Shadow Play (44 page)

"And when I think of him being dead, I realize that life has gone on, hasn't it? If I died tomorrow, the world wouldn't end. You'd go back to England with Norman and take your place in society. You'd think of me sometimes, and you might even imagine what it would have been like if we had married and had children." Smiling, he took up her hand and kissed it gently. "I love you, Sarah. I love you so much it hurts."

"And I love you," she assured him.

He leaned again on the rail, and the distant lights reflected in his eyes. "It seems that all my life I've been searching for the right words to say how I feel, spending too much time thinking and too little talking. All the things I should have said to people who mean something to me come back to me, and I realize that I failed miserably at the

relationships that really counted." He closed his eyes. "Henry died for me, because he loved me. You sacrifice for those you love, in whatever way you can."

Turning to Sarah, he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, then tenderly, then held her against him for a
very long time, until a burst of laughter from a group of men nearby made him step away and say in his more typical way, "Yeah, well, we'd better get back before Norman and Wickham come looking for us." Still, he lingered another moment, and there was something in his face and in the less-than-gentle way he squeezed her hand that filled her with a fear she could not comprehend. But before she could speak of it, he had propelled her back across the deck to the revelers, who were by now in high spirits and as eager as before to share her company.

Swept up in their frivolity, she found herself separated from Morgan. She caught glimpses of him as he stood alone, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on her... so tall, so broad-shouldered, so handsome. Her shining knight, her hero. /
love you too!
she wanted to scream, for suddenly she felt smothered by some sense of impending doom that hung in the air as palpably as the steam hovering over the docks.

That's ridiculous, she told herself. Insane. As she looked around the laughing men, then at Norman, whose sharp eyes continually trailed back to hers, she tried to convince herself that there was nothing amiss. Everything was going exactly as Wickham had predicted, and within the hour they would be sailing out of Belem's port on their way to En- gland. Then she could face Norman and break their engagement, and...

"Where is Morgan?" she asked aloud to no one in particular. She pushed her way around a portly man with a drooping mustache, causing him to spill his drink down the front of his suit. With some relief, she spotted Morgan standing again at the deck rails, leaning forward in an at- tempt to better view the freighter that had by now dropped its gangplank and was unloading seamen who were looking toward the
Amazonas
curiously.

"Miss St. James?"

She turned to find Antonio Pepino, the Officer of Customs, smiling drunkenly at her. "Would you care to see
my Customs House?" he asked. "It would give me great pleasure to show it to you and your distinguished friends, Sir Henry and Sheffield."

Wickham, who stood nearby, nodded and smiled. "Good idea, sir, and while we are about our inspection, the captain's men can begin to clear the deck for our departure."

"Come along, my dear," Pepino said.

Herded off the vessel with Pepino, Wickham, and Nor- man, she was ushered toward the two-story brick building at the end of the dock. Sarah looked back repeatedly for Morgan but was unable to find him among the seamen and officials who were disembarking from bom the
Amazonas
and the smaller freighter that had docked earlier. The crews merged; there was cajoling and guffawing, a burst of rowdy singing.

"Come along, my dear," the customs official said again. "You needn't trouble yourself with these men. They are only seamen from the
Rose.
They've a load of bananas from Coari which they'll be unloading at dawn."

"Coari?" she said, her heart skipping a beat. She strained harder to make out the faces, but they were all turned away and...

"Over there we have a ship from Spain," Pepino went on. "She'll be unloading Castile soap, wines, figs, and lemons. That ship there is from Africa, and those crates are packed with ivory and myrrh, and these here with cinnamon, cloves, and pepper from the Spice Islands."

She forced a tight smile. "How very interesting."

She thought she caught a glimpse of Morgan moving down the gangplank but the shadows were dancing too erratically, and the lights from the piers and the boats obscured her sight. Then she was entering the stuffy, low-ceilinged Customs House. The collector was introducing her to the deputy collector and a team of weighers and measurers; then the surveyor, who explained he was the only authorized official allowed to measure the alcoholic content of liquid
cargoes. And on and on until she lost track of the minutes and the faces and the names.

The choking sense of fear pressed in on her until she was forced to excuse herself and slip into a much less crowded room so that she could catch her breath. She closed her eyes and thanked God as Wickham's voice came to her.

"I do beg your pardon, gentlemen, but the captain has informed me that he is about to set off."

"What a shame," someone cried. "And I had not got the chance to speak with the young lady."

"Perhaps on our next expedition."

"Of course."

"Now we really must rush or he is liable to sail without us."

Sarah hurried from the room and, smiling her appreciation at the inebriated officials, took her place between Norman and Sir Wickham, allowing them to usher her out the door.

"Don't look back," Wickham said under his breath. "The bloody bastards are so inebriated they cannot see straight."

They hit the pier at a fast walk, weaving around the straggling seamen, ignoring those who whistled and shouted at Sarah, stepping over one or two drunkards who had not been able to make it back to their ships before passing out. As they reached the gangplank, the captain, standing on the quarterdeck, shouted,' 'Prepare to cast off!'' and the engines roared to life and the seamen hustled to their positions. Sarah scanned the deck, and suddenly she froze, partially turning back toward the pier as she said:

"Where's Morgan?"

"I'm certain he's about somewhere—" Wickham began.

"I'm not boarding until I see him."

"But I assure you—"

"Morgan!"

"Sarah," Norman said, his irritation apparent.

"Where is Morgan?" Grabbing up her skirts, she moved back toward the dock.

"Sarah," Norman said, "I demand that you come to your senses this instant."

Wickham agreed. "We must leave immediately. We can- not take the risk of remaining—"

"I'm going nowhere until I see him, I tell you!"

And then she did see him, and her heart froze. He stood beneath a gas lamp at the end of the pier; he wasn't alone.

Sarah briefly closed her eyes before running back down the plank, shoving Wickham aside as he attempted to grab her, vaguely hearing his cries for the captain's help as she struck out down the pier, toward Morgan and...

King. Dear God, it was King! There was no mistaking that flowing blond hair or the stance that so resembled Morgan's. In a flash it all came to her. Somehow Morgan had known, or sensed, that time had run out; he had virtually told her good-bye; he had tried to prepare her without frightening her. At last he had given up, or given in, refusing to run, to cower, to jeopardize her safe return to England. He had made up his mind long ago that he would never leave Brazil again. That was why he'd withdrawn
from her in the past weeks and would never respond to her talk about marriage.

"Morgan, no!" she screamed.

Then the two men were struggling, and there was a gun; she saw it reflect the orange light from the lamp overhead as Morgan did his best to turn it away from him. For a moment he seemed to have the upper hand as he drove King backward, slamming him into a stack of crates that wobbled precariously under the impact. Their feet were scuffling on the wood pier, and as she neared she could hear their grunts and curses. Then King was yelling like a madman, and the gun disappeared between them, and—

The explosion ripped apart the night.

Sarah stumbled, jarred by fear and shock. Then time stood still as she waited, waited—the groan of pain sounding like a roar so loud to her heightened senses that she covered her ears with her hands.

The blood. So much blood spreading over Morgan's back.

She covered her eyes, her mouth, unwilling to accept what she saw but horrifyingly transfixed, her mind grasping for some logical explanation without accepting the truth.

Then he was falling back, drifting toward the pier.

And King was left standing, his long legs spread, his gold hair blowing in a sudden gust of wind, his flushed, sweating face contorted in anger, yet mirroring the same horror and pain her own features must have shown. The gun dropped from his hand, and he fell back, looking at Sarah in surprise as she screamed Morgan's name.

Somewhere behind her, men were shouting. Their running feet seemed to shake the entire wharf. King turned and fled into the darkness. A gun fired, but he kept running. Another shot, and another from the seamen of the
Amazonas,
and for an instant it seemed that King must be an illusion, some unearthly being who could not be stopped or wounded by mortal weapons. Then a young seaman dropped to one knee, aimed his rifle, and fired.

King spun, grabbing his side, but stumbled on. The sea- man shot again. The impact stopped King in his tracks; he appeared to balance for a moment at the edge of the pier. Then he toppled into the water below.

Morgan lay on his back, his shirt and coat front covered in blood.

Sarah dropped to her knees, unable to breathe, feeling the overwhelming grief rake her throat. She wept his name, and when he opened his eyes and looked up at her, she almost collapsed.

Gently, so gently, she lifted his head and shoulders and held him in her lap. She touched his face, his hair, his lips.

He smiled and spoke weakly. "We almost made it, Sun- shine."

"Don't talk. We'll get a doctor. You're going to be fine, my darling. It's over now. All over. They shot King and..." He closed his eyes and she gripped him tighter.

"Be happy," he whispered.

"Morgan." She wept, and kissed his mouth. As Norman and Sir Henry ran up to them, she pleaded, "Get a doctor. Someone please get a doctor."

Wickham bent to one knee and briefly examined the wound in Morgan's abdomen. His face paled. "My dear, I fear there's nothing we can do. I urge you to come along now. The police are coming. If the
Amazonas
is delayed, we are certain to be found out. Come along, I beseech you!"

She shook her head, and as Norman reached to pull her away, she turned her tear-streaked face up to his and said flatly, "I'm not leaving him."

"Sarah, be sensible."

She shook her head.

"We cannot allow you to stay," came Wickham's words.

"You cannot force me to go. I won't. I won't, I tell you! My place is here, with the man I love, whom I intend to marry—"

Norman's face turned rigid, "He's dying, Sarah."

"No!" She buried her face against Morgan's chest and cried. "Oh, God, no. He's not. He's not dying, and I won't leave him!"

Morgan's hand touched her cheek, and she raised her face above his, doing her best to smile encouragement. His eyes were hard and gray, and there was no hint of the tenderness with which he had looked at her in the past weeks. "I want you to get the hell away from me and let me... die in peace. Go home with Norman, and don't think for a minute that I would ever have followed you there... or married you." Closing his eyes, he turned his face away and, gritting his teeth, gripped her dress in his bloodied fingers and shoved her away. "I don't... love you. I used you. Now get the hell away from me so I can die with some sort of dignity."

"You don't mean that, Morgan. You don't!"

A sudden spasm of pain washed over his features, and for an instant his eyes came back
to hers, and his fingers
made a desperate grab for her hand. "Sarah," he called softly.

Then he was still, and his eyes closed.

"Missy," came Kan's voice, and numbly, she looked up as he elbowed his way around Norman and Wickham.

"Help him," she said quietly.

Kan took her in his powerful arms and pulled her away, though she shook her head and fought him as he forced her to stand. Wickham bent over Morgan's body. Then, turning swiftly back to her, his eyes sorrowful, his lips pressed in a grim line, he said, "I'm sorry. He's dead."

The black sky and sea seemed to open up and drag her down, and somewhere she heard a woman screaming.

Chapter Twenty-two

Three Months Later, August 1876, London, England

Norman stood at the double window, his hands held loosely at his back as he contemplated Sarah where she sat beneath a tree, feeding nuts to her filthy, flea-ridden monkey. He looked over at his mother. "I suppose I should speak to her."

"I highly recommend it," she replied. "You are due at Lord Pimberton's at half past. Shall I see you there, dear?"

"If you would be so gracious, Mama."

Lady Sheffield offered her plump cheek to her son for a kiss, then moved to the door. "And, dear, do try to convince her to leave those savages at home. While our friends have been highly understanding, I fear their tolerance is near an end."

"I'll do my best, Mama. You know how they are about her. They won't let her out of their sight for a moment." He waited until his mother had gone before joining Sarah
in the garden. "Sarah, have you forgotten that we're dining with Lord Pimberton tonight?"

Sarah scratched Nuisance beneath his chin before looking up at Norman. "I haven't forgotten," she replied.

"But you haven't dressed."

"Yes, I have."

"But you cannot go to Pimberton's in breeches."

"Why not?"

"It isn't done." The bushes rattled and a savage peered at him from behind the foliage. "By gad," Norman whispered. "He has a spear."