Patricia Potter (12 page)

Socrates padded over to him, although Adrian knew better than to touch him unless the monkey made the first move. Socrates had been badly mistreated by his former owner, and sometimes struck out in confusion and fear if someone came too close. Two years had passed since Adrian had acquired the animal, but there were still moments of distrust.

Adrian sometimes wished heartily he could rid himself of Socrates, but then the monkey would come and look at him with its tipped head and sad, wise expression, and pat his hand as if to thank him, or console him, and Adrian would remember that day when the bloodied monkey fled to him for help. His owner had been drunk, and Socrates was on a chain, a collar around his neck, and utterly helpless as the man threw him against a box and beat him. The man had let go of the leash for a moment, and the monkey ran in pain and confusion toward Adrian.

In that moment, Adrian had remembered another small creature beaten so many years ago. Rage, lying fallow for thirty years, exploded. He’d nearly killed the man, throwing down a wad of notes that was probably thirty times the value of the monkey.

Adrian soon discovered he had purchased trouble. He hadn’t known anything about monkeys, and the first thing he’d learned was their overwhelming lack of gratitude. The second was a complete lack of modesty in their personal habits. He had threatened to maroon Socrates, to return him to his former owner, to toss him overboard, but the bloody monkey was unimpressed with all his threats and blandishments and bribes. Secretly, Adrian had rather enjoyed the battle of wills and even the sometimes reluctant companionship. He was aware that part of his fondness or attachment probably stemmed from loneliness, from having no family of his own or even anyone who cared a tinker’s cuss except for his crew, and that, he suspected dryly, was because he had made most of them bloody rich.

But now Socrates was in one of his more mellow moods, as he viewed Adrian with a beady but sympathetic gaze, his hand resting on Adrian’s knee. Adrian felt he was in a sorry fix indeed when he incurred the pity of a monkey. He stirred himself and dressed for company, for though it was just past dawn, he knew he would soon be besieged with visitors.

The day passed quickly. He sold his commercial cargo for even more than he’d anticipated. Apparently there was still a vigorous market for fine brandy and silks, as well as more practical items such as sewing kits, nails, toothbrushes, and corsets. The latter had been requested several runs ago by a group of ladies, and he had ordered them from England, although he knew the ladies of Charleston needed corsets less and less as food became scarcer. Adrian had a growing admiration for the underdog South, for the pride and stubbornness of its people. That admiration was one reason he earmarked half of his cargo for war necessities, rather than wholly for luxury goods as did many of the other English captains.

He met with the Confederate agents in the afternoon, and after agreeing on a price for the present cargo, they discussed the next shipment. Of specific interest were English-made cannon. The South would make it well worth his while to bring them; he was one of the few blockade runners with whom they’d entrust the precious cargo.

Adrian didn’t hesitate, although he knew word would spread, and his ship would become an even greater target for the Federal Navy. There was already a bounty on the
Specter
.

“Twenty-five thousand pounds,” he said. “In gold. Deposited to my account in England.”

“On delivery,” the agent agreed.

They shook hands, and the agent asked Adrian to join him for dinner.

“I’ve still some business,” Adrian said. “And I’m damnably tired.”

“How long will you be here?”

Adrian shrugged. “I’ll load cotton and wait until a dense fog or a new moon.”

“We need the cannon as quickly as possible.”

“Is it in Nassau?”

“It will be within ten days, no longer.”

“Anyone know about it?”

The agent shrugged. “It’s being crated as furniture, but there are spies everywhere. In London as well as in Richmond and Nassau.”

“I’ll bring it in,” Adrian said.

The agent smiled. Captain Cabot was one of three captains the War Department had insisted upon. One of the other three had wrecked coming into Charleston three days ago; the ship was torched so Union forces wouldn’t obtain the cargo. The other was Clay Harding, but Harding was already scheduled to bring in essential rifles and ammunition, a cargo as important as the cannon.

“If you need anything, Captain, please call on me.”

“A dense fog.”

The agent’s smile grew wider. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Adrian spent the rest of the afternoon with cotton brokers. The wharfs were piled with it; the surplus had already filled all the warehouse space, and the price was cheap. He purchased a total of thirteen hundred bales of cotton, knowing it would fill nearly every inch of available space up to the gunwales, and he made arrangements for its loading.

By nightfall, he was exhausted. Most of the crew had gone ashore. The blockade runners had become the heroes of Charleston, and there wasn’t a door unopened to them. There was even a pretty widow, whom he occasionally visited, but the idea seemed singularly unappealing now, and he was too tired to wonder why.

Adrian extinguished the oil lamp and stretched out on the bed. The cotton should be loaded in two days, maybe less; since there were no other blockade runners in port, he would receive maximum attention. Usually he enjoyed staying in Charleston, but now he felt restless and wanted to get back to Nassau. He decided not to ask himself exactly why.

Jeremy eyed Lauren quizzically. She had said little in the past two days since Captain Cabot had been gone, and he’d hesitated to ask.

He liked Lauren. The last woman Phillips had sent to Nassau had been flashy and bold, the type to catch a man’s eyes. She’d been in Nassau months without ever learning anything, although Jeremy was sure she’d shared her bed with several of the blockaders. She’d never, however, been able to attract Captain Cabot, and had finally been called back to Washington.

Jeremy had been amazed at Cabot’s interest in Lauren, and conceded that perhaps Phillips was more astute than he’d believed when he first met Lauren. He wasn’t told why Lauren had agreed to the plan, and he wondered about her motives now because there was uncertainty in Lauren’s eyes. Uncertainty and doubt and confusion.

Lauren was helping him with inventory, but frequently Jeremy would see her eyes cloud and know that her mind was wandering.

“Captain Cabot?” he asked when she failed to respond to one of his questions.

A book in her hands dropped, and she leaned to pick it up, her eyes seeking the floor rather than Jeremy’s. She had not been able to keep Adrian Cabot from her thoughts. She knew she should wish his capture, but she couldn’t. She was afraid for him, and that made her afraid for herself.

“You don’t have to go through with this,” Jeremy said gently.

She hesitated. “I don’t even know if I can. He said he doesn’t take passengers.”

“And if he did agree to take you?”

Lauren looked miserable. “I don’t know. He’s … not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Someone … who didn’t care about anything or anyone.”

Jeremy sighed. He had wondered from the beginning whether his guest was too gentle for what was expected of her. “He’s very likable,” he said cautiously.

The door opened then, and a customer entered. Lauren didn’t look up as Jeremy greeted the newcomer. “Captain Harding, what can I do for you?”

Lauren looked toward the customer. She had heard Jeremy mention the name before as one of the more successful blockade runners and a friend of Adrian Cabot’s.

“Some cigars,” Captain Harding said, his drawl very pronounced, very Southern, as his gaze swept around the store and settled on Lauren. This was the third time in as many days that he had made an excuse to stop at Jeremy Case’s store. It was the first time that the girl Adrian had mentioned had been there.

Jeremy saw the Southerner’s dark eyes find Lauren, saw the small smile form on his mouth. “Lauren, this is Captain Clay Harding,” he said, “and this is my niece, Lauren.”

Clay Harding bowed with a courtliness that was obviously meant to charm. “My pleasure, Miss …”

“Bradley,” she replied, thinking that he, too, was a very attractive man. She had always thought of sea captains like Captain Taggert, older and bearded and salt-tongued, but Clay Harding reminded her of Adrian with his clean good looks and devilish eyes. Yet there the resemblance ended. There was something boyish about Clay Harding, and there was nothing boyish about Adrian Cabot.

“Our island is richer for your arrival,” he said, and she had to smile at the extravagant compliment.

“Thank you,” she said solemnly but with a slight smile, “and which of the Southern states is poorer for your absence?”

There was the slightest playfulness in the words, so small, in fact, that Clay wondered whether he imagined it. “South Carolina, ma’am,” he said as he studied her more carefully. At first glance, she was most attractive, certainly pretty enough to spice his bet with Adrian, and then she’d smiled, and he’d wanted to smile with her.

“Here you are, Captain,” Jeremy said, handing a box to his customer, who quickly looked around the store.

“Perhaps,” Clay started, seeking to delay his departure, “some … ah …” He noticed a book in Lauren’s hands. “A book,” he said triumphantly.

“This one, Captain?” Lauren asked, the smile on her face growing.

“Anything,” he said.

“I’ll wrap it for you,” she said, and disappeared into a side room.

When Lauren reappeared, the book was wrapped carefully, and she handed it to the South Carolinian.

“Thank you. There’s a dance at the Governor’s House on Friday evening,” Clay found himself saying. “May I have the honor of escorting you?”

Lauren looked quickly over to Jeremy, who nodded. “We’ve received an invitation today, and I thought you might enjoy attending.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I would like that.” Friday was six days away, and Adrian wouldn’t be back yet. And she had been asked to discover what information she could about any of the blockade runners. And perhaps, just perhaps, Clay Harding could take her mind off Adrian, and the
Specter
.

In the next several days, Lauren accustomed herself to the pace of Nassau. Clay Harding stopped in nearly every day, and once asked her to tea at the Royal Victoria, the new fine hotel that sat on a hill, overlooking the bay. Curious about him and the other blockade runners, she accepted.

Clay called for her later that day in a carriage, although the Royal Victoria was only a small walk away. The hotel was magnificent, with verandas and balconies overlooking elaborate gardens. The building hummed with vitality and energy, and despite Lauren’s antipathy for the blockade trade, she couldn’t stifle excitement that was contagious.

Lauren was astonished as she went inside. Ladies in extravagant gowns and lower than proper necklines eyed both her and Clay curiously, as did lounging men in both uniform and civilian dress. Several men intercepted them, obviously waiting for an introduction that was reluctantly made. Lauren tried to remember names, but there were so many of them, and so many faces, some leering, some appreciative, some frankly admiring, some curious.

And then they were finally seated, and Lauren knew she probably appeared stunned, but he chuckled. “It must be overwhelming.”

“They are all blockade runners?”

“Most of them. There’re seventeen ships in port now, waiting for the new moon. But there’re also some merchant ship captains.”

Lauren looked at her escort. He was wearing a Confederate Navy uniform and looked daring and distinguished. His hair was blond, almost the color of wheat, and his eyes were gray. He was a handsome man, but while Adrian Cabot stirred confusing emotions in her, this man did not. She thought she could like him if she’d allowed herself, but nothing about him made her knees weak or her tongue to lose power.

“How many runs have you made, Captain?”

He shrugged. “Fifteen or so.”

“Tell me about it. How does it feel to have ships firing at you?” She shuddered slightly.

He stared at her intently. “It’s scary as hell, sometimes.”

She had to smile. “I didn’t think men ever admitted they are scared.”

“Then they are liars.”

“It’s really dangerous, then? I was told …”

“War,” he said frankly, “is, by definition, a deadly business. But I don’t suppose blockade running is any more dangerous than any other duty,” he said easily. “You wouldn’t be worried about someone?”

Her gaze met his, and she saw the question in it. He too then knew about the afternoon she’d spent with Adrian. Did nothing go unnoticed on the island? “No,” she lied.

“Good.” The one word held any number of implications, and Lauren knew an unexpected, and unusual, surge of excitement that still another man apparently found her appealing. She wondered if it was those hateful lessons in Washington where she was instructed on how best to dress and wear her hair, and how to flirt. She did look better, she knew, with her hair framing her face rather than drawn severely back, and her clothes were more suited to display her figure. It wasn’t that she had tried to be unattractive before so much as not having a mother to guide her, or the time to experiment. Her beaux had usually been lifelong friends who’d never claimed everlasting passion for her but thought instead that it was time for marriage and that they would be “compatible.” “Compatible” had never seemed very interesting to her.