’d carry her away from this house and away from this island. He would leave the job of spying to those who were more suited for the business. A dirty business, spying on men he was beginning to consider friends. And he would carry Lily away from Captain Sherwood.
To where?
West. San Francisco, maybe. Anywhere far away from the war that had ceased to be noble and grand.
In Enemy Hands Page 8
