Shadow Play (3 page)

"Yes, Missy Sarah," was his only response. The sound of his footsteps died in the darkness.

Chapter Two

It all seemed so absurd, this myth of a man who had ventured into Japura" and returned, who had single-handedly fought off cannibals, man-eating jaguars, and snakes, with only his machete as a weapon. To consider him a hero was one thing, but to think he was the
boto
was carrying superstition too far. Imagine pink dolphins that left the water at sundown and took the form of handsome men who dressed in white suits and walked the dark wharves seducing virgins. Really...

Still, her father had been desperate enough to ask for this American's help, and if her own father thought this stranger capable of heroism, it must be true. According to Kan, after learning the man had actually worked for Rodolfo King, her father had offered him a great deal of money to return to Japura" and steal the
Hevea
seeds. Yet the American had turned him down. "Not interested, Governor. I fancy my bloody neck too much," is what Kan had overheard the man say.

Some legend. Some hero.

Typical American.

If he'd agreed to help, perhaps her father wouldn't have died. Whether he was a hero or not, she had a thing or two to say to him.

The narrow streets that wound through the city were bordered by shuttered houses with balconies and steep tiled roofs that glistened in the moonlight. Sarah hurried along her way, keeping to the night shadows, avoiding the occasional gas lamp that did little to illuminate the road. Now and again a stranger approached from a distance; she turned her head or ducked down a side street, taking no chances that she might be recognized.

Her excursions beyond Water Street had been infrequent in the past. Rarely had she strayed from the business district with its rows of dress, glass, and paper shops. The lower wharf was an alien world from which her father had carefully protected her. Along with the scents of garlic and pungent tobaccos, the tang of spices—chilies, turmeric, ginger— and the acrid smoke of burning hemp, the canals carried a faint, sickly smell from the stagnant water caught within the rotting timbers of old pilings. On the docks, the stench of fruits and vegetables decaying in their crates drew swarms of flies and gnats that hummed in a cloud over the water.

The decision to confront the American and plead her case in person had been made on impulse as she paced her bedroom floor, fighting sleep and thinking about all that Kan had told her just hours before. The sight of the elaborately scrolled iron bedstead and its shroud of mosquito netting had not been particularly inviting, no matter how weary she felt. The heat and moonlight had filled her with a frustration she couldn't explain—and an urgency that she understood regrettably well.

With no more than a moment's thought, she had dressed quickly but sparingly, choosing to leave her corsets and bustles at home. She'd grabbed up a lace shawl from her wardrobe and thrown it over her shoulders, donned a hat with a veil to hide her face. Then, because the Governor's carriage would have brought unwelcome attention, she'd tiptoed out into the night, careful to avoid waking the servants.

Arriving at Tobacco Row, Sarah paused. The music of some distant carimbo drifted to her on the wind, then was gone, replaced by the yapping of a dog. Shanties fronted by weed-infested gardens huddled close to the canal all the way to the bank of the Demerara River. Even as she watched, the lights in the hovels were being doused, and through the quiet Sarah could hear the soft sound of a mother singing her child to sleep. Spellbound by the lullaby's haunting lyrics, Sarah felt stirred by a feeling she had not experienced since she'd set sail for London four years ago. She suddenly understood why her father had fallen so completely in love with South America.

There was magic in the hot tropics, in the flower-scented air, in the pleasant faces of the people who spoke and smiled and waved when meeting a stranger on the street. She had been too young before to fully appreciate the climate and lush beauty of the countryside. But recalling the past years of cold rain and frigid winters, and the wretched poverty of the beggar children who wandered the London streets, she was shaken with an appreciation for her present surroundings ... and a sense of regret. Very soon she would leave Georgetown forever for a staid existence in England, teatime walks in the garden and an occasional jaunt to the countryside to watch her husband net butterflies. Her fiance traveled the world to snare the most elusive butterflies, which he fixed to boards with pins and mounted under glass. Just before her departure from London he had spent enough for a crimson-winged
Cymothoe coccinata
from Cameroon to feed a family of five Caribbees in Guiana for a year.

She forced the thought of leaving Georgetown aside, telling herself that she wasn't simply returning to London, but to Norman Sheffield and a life that was safe and secure. Then she reminded herself that if she didn't find a way to

meet her father's debts, there would be no marriage to Norman Sheffield or
anyone
of her class.

Desperation flooded her, and for one last time she checked the address Kan had scribbled on paper:
10 Tobacco Row.
She moved out of the shadows and into the moonlight, her heels clicking in the silence, the skirts of her mourning dress rustling like wind through dry leaves.

The American resided in the last house on Tobacco Row. Its garden, if one could call the scrap of weed-infested ground a garden, sloped to the riverbank, where mangrove and curida bushes grew. A fishing vessel was anchored at the end of the dock. Sarah could hear the lapping of waves upon its bow, and could just make out its shape glowing dimly white in the darkness. She was surprised and disconcerted to learn that a man with such a reputation would live in this area of Georgetown, and in such apparent poverty. Perhaps he simply wanted to be near the people who adored and revered him.

She moved toward the house, then paused. The sound of footsteps advancing down the street warned her to take refuge in the foliage growing along a rock wall surrounding the neighbor's garden. She didn't breathe as the footsteps came to a halt no more than two yards from her, so close she could detect the jangle of what sounded like keys or coins in a pocket. Shifting aside the tangle of oleander, she peered at the pair of men who regarded the American's house from the shadows near the street. One wore a wide- brimmed hat and a long, loose-fitting coat that hung un- buttoned to his knees. The other wore a blowsy white shirt tucked into a pair of white broadcloth breeches, with huaraches on his feet. He moved nervously, glancing up and down the street.

Finally they spoke, murmuring the words in undertones, so she was unable to catch everything. The conversation alternated between English and Portuguese.

"Are you certain this is the place?" the taller man asked. "Have you seen the American come here?"

"Only this afternoon. I was at the dock when I noticed him. It was chance, my friend. Pure luck. But very good luck,
si?"
"We must be careful. We must do nothing to arouse suspicions. He is thought of very highly in Guiana."

"So I've heard. These imbecilic savages believe he is the
boto"

Laughter sounded, then the taller of the men struck a match and held it to a cigar in his mouth. The flame danced upon his swarthy features and the heavy black mustache above his lip. Across his cheek was a twisted and puckered red scar.

He blew out the match and tossed it to the street. "I look forward to seeing our good friend again. Don't you, Diego?"

"Si.
I'm certain the Americano will be very pleased to see us too. When do you propose

we drop by to give him our regards?"

⁴
'In time. But for a while we will let him enjoy this lavish success he has attained." He removed the cigar from his mouth, allowing his fingertips to trace the wound on his cheek. Then the men turned up the street and merged with the shadows.

Sarah remained in the bushes until she was certain they were gone. Only then did she venture into the American's garden, deciding to put the unusual conversation from her mind. It had nothing to do with her, after all.

Yellow light glowed from the shanty's unshuttered window. A hint of cigar smoke drifted across the garden to tease her nostrils. A woman's throaty laughter startled her, and she froze.

The door opened. Sarah shrank back into the shelter of a drooping fig tree and stood very still, holding her breath. A cascade of scented creepers brushed her face and shoulders, yet she hardly noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the couple poised in the doorway.

The dark-skinned woman might have been a
caboclo
—a person of Portuguese and Indian blood—or she might have been a mulatto. Whatever she was, she was strikingly- beautiful. Her ink-black hair tumbled to her hips in glossy waves. Her dark skin shone. Her mouth was full, her eyes as wide and brown as Brazil nuts.

But it was the man who captured and held Sarah's attention. He stood half a head taller than his companion and was powerfully built. His shirt was open down his chest and hung loosely from his shoulders to his narrow hips. The flesh of his torso was damp. The thick raven-black hair on his head and chest glistened in the lamplight.

The breath left Sarah in a rush as the realization hit her:
this
was the American.
This
was Morgan Kane!

He caught the woman's face in his hand and tipped back her head. His arm slid around her and pulled her close, his free hand firmly cupping her buttock through the worn material of her cotton dress. He pressed her intimately against his hips as he kissed her, his mouth moving hungrily on hers, his tongue sliding over her lips and driving into her again and again until the woman was raking his back with her fingernails and running her hand down the front of his breeches, stroking, caressing as guttural sounds came from his throat.

The man pulled away, took hold of her arm, and dragged her back into the house, slamming the door. Frozen, her heart pounding, Sarah heard their laughter followed by un- intelligible murmurings that made her face burn with the knowledge of what was taking place beyond those thin walls. She had not been so sheltered all her life that she didn't know. What did shock her, however, was the fact that simply watching the amorous display had awakened something inside her, stirring and warming her—and frightening her too. She thought she might faint. Snatches of the Indians' conversations about the
boto,
the mythological seducer, came to mind, but she dismissed them, refusing to acknowledge such silly superstitions.

What now? If she fled for home she would never get up the courage to return.

The door opened again and the woman walked out, easing the hem of her dress down over her thighs, which were long and sleek and the color of cafe au lait. The American filled the doorway; his dark fingers were buttoning his trousers.

"Good night," came the woman's husky voice.

The American didn't answer. He leaned indolently against the doorframe as the woman melted into the shadows with the grace of a specter.

Sarah shivered.

Riveted, her arms clutching the twisted trunk of the fig tree, she watched him. He was not what she had expected— neither middle-aged nor distinguished. Obviously she was accustomed to comparing every man with her father or Nor- man. This American was dark and pagan and frightening. His skin was a golden bronze, only slightly lighter than that of the Indians who resided in Georgetown. His face was lean, possessing a barbaric handsomeness. His thick black eyebrows curved in a slant over his deep-set eyes—and those eyes!

Even from a distance she could make out their color, silver, as cold as the machete he was reputed to have wielded through Japura. Those quicksilver eyes looked like they could cut through steel, and that body was hard and lithe like an animal's. Yes... She could believe these stories. This man was as wild as the rain forest creatures—and just as dangerous. She could imagine him glibly turning down her father's offer. Dear Lord, she could imagine women like the one who had just left his arms finding in him an excuse to believe in mythical lovers. If she were smart she would forget this silly notion and go home. But she wasn't feeling smart right now. She was desperate and growing more so by the moment.

She waited until he had gone back into the house and closed the door. Only then did she approach and rap on the weathered wood.

"It's open," came the deep, sharp voice.

Her pulse quickened and her stomach turned over. The impulse to flee became fearfully strong.

At that moment the door was flung open. Aghast, Sarah stumbled back.

Morgan Kane stared down at the black-draped creature in surprise. He had been expecting Henry.

He said nothing for a moment. Obviously his abrupt response had set the woman aback. For an instant he wondered who the hell she was to be banging on his door in the early hours of morning. Then he noted the mourning garb, and the realization struck him: the governor's daughter.

The day before, he'd stood in the back of the church and watched her weep over her father's coffin. In truth, she had been his reason for attending Chester St. James's funeral. He'd heard rumors about the lady ever since his arrival in Georgetown a year ago, how she was cherished by British aristocrats and peasants alike. A child-woman of extremes, Sarah St. James had won over an entire nation by frolicking barefoot with the natives in the morning, then appearing in the evening on her father's arm as resplendent as royalty.

When he'd been invited to the Governor's residence a week ago, Chester St. James had pointed out a portrait of his daughter on the wall. It depicted an extraordinarily lovely young girl in a pale green crinoline and a yellow sash, with eyes full of mischief and fiery gold ringlets falling onto fragile white shoulders. One delicate hand held a bouquet of vibrant daffodils. The painting was titled "Sunshine."

He'd found himself mesmerized by the haunting image of childish innocence and loveliness reflected in the bluish- green eyes and rosebud mouth. That image had driven him to stand throughout the ceremony yesterday, his eyes on the sobbing figure in the front of the church, hoping for a glimpse of her mature features, suspecting that, in the process of growing up, she must certainly have lost that look of naivete that had lingered with him after leaving the Governor's mansion. He'd followed her all the way to the cemetery in hopes that the wind would lift her veil, but it hadn't.