Celine paced over to the open French doors on the balcony, thinking out loud. “Ray claims the place is in ruins. What if Cord is penniless?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but Henre Moreau would have turned us out long ago if all Cordero’s money ’ad dried up. We’re provided for by Miss Aiyce’s will, from the monies in the estate that come from England. What the Dunstain Place plantation earns, if anything, I wouldn’t know.”
Celine frowned as she observed the bustling scene on the docks.
“What should we do? If he hasn’t already heard it, do you think we should tell Cord?”
“What if it ain’t all that bad?” Edward asked. But his uncharacteristic burst of optimism soon faded. “Then again, what if it’s worse?”
“I can’t bear to think what this might do to him,” Celine said.
“There’s no better place to pick up information than in a tavern.” Foster shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.
“No better place to get drunk, either,” Celine muttered.
“Now, miss, we know he ain’t perfect,” Edward said.
“He’s probably just trying to get the lay of the land,” Foster added.
“No doubt,” Celine muttered with a sinking feeling of loss. She was not some innocent who did not know what a wide variety of entertainment a gentleman could procure at a tavern.
Before they could discuss the matter further, the distinct sound of footsteps sounded in the hall. In a moment Cord was in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the jamb. His face was flushed from more than heat, his blue eyes glassy. He held a package tied up with paper and twine beneath one arm and a half-empty bottle of rum in his hand.
“I’d come in, but the room’s too small to hold one more,” he said.
Foster smoothed his shirtfront. Edward gave the dust rag one last flick over the dull tabletop. Then both men hurried toward the door. They were abandoning Celine before she had made a decision. Cord stepped aside to let them pass, then walked into the room and tossed the parcel on the unmade bed.
“How was the tavern?”
She had not meant to sound like a nagging harpy, but seeing him standing there so nonchalant, so handsome, and holding himself at a cool distance set her nerves on edge.
“The tavern was fine. I learned something very interesting there.” He was staring at the bed.
“I was afraid you might. Just remember things aren’t always as bad as they seem.”
“No. I suppose if I were to think hard on it, there might be some sort of benefit in having a wife who has become legendary as a bona fide witch.”
“After all, many people start with nothing and have—” Celine stopped pacing and stared at him. “What did you just say?”
“Maybe I should ask what you are talking about?”
Far from relieved, she said quickly, “Never mind. What do you mean, I’m legendary as a witch?”
“Well, I wasn’t just referring to your temperament. I happened to be seated at a table beside some sailors who had just reached port. A week ago they came across a shipwreck on an inexcessible section of the west coast of Barbados. Among the other bodies there happened to be one they could identify …”
“Oh no.” She covered her mouth with her hands.
“Everyone agreed it was none other than Captain Dundee.”
She gasped.
Cord sat on the footboard of the bed and crossed his arms. “Dundee was lashed to the ship’s wheel. There was enough purple and saffron satin left on his body to see that it was really him. That and the fact that the dead man had been shorter than most women.”
“Drowned?”
“Drowned and picked over by vultures of both land and sea. It wasn’t a very pretty sight. No telling how long he might have floated tied to the wheel before he died—a horrible death, they say.”
He was watching her closely. She could see that he might just believe she had truly cursed Dundee.
“Did all hands die? How was my name connected?” she whispered, afraid to hear the answer.
“They later found some surviving crewmen on the beach who were only too willing to relate the tale of Dundee’s confrontation with a witch aboard the Adelaide who had cursed him just before he died. The witch, of course, was you, wife.”
“What does this mean?” She walked to the balcony, stepped outside and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She knew nothing of the customs of the island. Within minutes she might be on the run again. “Do they still burn witches at the stake here?”
Cord laughed. “No. But I doubt we’ll be able to keep any slaves once they get wind of this. They believe in all manner of beings—ghosts they call jumbies or duppies, witches, sorcerers.” He tipped his head and eyed her speculatively. “Then again, the slaves still respect supernatural powers. You might be quite an asset.”
“You don’t believe it, do you?” Celine paced back to the bed and sat down beside him without thinking. He watched her closely.
“No, I don’t believe it. Should I?”
“You shouldn’t even have to ask. I had nothing to do with Dundee’s death. Nothing. Good God. I would never hurt anyone—”
She stopped abruptly. She had killed Perot, although not intentionally. Now Dundee was dead. Even though she was not responsible, she’d have to carry another soul on her conscience. She was thankful, at least, that Cord did not believe this nonsense. She wasn’t certain she could stand up to the gossip alone.
Her head was splitting from the combination of sun and lack of food. Celine cupped her face in her hands. Suddenly she felt Cord’s hand on her shoulder, rubbing it gently. Surprised by the unexpected show of tenderness, she looked into his eyes.
“I don’t believe any of it, Celine. I know you were only bluffing to play on his fear.”
“Thank you for believing in me,” she said.
Her heart tripped as he returned her gaze. She wished she saw more in his eyes than reassurance. She wished she saw trust, coupled with just a hint of affection. But that, she knew was asking the impossible. Cordero Moreau had taught himself not to feel anything that could not be drowned by a night’s drink.
“You have no reason to lie,” he said.
Guilt hit her square on. She had never claimed to be Jemma O’Hurley, but she had not told him the full truth about the murder or exactly why she’d left New Orleans. She would be living a lie until she felt safe enough to tell him everything—which meant that she might well be living a lie for a long while to come.
She glanced down at the hand on her shoulder. As if he suddenly realized what he had done, Cord quickly stood and moved to the foot of the bed. With a heavy heart, she thought of what Ray had told her.
“Is that all you heard at the tavern? I suppose you were busy drinking and whatever they call it here … wenching?”
“I’ll admit to having had a rum or two, but I’ve had no wench yet.”
She looked at the bottle. “More than a rum or two, I’d say.”
“Nag.” He almost smiled.
“Cord, there’s something I need to tell you, something that needs to be said.” She linked her fingers and took a deep breath. There was no easy way to break the news.
Cord could see that she was as nervous as a guilty defendant in a witness box. The longer he watched her fidget with the mint green ribbon beneath the bodice of her gown, the more he was certain that she had changed her mind and wanted to get out of the marriage before it was too late.
Who could blame her? He looked around at the squalid room, at the filthy mattress, torn curtains and ruined mosquito netting. He was not a man given to making excuses or pleading his cause. And besides, of late he’d found himself thinking of her far too often. Maybe it would be safer for both of them if she left before he could no longer control himself, before she could steal the bit of his heart she hadn’t yet managed to.
If she wanted out of the marriage, so be it.
“Get on with it, Celine. I’ve places to go.”
“Such as back to the tavern?”
“Maybe.”
“You were certainly gone long enough last time.”
One of his thick brows hooked. “Damn, but you are a nag. You were about to say—?”
“You aren’t going to like it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She was leaving him. Good riddance. At least she wouldn’t be around to torture him any longer. He would go straight to the nearest whorehouse and treat himself to the most expensive whore there. One with large bosoms, preferably a very leggy blond. It didn’t matter what she looked like as long as she was not a petite, raven-haired, amethyst-eyed little witch who had the power to haunt his dreams.
“Spit it out, Celine.” He almost told her he knew what she was about to say, but if she wanted out, she would have to suffer through telling him so. She was obviously distraught. She looked close to throwing up again, even if they were on dry land.
He watched her blink twice, rub her hands together in a manner reminiscent of Edward, then take a deep breath.
“You’re ruined,” she blurted. “I mean, the plantation is in ruins.”
Ten
“What are you talking about?” He let the mask that hid his feelings drop into place with well-practiced ease. She was up now, pacing the confines of the small room.
“While I was waiting at the dock, a gentleman introduced himself to me. When he inquired to see if I needed any help, I told him no, that I was waiting for my husband.”
“Celine, for God’s sake, stand still. You’re making me dizzy.”
She continued pacing. “The rum is making you dizzy, Cord. Anyway, this man recognized your name and acted quite surprised that you were planning on taking up residence at Dunstain Place. That’s when he told me …”
She paused long enough to infuriate him, casting a pitying glance in his direction.
“Get on with it.”
“He said the place had gone to ruin. He claims the manager left years ago and the slaves ran off.” She looked down at her folded hands and then back up at him, waiting for him to say something.
“He was a wealth of information, I see.” His hand curled into a fist at his side. It was the only show of emotion he allowed himself.
“I’ve been thinking …” She stopped pacing.
“A frightening thought in itself,” he mumbled.
“I wonder if perhaps he might not be exaggerating.”
“Who was he, this bearer of bad tidings?”
“His name is Collin Ray. His brother is a local magistrate or something. He seemed quite enamored of himself.”
She was standing so close he saw the faint smattering of freckles that an hour in the sun had drawn over the bridge of her nose. He forced himself to study each and every one of them carefully. It kept him from giving in to his rage.
“Say something,” she prodded.
He walked over to the table where he had left the rum bottle, uncorked it and looked down at the rich brown liquor inside. “There’s not much to say, is there, Celine?”
He took a long pull on the bottle and welcomed the feel of the rum burning its way down his throat. It wouldn’t be long before the liquor numbed his pain.
“You could find out if anyone else knows what has been happening at Dunstain Place over the past eighteen years.” She reached out and put her hand on his forearm, stopping the bottle halfway to his lips. “You could do a lot more than pour rum down your throat.”
“But rum is the most immediate remedy.”
“And it’s far easier than facing your feelings or finding out whether or not you’ll have to put the plantation back on its feet.” She watched him a moment longer. “I know you must be devastated.”
He slammed the near-empty bottle on the table, which rocked back and forth on its wobbly legs with the force of the blow.
“I’m nothing of the kind. My grandfather warned me I was probably coming back to nothing.”
“You still get your monthly stipend—”
“What do you know about that?” Hating the pity he read in her eyes, he stepped away from her.
“I … Foster and Edward told me about it when I informed them what I had heard from Collin Ray.”
He ran his hands through his hair and headed for the door. “So, all of you held a gabfest in my absence? Was it enjoyable, all of you sitting around here like a trio of clucking hens?”
“They sincerely care about you.”
“I don’t need anyone to care about me. I don’t want anyone to care about me.”
“You need someone to care about you worse than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Stay out of my life, Celine.” What right did she have to tell him what he felt or what he needed?
“Of course. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You should be allowed to stomp around and glare, to close yourself off from the world. I know you love this island, I know you love Dunstain Place—”
“And what makes you so sure of that, Miss All-Knowing One?”
“The way you talked about it the night of the storm.”
He had to get out. This time he would keep going.
“It would be better if you forget all about that night, Celine.”
“Have you?”
Her question surprised him.
“Of course,” he lied. “There wasn’t one memorable thing about it.”
She looked crushed. He stepped over the threshold. He had to get away from this room and the bruised expression in her eyes. Baytowne was celebrating. He would find a way to take his mind off Dunstain Place. There was plenty of rum to be had, plenty of wenches to sport with. In an hour he wouldn’t care about the state of the plantation. He wouldn’t even care that his nagging, meddling wife had just looked at him with suspiciously misty eyes, as if she’d been blinking back tears.
As an afterthought, he turned around—although still poised in the open doorway, ready to walk out—and said, “This is the perfect opportunity for you to leave, Celine. Since we haven’t fucked yet, the marriage can still be annulled.”
She stood there mute, staring up at him as if she realized he had just tried his damnedest to shock her.
“Is that a no?”
She didn’t answer, simply stared back, waiting for something he couldn’t give, waiting for him to soften, to tell her he had not meant the harsh word, to ask her to forgive him for it. She was waiting for him to do what he was incapable of, and it made him feel like a heartless bastard.
“That’s for you,” he said, pointing to the package on the bed. He turned away from the haunted look in her eyes and left her standing there.
Celine didn’t move until she heard his footsteps fade down the hall. The overpowering scent of garlic and grease from the dining room below made the air heavy and nauseating. Cord had tried to anger and shock her, had tried to force her to take the easy way out, but Cordero Moreau didn’t know what she was made of. A little vulgarity was not going to scare her off.
She walked over to the bed, picked up the brown paper parcel and slipped off the string. The paper crackled as she opened it to reveal a frothy white lawn nightgown. It was much like the one he had ruined.
The gown had a deep flounce around the skirt, but instead of having long sleeves, it had been adapted to island wear, cut like an undergarment, sleeveless, with a row of tiny pearl buttons up the bodice. When she held it up to herself, she could see that, unlike the other, this one was a perfect fit. Not all of his time alone that morning, she realized, had been spent in a tavern.
The man who tried so hard to convince everyone that he had no feelings had taken the time to replace her nightgown with one that was not only her size, but of far better quality than the one he had ruined.
Burying her face in the soft folds of the white fabric, Celine closed her eyes and made herself a promise. Fate had sent her to Cordero Moreau for a reason—and if that reason was to bring his battered heart to life, she would do it.
Foster halted
in the shadows of the stairwell and motioned to Edward, who quickly sidled up to him. “What is it?”
“I’ve Miss Celine’s supper arranged. She’s to eat in a private dining room with an older gent, a bookseller from Barbados. I’m going up to collect her now,” Foster said.
“Where’s Cordero?”
“I ain’t seen him since she tol’ him about Dunstain Place. I’ve a feeling we won’t be seein’ ’im ’til mornin’.”
Edward cast a troubled glance up the darkened stairwell. “I think the sooner we can get ’im to Dunstain Place the better. There’s bound t’ be too much temptation for Cordero ’ere in town, what with the bad news an’ all …”
“It just don’t seem possible the place has gone to wrack and ruin. I’ll ’ave to see it with my own eyes first.”
“Poor miss. It ain’t like she’s had the greatest time of it, what with ’er bein’ sick on the voyage an’ all, an’ now this. I’m surprised she ain’t up and demanded to be sent back ’ome.” Edward shook his head forlornly.
“She’s surprised me all the way around.” Foster ran his fingers beneath his collar. His skin was sticky from the close, humid air. “I would have thought a rich merchant’s daughter wouldn’t ’ave stepped one foot into that room upstairs, but she took it in stride. You think there might be anything to that story she tried to sell us in Louisiana? You think she really was going to try to hire on as a servant at ol’ Henre’s place?”
Edward fanned his face with both hands. The heat from the first story rose up the close confines of the stairwell. “I don’t know what to think anymore.” He frowned and looked over at Foster. “I still think they make a fine pair.”
“They just don’t know it yet,” Foster said.
“It’s up to us to make ’em see the light.”
Foster propped his chin on his thumb. “Sharin’ a cabin on the ship didn’t seem to work too much in favor of intimacy.”
“And there are eight bedrooms at Dunstain Place.” Edward sighed forlornly.
Day Dreamer Page 14
