Alanna (When Hearts Dare Series Book 2) (3 page)

“So why are you picking at me?” Wolf studied her now with a calm intensity, his voice smooth but insistent.

“I suppose I’m trying to make you think about a few things before you leave us. I sense a shift taking place in your life, and I sincerely hope the change will include opening up to the idea of loving someone.”

“What makes you think something like that would be good for me?” Wolf managed his words without inflection.

“Because, dear one, we
all
need the balm of love. Love is what keeps us at peace. It heals our wounded souls, and Lord knows, yours is in need of a good healing.”

Wolf’s thoughts returned to the captivating young woman sitting across the room. As he glanced over her father’s shoulder, the raven-haired woman met Wolf’s gaze once again. His body wasted no time imagining nothing between the two of them but bare skin.

At the sight of him sitting very still in his chair, boldly staring at her, a buzz raced along Alanna’s skin, then slipped inside and warmed her. There was pure sin in his startling blue eyes. The moment hung suspended between them, and then expanded as his feral gaze held hers, until finally, she tucked a smile into one corner of her mouth and looked at her plate. That her mother was aware of the silent communion between her daughter and this stranger held little significance.

Stranger? Not to Alanna. He went by the name of Wolf, and he was a legend in these parts. No one knew much about him other than that he roamed the West as a relentless tracker of lost persons. She’d seen him enter the hotel two days before wearing dusty buckskins and a gun belt slung low on lean hips. His disheveled hair grazed his fringed shirt and a full beard obscured his face. There appeared to be not an ounce of fat on his broad-shouldered frame. Hard to recognize that man as being the same person who now sat across the room dressed in tailored clothing that rivaled any worn in London or Paris. Sun-streaked hair, clubbed at his nape with a black ribbon, shone tawny gold beneath the gas-lit chandeliers. Clean-shaven now, his chiseled face could pass for a work of art.

Two days ago hadn’t been the first time she’d seen him. A few months prior, he’d charged into the elegant Morgan Hotel after weeks on the trail, dragging a woman by the hand and cradling a rosy-cheeked babe in one arm. A fascinating man, he’d captivated Alanna on the spot. Or had she merely fallen for the romantic notion that he’d made a daring rescue of the woman by his side? She’d heard that the woman had been captured by Indians and ended up giving birth to a son while surrounded by wolves. That today the woman had married the boy’s father . . . the man being none other than the wealthy part-owner of the shipping company her own father used to transport his goods.

“Stop staring,” her mother spat. “Not only are you being utterly rude, but have you forgotten you are soon to be married?”

Oh, wouldn’t she like to forget that unfortunate fact. “I’d rather slit my wrists with a butter knife than marry Jonathan.”

Her mother’s jaw twitched and her lips thinned. “Don’t start that again, Alanna, or I’ll have your father correct your manners.”

Alanna settled her mouth into a faux smile. “My father who sits here and ignores us entirely?” She leaned over and patted her father’s plump hand. “Isn’t that right, Father?”

He glanced up from the folded newspaper beside his plate, fork in midair. “Huh? Oh. Yes. Yes. Correct. Correct.” He went back to reading and eating.

She pursed her lips against a real smile. “See, Mother? Not an inkling.”

She glanced up, just as Wolf stood, dropped his serviette on the table, and turned on his heel. He moved toward the exit with a fluid grace, his muscled hips rolling seductively, his long legs stretching out in a slow, purposeful glide. Something less than virtuous heated Alanna’s insides. Oh, why did a man like him have to live in this part of the world and not in hers?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he paused at the doorway and made a swift turn of his shoulders. He settled a blue-fire gaze on her, scorching every nerve in her body.

Her mother gasped. “Ignore that awful man at once!”

Alanna paid her mother no heed.

“
Mr. Malone
,” her mother hissed. “Would you
please
rid yourself of that dratted newspaper and have a word with your daughter about indecently gawking at a perfect stranger?”

Her father glanced up. Wolf had disappeared. “What does it matter? We’re gone in two days.” He turned to Alanna. “And I
have
heard every word, Alanna Mary Malone.” The soft Irish lilt infusing his words thickened, revealing his repressed anger. “There
will
be a wedding and that’s all there is to it. You so much as breathe in a way that ruins our chances of entering the upper ranks of society and you will lose everything you hold dear.”

She straightened her spine against his ire. “Well, since I don’t give a fig about finances and material things, that wouldn’t be much of a loss, now, would it, Father?”

“Watch your tongue. You know quite well what I mean, so do not pretend otherwise.”

Alanna wiped all expression from her face, but beneath the table, her hands twisted her serviette as if it were her fiancé’s neck. “I have yet to walk down the aisle with the man you sold my soul to, so do beware.”

Wolf widened his stance against the roll of the ship and leaned his weight on hands spread flat against either side of the cabin’s porthole. He stared out at San Francisco’s coastline, little more than a gray brushstroke dividing sunny skies from the calm blue sea. As he struggled to keep his mind off whatever lurked in the watery depths below, nausea bit at his gut.

“Drowning must be one helluva way to die.”

Thompson, the ship’s captain, grunted. “No one shanghaied you aboard, my friend. You could’ve ridden that horse of yours all the way to Boston if you’d a mind to.” He took a slurp of steaming tea. “Of course, its legs would’ve been worn to nubbins by then.”

Wolf’s stomach lurched again. Had he turned green yet?

Thompson took another noisy swig of the oolong. “You might want to keep your eye on the horizon. It tends to fend off seasickness.” He emptied his wide-bottomed cup with a long swallow, set it on the table with a
clink
, and stroked his graying beard. “And force yourself to think of something pleasurable. It’ll keep your mind off your stomach.”

Wolf snorted. “Something that gives me pleasure? Hell, dry land would do the deed.”

Thompson chuckled.

Wolf let go a ragged breath. Find something—anything—to focus on. The memory of the woman who’d strolled past him in the dining room two nights earlier hit him so hard, he could just about smell the faint scent of cinnabar and roses that had trailed behind her. A shot of desire went through him.
Alanna Malone.
Even her name hung about him like sultry air on a hot day.

A gentle roll of the ship and a quick twist of his stomach ended Wolf’s brief distraction. He heaved a sigh. “May as well get started. Don’t want to end up hanging over the rail the whole damn trip.”

Thompson glanced up from the tea leaves he pondered at the bottom of his cup. “Get started?”

Wolf turned and took measured steps to the steamer trunk that stood next to the bunk and flipped it open. His old buckskins lay on top. What was he thinking, packing the blasted things? He emptied the trunk onto the bed and stuffed the worn leather pants and fringed shirt back into the flat bottom. Whatever the future held, he hoped it wouldn’t mean going back to riding the West, and searching for people as lost as he felt.

He repacked his new, fashionably tailored clothing into the steamer atop the buckskins. Thompson studied every move he made. Even though the captain had been good enough to share his quarters on the merchant ship, Wolf could think of nothing better than being alone. Eyeing the small carpetbag he’d left out of the trunk, he emptied the contents onto the bed, counted out ginger tea sewn in little silk packets, a number of small gray pebbles, and several narrow strips of cloth.

Thompson made his way over to the bunk, lifted one of the bags, sniffed, and grunted. “What’s all this for?”

“It’s supposed to hold seasickness at bay.” Wolf rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and strapped the small hematite stones to the insides of his wrists with a couple of bands of cloth. “If this works, like that little Chinaman back in San Francisco said, I won’t have to spend this god-awful trip heaving my guts out in a bucket.”

Thompson chuckled and headed out the door. “Sounds like someone sold you a load of crap, my friend. You’d better hope for some decent weather until we hit Cape Horn.”

 

 

Two mornings out, the winds changed. By afternoon, the seas turned black and began to buck. Shortly thereafter, a squall hit with so much fury, Wolf’s blood ran cold.

While a mate stood spread-legged and bellowed orders for all hands to take their places, shrieking winds swept the ship’s bow and turned small whitecaps into violent waves that crashed down on the clipper. Two foremast hands, with only their heels on the footropes and their bellies to the yardarm, hung in space, grappling for a topsail.

All hands on deck worked with ropes tied around their waists, tethered to the ship for safety. Thompson ordered Wolf lashed to his bunk lest a wave beat the door down and wash him out to sea. Goddamn, he hated sailing.

The sweeping gale howled through three terrifying nights.

There’d been barely a quiver to his stomach though, and he remained clearheaded. After awhile, he wondered if he’d simply outgrown seasickness, or if the items from the depths of his carpetbag were doing the trick. Either way, he was far from comfortable.

At least he wasn’t hanging his head in a bucket.

An odd mix of anguish and bewilderment struck him—along with a bleak remembrance of something he’d experienced when he was eight years old. Back then, the couple who’d acted as his guardians after his mother’s death had ordered him into a similar craft. Without explanation, they had unceremoniously turned him over to a stranger in the dead of night. Wordlessly, the man had rowed Wolf toward an ominous-looking ship floating in the gray waters of New York Harbor.

When Wolf had turned around to try to catch sight of his guardians, they had vanished. Forlorn, and overwhelmed with a sense that he would never see them again, he stared dry-eyed at the ship looming in the harbor, anger settling deeper in his bones.

“Liverpool,” was all the man had mumbled when he’d lashed Wolf to a berth. A terrible nausea that never abated had plagued him the entire trip, causing him to wonder if he might perish. There were times he’d been certain the only thing keeping him alive was a vision of his father waiting at the docks.

But when Wolf had arrived in Liverpool, gaunt and filthy, his father had been nowhere around. Instead, he’d been met by yet another stranger, one who’d offered no explanations, only silence and a set of fresh clothing to replace the vomit-soaked garments he’d worn throughout the trip before they set off to . . . to
where
? He couldn’t remember.

“Christ Almighty!” Wolf sat up, shoved a hand through his hair, and eyed the liquor cabinet.

The door crashed open, and the captain rushed in. He grabbed a towel and swiped at his bearded face and hair. “I got some pretty sick people aboard, and if you think anything in your bag might help them, I’d like you to offer it up and tell me what to do.”

“I’ll do it.”

Thompson shook his head. “I’ll handle this. Can’t risk having you washed overboard.”

Nonetheless, Wolf untied the rope lashing him to the bunk and went about freeing the carpetbag. “How many are down?”

“Four.”

Setting his feet apart for balance, Wolf dug through the bag’s contents and produced eight smooth, gray stones. He showed Thompson how they should be tied against wrists. Next, he wrapped several packets of ginger tea in another piece of gauze and shoved it inside the captain’s slicker. “Get that tea wet and it’ll be useless.”

Thompson turned on his heel and started through the narrow door. Mischief coursed through Wolf’s blood. He plopped on the bed, and crossed his arms behind his head. “And you can kiss my royal butt for the rest of this godforsaken trip if that so-called
worthless crap
gets your crew up and running.”

By the fourth day, the storm receded. Boredom settled in on Wolf. No longer was he concerned with what might prowl beneath the ship or whether or not he’d survive seasickness. He decided to take a little tour of the deck. He was unleashing himself from the bunk when the captain returned for more ginger tea. “The stuff doesn’t reproduce itself, you know. Have you got a plan for when we round Cape Horn if you use everything now?”

Thompson ignored him. “Give me five bags. The others are in decent shape now, but one of the women is still sick.”

“Huh?” Wolf paused at the captain’s words, the rope held in midair. “Women? What the hell are you doing with females in your crew?”

Thompson shot him a curious glance. “Crew? Where did you get that fool idea?”

“Correct me if I am wrong, oh captain of mine, but isn’t this a commercial ship? I thought I was the only passenger aboard—and that’s only because of my friendship with the Andrews cousins who own the damn thing. If I’d known there was any spare room aboard, do you think I’d bunk in your quarters?” Wolf dug into his bag again. “How many passengers are there?”

“Four.” Thompson’s voice grated with fatigue. “The ship’s cargo belongs to them. Expensive goods. The old man sails with it most times, but this time around it’s a family of three and a lady’s maid. I’ve had the daughter aboard with him before. She’s a good sailor, but the old man usually sickens for a day or two at the start.” Thompson shook his head. “Never like this, though. Then the three women went down. Seems the storm did the damage before they had a chance to get their sea legs. I got concerned when they weren’t getting any better.”

He headed for the door and glanced at Wolf. “Best if you don’t venture outside until I give you the all clear, but you’ll be safe wandering around in here. Careful about lighting anything that might catch fire, though. Old Neptune still has a bit of pitching about to do.”

“Jeezus.” Wolf exaggerated his exhale. “I’m about to go addle-brained in here.”

Thompson paused in the doorway, leaned over, and tapped on the beveled glass doors that encased a small library of leather-bound books. “You might want to scout around in here for something to keep you occupied.” He stopped outside the door and ducked his head back in. “The old man considers you to be his lifesaver, by the way. He wants to meet you, so I invited them all to dine with the captain and his
guest
once the sea allows.”

“Damn.” Wolf rolled his eyes. “Real live people. Can hardly wait.”

Thompson failed to stifle his amusement. “You might want to use your idle time brushing up on your manners. And clean up your English. It’ll give you a chance to get some practice in before you land in Boston. Seeing as how that’s where this family hails from, you might want to take my advice real serious-like.”

“Kiss my royal—”

“Uh, uh, uh.” The captain shook his head and disappeared.

On the fifth evening following the storm, Wolf removed his mother’s gold and garnet earring from his right lobe for the first time since an old gypsy had placed it there on his seventeenth birthday. Over the years, he’d gotten so used to it that he never gave it much thought, paid no attention to the curious looks. But when he rolled it around in his hand like this, when the light caught the beveled edges of the stone, jagged memories flooded in, images filled with as much fire as the blood-red stone he held. Twenty-four years since he’d cowered under his mother’s bed in horror while a stranger wrenched the life from her with his bare hands.

A shaft of pain lanced his heart.

Blowing out a heavy breath, he slid the earring onto the gold chain, turned it backward, and tucked it under his shirt. He guessed there were certain kinds of memories buried so deep in a person’s bones, no amount of time leached out the hurt.

He picked up the small golden hoop Dianah had given him and slipped it on. Odd, the act seemed an egregious betrayal of his mother’s memory. But his friends were right—whoever murdered her could still be in Boston and might have the earring’s mate. That is, if the bastard was still alive after all this time.

He heard the captain enter and begin ordering servants about. Fragrant aromas reached Wolf, and his stomach growled. He checked his stock tie in the mirror, buttoned his fitted gold brocade vest, and slipped into his jacket. Smoothing a hand over his clubbed hair, he stepped from behind the wall that separated the bathing chamber from the rest of the cabin.

“Are those Saratoga chips?” With a new lightness to his step, he sauntered across the room and surveyed the table already filled with an array of food. “Ain’t this a fancy spread?” He popped an olive into his mouth and eyed Thompson’s dog, which was curled in a ball under the table. After tossing a chip to the hound, he grabbed a fistful for himself. “Still warm. Didn’t know you carried fresh potatoes on board.”

“Carrots and potatoes are good keepers. You’ll be sick of them soon enough.”

Wolf paused, glanced again at the dog sprawled on its side under the table, and turned to Thompson with a frown. “I just noticed something peculiar. Your dog has a load of male parts hidden under that pile of fur.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed by your late, but brilliant, observation?”

Wolf bent down and regarded the scruffy hound again. “But
his
name is
Julia
.”

Thompson unlocked a door to a hidden liquor cabinet. “My daughter was only three when she named him. If you don’t tell him otherwise, he’ll never know the moniker’s not fitting. Plain whiskey or something fancier?”

Wolf chuckled and tossed another chip under the table. “Whiskey.” He straightened and regarded Thompson. He was as tall as Wolf, big-boned, but slender. Wolf liked him. An easygoing man, the captain possessed a dry wit that played off Wolf’s crusty sense of humor. And since he hailed from Boston, perhaps he might prove helpful once they arrived. “What are these women like who’ll be here tonight?”