Patricia Potter (15 page)

“And after?”

A sudden smile lifted the sides of her lips. “And then I think I need some rest. Maryland isn’t nearly as gay as Nassau.”

“But you did enjoy the dance last night?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I did enjoy it, Captain, and I thank you.”

“Tomorrow then?”

She raised her eyes, and they were full of wistfulness that hurt, since he knew it wasn’t for him. “No, thank you,” she said simply. “I think I should spend some time with my aunt and uncle.”

Clay knew then that Adrian, as usual, had won their bet. With resignation, he surrendered halfheartedly. “Some other time, then?”

She nodded absently, which did nothing to appease his ego. “When will you be leaving?” She didn’t want to ask the question, but it popped out. Adrian might be leaving at the same time. The harbor was filled with ships now. She wondered how even one more could find room in the protective harbor that lay between New Providence Island and Hog Island.

“A few days. Wish me luck?”

After so much soul-searching, Lauren couldn’t bring herself to lie. Even if she wasn’t sure it was a lie. She didn’t want to see Clay hurt, but neither did she wish the blockade runners success. “I don’t think you need it. Nor Captain Cabot.” She couldn’t keep the words from her mouth.

Cabot again. He shrugged. “I wouldn’t agree completely with that. Adrian lost one of his men this last run, and another wounded.”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed.

Clay shrugged. “It’s not the first time he’s been hit. But he always manages to escape.”

“But not always those around him?” she asked, a trace of bitterness in her voice that he didn’t understand.

“No, not always.” He hesitated. He liked her. He liked her a lot, despite her obvious preference for Adrian. “Your uncle said you might be returning to the South. If you need passage … I’ll take you.”

She smiled, a strange sad smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll remember that.”

Blaming business, he left then, after some final pleasantries, and Lauren stood watching his retreating steps. She always said more than she meant to say, but her mind and thoughts were so full of conflicting emotions that they demanded some kind of release, wise or not.

The tea Corinne had planned was an ordeal. Lauren had always been different from other girls. She’d grown up with responsibility, with her father’s expectation that she study hard, that she help with his practice. Her companions had been her brother and her brother’s friends. She did the womanly tasks required of her, but she’d never enjoyed them, nor had she simpered with other girls about boys, and how best to ensnare them.

And that was all this group talked about. She tried to make the proper responses, but she was profoundly grateful when it was over. All she could think of was Clay’s words: Adrian’s ship had been hit, members of his crew injured. He had left Charleston during the full moon because of an “incentive,” he’d said. Had he really meant her? Had he really risked so much to be with her?

Lauren excused herself from dinner, saying she was tired from the dance. She went to her room and again stared out at the lights below, at the
Specter,
brooding about the man who captained her.

Adrian got drunk that night. Very, very drunk.

He’d had to. He kept hearing Terrence’s screams, the sound of the saw as it cut through flesh and bone. He had gone to the hospital that morning and had known immediately that surgery was necessary. His second mate was feverish, sweat dripping down his face.

“Gangrene,” the doctor said without preamble. “We have to amputate.”

“No,” Terrence said. “Don’t let ‘em, Capt’n.”

The plea was heartfelt, and Adrian understood. He didn’t know if he himself would want to live with one leg. He leaned over. “Think of your wife, Mary, and the children.”

“I am,” Terrence cried. “I can’t go back ‘alf a man.”

“A whole man, Terrence. You’ll always be a whole man. And you’ll have that tavern you always wanted. I’ll make sure of it. You can grow old and fat and irascible.”

Terrence’s pain-filled, terrified eyes closed briefly as he struggled against his fears. A cripple. He would always be a cripple now.

“I don’t know, Capt’n.”

The doubt, the fear, the pain, stabbed Adrian to the core. He had seen dead and wounded before, during the Crimean War. But they hadn’t been “his” men then. They hadn’t looked at him with such bloody trust. He forced strength in his voice. “Your family needs you,” he said simply. “Don’t abandon them.” Like mine
abandoned me.

“Will you stay with me?” Adrian heard the surrender in Terrence’s voice.

“Aye,” he said.

“If anything … ‘appens, you’ll see to Mary and the children?”

“I will. I swear.”

Terrence forced a smile. “It’s been an honor serving wi’ you, my lordship.”

Adrian’s brows furrowed together. “I thought we’d dispensed with that long ago, you Irish brigand.”

The exchange between them was ritual, almost from the moment they’d met. Terrence Dugan was a superb seaman, but he hated the English. Adrian had tolerated the disrespect, just as he had Socrates’s ungratefulness, because he’d admired Terrence’s ability, independence, and leadership potential. They had, after a year, reached a point of mutual respect, if not total liking.

“I’m ready, then,” Terrence said.

Adrian had stayed. There was morphine, but even that hadn’t been enough to prevent the agonized groans. The barely human cries clashed with the terrible grating sound of the saw in a hellish symphony. Adrian had watched from the corner, his hands clenched behind him.

He remained throughout the day, until Terrence had regained consciousness and looked at the flat place under the sheet where his leg should be and wept.

It was past dark when Adrian left, and the only thing he wanted was a bottle and a bottomless glass. He fetched Socrates, who had been left with Johnny on the ship, and visited a small tavern near the Royal Victoria. He also found Clay Harding, the last person he wanted to see.

Adrian was angry. Angry and hostile, as he’d been last night at the dance when he’d discovered Clay with Lauren. The events of this day had done nothing to improve his disposition, and now he glared at Clay.

But Clay was as morose as he was, and barely greeted him as Adrian sat down. Clay glowered at both Adrian and Socrates, who looked offended and chattered threateningly, before climbing on a chair and looking expectantly at the empty space before him.

A barmaid, who’d confronted Socrates before, approached cautiously, keeping one eye on the beast while trying to smile bewitchingly at Clay.

“Rum,” Adrian ordered, “and some fruit.”

Socrates started bouncing up and down on the chair, and the girl disappeared quickly. Usually Socrates amused Clay, but now the frown remained set on his face. “Obnoxious beast,” he observed.

So Clay hadn’t been successful with Lauren. Adrian started cheering up. “Consider it this way,” he appeased Clay. “He makes you look good.”

The poor jest did nothing to lighten the atmosphere. Clay continued to glare at him.

The bowl of fruit came, along with the rum, and Socrates started eating noisily as Adrian poured a very large portion of liquor for himself.

“Bad day?” The question came from Clay.

“You can say that. And you?”

“You could say that.”

They both glowered some more, and then said, almost together, “About that bet …” and “I concede.”

Adrian’s lips twisted into a slight smile. “So soon.”

Clay regarded him solemnly, even a bit drunkenly. “I hate to admit it, my friend, but I fear her eyes are for you. Now I would like to know your in-thentions.” His voice was slurred.

“Intentions?” Adrian furrowed his eyebrows.

Clay straightened up and glared at him. “I like Miss Lauren. Don’t ever hurt her,” he added as he lifted his glass and emptied it in one long swallow.

“Gallantry?” Adrian’s question was part taunting, part curious. Clay was notorious with the ladies.

Clay regarded him with narrowed eyes. “You’re like ice, Adrian.”

“I don’t feel like ice at the moment.”

Clay looked at him closely. Adrian looked tired, in ways that came from more than fatigue. “What happened?”

Adrian shrugged. “I suppose you heard. I took a shot coming out of Charleston. One man died. The other … his leg was amputated this afternoon. I don’t know if he’ll live.”

Clay’s hands tightened around his own glass. He’d not lost a man yet, but he knew he had been uncommonly lucky. “I’m damned sorry, Adrian.”

“The bloody net is tightening,” Adrian said.

“If only England …”

“But England won’t,” Adrian said. “Too many people there hate slavery.”

“This isn’t about slavery.”

“Isn’t it?” Adrian challenged.

“I don’t have slaves. My family doesn’t,” Clay said heatedly. It was a defense he made often, and he didn’t like making it to Adrian.

Adrian’s look was wry. “I know why I’m taking chances, Clay. There’s something I want very badly. What about you?”

Clay stared at Adrian. They had never talked about their motives before. “Hell,” he said, “I don’t know.”

Adrian knew that Clay did know but didn’t want to talk about it. He shrugged, and without further comment they turned their complete attention to rum.

CHAPTER 8

Larry beckoned to her through the fog, his shape forming and dissolving every time she tried to reach out.

He stood on the bow of a ship, his blue uniform covered with blood.

She was on another ship, and she begged to go to him; but the ghostlike images with her paid no attention. “Button,” she heard Larry call. “Button.” But the voice was dronelike, not real.

The image started disappearing, and she cried out to him. As on the night he died, his pain was her pain. She felt it deep inside her, like a burning sword.

“Larry. Larry.” Louder and louder. She could hear the panic in her voice …

“Lauren.” She felt herself being shaken, but she didn’t want to wake. She wanted to hold out her hand to Larry, to bring him back.

“Lauren.” Another voice, low and commanding, and the last whisper of her twin disappeared.

Lauren opened her eyes, feeling the wetness as she did. Both Corinne and Jeremy stood there, he holding a candle, she perched on the side of Lauren’s bed, her hand touching Lauren’s face.

“You’ve had a bad dream,” Corinne said softly. “Poor love.”

Lauren looked up at Jeremy. His wrinkled face was even more creased, his eyes tired.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Hush dear,” Corinne said, her hand holding tightly to one of Lauren’s. “Can you tell us about it?”

Lauren shook her head and sighed. She knew she would sleep no more that night, fearing to dream again.

Socrates woke Adrian early next morning. Payment, Adrian supposed bitterly, for leaving him alone so much in the past few days.

His head felt like the cotton he transported, and his mouth was as dry as the Arabian desert, but he struggled up, slowly and carefully, as if not to jar some very fragile parts of himself.

Adrian always kept a supply of fruit and sea biscuits in the room for Socrates, and now he pacified the monkey with some while he shaved and dressed. There was a great deal to do today, and he needed a clear head to do it.

A clear head?

It felt like a bagful of rotten apples. Groaning, he pledged he would never repeat last night’s performance.

He took one last look at his still-red eyes, swore again, and then strode from the room, down the wide stairs to the grand reception area of the hotel. Socrates stayed at his side, as Adrian knew he would. Although the monkey sometimes scampered ahead or inspected someone or something along the way, he never allowed Adrian too far away. Adrian had never needed a leash for Socrates—not for that reason, anyway. His coin usually satisfied other problems: a purloined apple, or an overturned cart, or, once, a watch grabbed from a pocket.

Usually Socrates’s misadventures amused him, but now Adrian thought only of getting through the day.

He stopped at the hospital, reassuring himself that Terrence was doing as well as could be expected. The man’s lips were clenched tight against the pain, and his eyes often wandered down to the empty place where his leg had been; but he managed a joke and Adrian knew he would be all right.

Adrian then went to the Confederate agent—it was a visit he should have made yesterday.

“I understand I’m to carry a special cargo,” he told the agent, a man named Jones.

Jones nodded. He’d received word two days earlier. While Adrian had waited in Charleston, the message had traveled by telegraph from Charleston to Richmond, and then went north by a courier who booked passage on the first ship to Nassau. The cannon was to be readied for the
Specter.

“Has it arrived?”