Beloved Counterfeit (8 page)

Here was her moment to tell the truth. To take God at His word and offer up only that which was accurate.

Ruby opened her mouth, fully intent on telling the woman who would soon become the judge’s wife everything. Or at least most of it.

Then she heard herself say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chapter 9

An opportunity missed, Ruby knew. Yet when Emilie rose and offered a smile, all she could think was how very much she wanted to be anywhere but in this place at this time having this sort of talk with Emilie Gayarre.

There would be time again for the truth; this she knew. For the look on the schoolteacher’s face told her the subject would be broached again.

Ruby’s stomach began to churn, and she knew it was not from the stew.

“Of course,” Emilie said as she rose and sent the chickens scattering. “Where has the time gone? I’m certain the children will be wondering where their teacher is.”

Ruby forced a smile, but she could not bring herself to meet the woman’s gaze. “I reckon so,” she said. “I’ll go and fetch the girls and see they get themselves back to the schoolhouse.”

“No need,” Emilie said. “I can do that.” She reached to touch Ruby’s sleeve. Only then did Ruby look into Emilie’s eyes.

“Leave Tess to Mary Carter this afternoon,” she said. “Isabelle will be there with Joey, and you’re in dire need of some time to yourself.”

Time to herself? She’d gone without so long that she didn’t know if she remembered what that was. Even in her sleep, she shared a cot with Tess, and depending on whether one of the notorious Florida storms rolled in, sometimes with all three.

“I couldn’t impose,” she said, imagining what she might accomplish with even one undivided hour.

“Then it’s settled.” The schoolteacher smiled. “You see, my nephew may not yet be two, but he adores Tess. She’s quite a help to Isabelle in keeping him busy.”

Tess did love to amuse the little fellow.

“Will you tell the ladies how much I appreciate the help?”

Emilie looked as if she was about to say something, but after a moment, she nodded and headed for the gate. “I’ll be baking pies for the both of them,” Ruby called, “and I’ll have no argument about it.”

Emilie paused at the gate and rested both palms on the whitewashed wood. “Someday perhaps you’ll tell me where you learned to cook so well, Ruby.”

The schoolteacher’s expression seemed innocent enough, but Ruby couldn’t help but feel they were no longer talking about pies. A sudden urge to gather up the girls and run for the nearest oceangoing vessel bore down on her, but Ruby forced a smile.

“Yes,” she said as she took an unsteady step toward the back door. “Perhaps I will.”

And then Emilie was gone, leaving Ruby to sort out her aching bones from her painful conscience. Neither could be done in the kitchen, where bread crumbs still dotted the floor and the lunch dishes awaited cleaning.

A trip out back to the room she shared with the girls would likely allow for private reflection, but no doubt being alone would only invite tears. “And the last thing I need to do is cry over something that’s easily fixed.”

Indeed, Ruby could remedy the problem with a quick trip to the docks and a discreet inquiry to the captain of whatever ship might be sailing soon. This decided, Ruby bypassed the kitchen altogether and walked to the front of the boardinghouse, where the wide parlor windows offered the best view of the street.

She lifted the corner of the heavy drape and pulled it back. From her vantage point, Ruby watched Emilie stop at the church gates and wave at someone inside. A moment later Isabelle Carter appeared at the gate to embrace her sister.

Seeing the two conversing put Ruby in mind of her own sister and all the times since the accident when she had wished for Opal. “I will not cry,” she said even as tears stung her eyes.

Releasing her grip on the fabric, she watched the drape fall back into place. Her fingers traced the heavy brocade, its golden threads burnished to a dull copper along the edges. Mama had had pretty curtains like this. They were green. No. Blue. Yes, a lovely shade that Papa said reminded him of the Cornwall sky.

She’d had no idea where Cornwall was, but she imagined it was a lovely place where the sun shone most days and danced across a sky painted in Mama’s favorite color. The image had been ruined when Tommy Hawkins told them that Cornwall was a bleak and cold place known more for smugglers than anything else.

Just one more in a long line of disappointments associated with either Papa or Tommy.

Or both.

Why do I do this to myself?
“You think too much, Claire. You always did.”

She jumped away from the window, stunned at how easily the name had slipped from her lips. At how very much she sounded like her sister.

Indeed, the pronouncement held much truth. From her earliest days, if she wasn’t thinking about the past, she was fretting about some distant part of the future. Neither seemed to do much good.

Ruby straightened her aching back and felt her bones slide against one another in protest. A corresponding twinge in her neck caused her to massage the ache.

“I could do that for you.”

She froze, unable to breathe. Just as she’d conjured up Opal’s voice, surely this one, too, was from her imagination. Then she heard the floorboards creak and knew he’d come to stand behind her. To find her vulnerable.

Again.

“What do you want, Jean Luc?” A whisper rather than anything like actual words, but to speak them any louder would be to cast doubt on what she hoped was her calm demeanor.

“Sweet Claire.”

Ruby refused to flinch even when Thomas Hawkins’s second in command placed his hands on each side of her neck. Fully expecting the Frenchman to strangle her, she gasped when he used the strength in his fingers to massage her aching muscles.

In the past, she’d have melted under the tender massage. Today she found his touch repulsive, a reminder of who—of what—she was.

“I suppose Ben and Jamie are with you.” She paused and said a prayer against it even as she added, “And Tommy.”

The fingers stopped their movement. Jean Luc Rabelais moved closer. “I’ve come alone, Mrs. O’Shea,” he added in a mock Scottish brogue.

His meaning was unmistakable. It was also familiar, owing to the times she had perpetrated the fraud of acting as silent wife to his Scottish husband during certain business transactions. At the time, the ruse had seemed harmless, mere window dressing to the actual crime of offering up such contraband as fine silks and baubles to those who could afford them. A genial couple who’d just happened to stumble upon a few trunks of contraband goods made for much better sales. Somehow contemplating a purchase from ruthless smugglers set the well-to-do on edge.

Ruby had received nothing for this ongoing playacting except continued passage aboard Hawkins’s vessels and the knowledge that she would live to see the girls grow to womanhood under her protection. Harmless then. The opposite now.

“I see,” she managed, angling away from the window and toward the kitchen door. Likely Jean Luc was merely doing the bidding of the man who would be more than happy to see her dead. “You’re here upon whose orders?”

“Claire, Claire.” The voice deceptively sweet and tender; the man anything but. “He’d have my hide, and you know it.”

She braved the slightest glance and found that Jean Luc had changed little in the months since she’d last seen him near the docks. Features that set him apart from others of his ilk were better suited to some silk-covered drawing room. He’d certainly used his charm to find more than one comfortable bed for a night or a week of nights.

Rumor held that Jean Luc had a wife comfortably ensconced in a chateau near Gouvieux, where she believed her oft-absent husband to be traveling the world mapping uncharted lands and garnering large sums of money. Wherever the truth might lie, Jean Luc Rabelais had never seemed much concerned with the bonds of matrimony.

“Might I ask the reason for this visit?”

“You’ve got something I want.” He moved closer. “And something Hawk wants.” Jean Luc practically fitted himself against her. “I’ve considered this dilemma at some length and have come to a conclusion.”

His right hand snaked around her neck and cupped her jaw. A braver woman might have bit him and run or at least thrown open the curtains and screamed for help.

Their shared past, however, gave Ruby a third option.

With care, Ruby ducked out of Jean Luc’s vile embrace and, backbone stiff, walked toward the kitchen as if she hadn’t just been confronted with evidence of her past. While her hands shook, Ruby held her head high. With luck, she just might be able to bluff her way out of this.

Then she’d somehow fetch the girls and leave Fairweather Key behind for good. How this would happen, she’d figure out as she went.

Jean Luc was upon her before she’d taken three steps. He whirled her around to face him, and Ruby lost her balance. As she tilted, the floor rose to meet her with a thud that sent stars dancing before her eyes. Jean Luc lunged to grasp her hand but missed. Lurching forward with skirts tangled about her legs, Ruby crawled toward the kitchen.

This morning’s careful braid had loosened and covered her face, rendering her unable to see. He’d turned her around, this much she could tell, and they’d left the kitchen, though she was far too disoriented to know in what direction.

Boot heels stomped a noisy symphony as she swiped at her face and scooped a handful of hair from her eyes. A door slammed, and darkness fell. The parlor. It was the only room that could be put in near darkness though the sun shone brightly outside. Slowly, tiny shafts of light from the edges of the drapes brought the room into focus, and Ruby’s mind worked frantically to find a solution.

Long ago, the window frame had been painted shut, a state of affairs she’d vowed to remedy the next time she found a handyman to help. Now her lapse was Jean Luc’s gain. A key turned in the lock, and without warning, he released her.

Much as she hated it, Ruby held tight to his hand until she could guarantee her ability to remain upright. As her eyes began to adjust to the dim light, so did her mind adjust to the situation.

“Jean Luc,” she said in what she hoped was a firm and disinterested tone, “might we discuss this? I’m a woman of considerable means.” A lie, of course. “Perhaps we could discuss terms of whatever it is you believe I owe you.”

Chapter 10

The smuggler moved toward Ruby; this she felt more than saw. When Jean Luc reached to touch her, he did so gently. “I’d marry you tonight,” he whispered as his lips found her ear.

Ruby pressed her palms against his chest, and for a moment, he allowed it. “Last I checked, a man only gets one wife,” she said as she gave him a shove. “I’m sure yours has no idea what you do when her back is turned. Perhaps someone should tell her.”

He was on her in half a heartbeat, leaving no trace of the civil man she’d known. “I could murder you in your sleep, Claire,” he said. “And those girls, too.”

The girls.

Her breath caught. Of course he would figure she had them. Or did he just assume? She began to back away from him as her mind reeled with things to say.

“Jean Luc,” she finally said as she felt the familiar settee bump the backs of her legs. At least she knew where she was again. “Come and sit beside me. Here, I’ll guide you with my voice.”

Carefully she sat, perching on the end nearest the door. Something crashed and shattered, and the sound of glass crunching told her the smuggler had walked over whatever delicate treasure Mrs. Campbell had placed in the room.

He cursed as he kicked another object out of his way. She rose to guide him to the settee.

“Light a lamp,” he demanded as the sofa groaned under his weight.

“I prefer not,” she said as sweetly as she could manage. Giving away her advantage would never happen, especially in light of the fact that he knew the girls were with her. “Now lean back and make yourself comfortable,” she said, struggling to figure out what to do next.

“Sweet Claire?”

She eased up from the settee, her movements so slow they caused her already-tired bones to ache. Finally, she was standing, the door only steps away. “Yes?”

“Were I able, I’d have long ago made you my wife. You know this, don’t you?”

Perhaps she did, though she’d found it easier to ascribe only bad intent to any man who forced his attention upon her. To consider he might be telling the truth was to change the past, and nothing could do that.

Still, there had to be some reason why the smuggler Rabelais would risk his neck to stand between her and Tommy Hawkins.

Ruby sighed. How had things become so complicated?

He shifted positions toward her, and Ruby panicked. “You did know this, did you not?” In the dim light, she could see him watching, waiting. Did he figure her to be readying her escape?

“I suppose,” she allowed evenly, reaching up to set her hair to rights. It would never do to have a boarder return and find her looking like she’d, well. . .it just wouldn’t do.

“Then you must know nothing has changed.”

But something had.

No longer was she Claire O’Connor. And no longer was Ruby O’Shea dependent on her own means. While she was still working out the details, Rev. Carter had assured her that walking with the Lord meant she had a rock to cling to even while the storm raged.

If being trapped in a parlor with Jean Luc Rabelais wasn’t a storm, then she didn’t know what was.

A chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “Claire?”

“No one calls me that here.”

A door opened somewhere outside the parlor, and Ruby jumped. Heavy footsteps thundered past the door then disappeared even as she heard her name.

Micah Tate.

So he’d come for his lunch after all.

“Oh, I see how it is, Claire.” Jean Luc busied himself with adjusting his cuffs. “Well, there’s nothing for it.” He strode by without so much as a sideways glance.

Panic rose as she realized her past was about to intrude into her present in what promised to be an ugly way. “Where are you going?”