Ship of Dreams (10 page)

In his eagerness to hear the rest of her story, Kenton had forgotten their plan to allow her additional privacy. But now that they were both inside the little room, it was too late for him to back out without causing comment.

"I, ah, sorry. You go ahead and change first again." Feeling foolish, he climbed up to his berth and pulled the draperies closed behind him before stretching out to wait his turn. Damn. He'd forgotten to take off his boots, he realized. Where was his mind tonight?

As if in answer, a soft rustling began outside the curtains as Della undressed. Just as he had last night, he found it far too easy to visualize what was going on out there in the cabin. Now, knowing Della even better, having admitted to at least some degree of admiration for her, it was worse.

One shoe, and then the other—dainty little half-boots, he remembered—thunked softly against the floor as she removed them. And that—that would be the sound of her unfastening her hoops. He imagined her slipping them from beneath her skirts, perhaps revealing ankles and calves as she did so.

That rustling—would that be her petticoats? Had she unbuttoned her dress yet? He knew he should not be allowing himself such thoughts, but he had to pass the time somehow. The sound of her valise opening and then closing indictated that she had taken out her nightgown. What did women wear under their nightgowns? Anything at all? Was hers of cotton or satin, and what color might it be? Would it outline her breasts?

No!
This was absurd. He could not afford to think about Della like that, or this voyage would become impossible. He tried valiantly to bring a picture of Caroline before his mind's eye, instead. Blonde. She was blonde, and tall—much taller than Della. Della would come only to Caroline's nose. Her petiteness brought out an odd protectiveness in him ...

Even as he realized his thoughts had strayed again into forbidden channels, the drapes parted, then closed. "I'm finished," Della informed him from below.

Not a moment too soon
, he told himself. It dawned on him that the greatest risk from this charade was not to his business reputation or family name, but to his own integrity. To distract himself from such an unsettling revelation, he began speaking as he removed his boots, leaning against the wall for support, as Della's hoops again occupied the trunk.

"You never did have a chance to finish your tale this morning," he said. "We were interrupted just as you told me the nature of your most recent business." Remembering what that business was helped to steady his unruly inclinations.

Muffled by the draperies, Della's voice was hesitant. "I know you cannot approve of what I was doing, and it was not what I set out to do, of course. But my remedies were no worse than those sold by the various apothecaries and druggists in town, I assure you."

Kenton shrugged out of his jacket, frowning. "But those men have training, experience—"

"In the East, perhaps." She spoke more forcefully now. "In San Francisco, I assure you, not one apothecary in ten is qualified for the profession. Nor most physicians, either."

He realized her words were probably true. His frame of reference was different. Perhaps he shouldn't judge the situation by New York standards. "So you were selling real cures? Concoctions that actually helped more people than they harmed?" He was still skeptical.

"I believe some of my remedies were genuine, yes. I gathered several testimonials about the efficacy of my sovereign indigestion and sleep potions. And many of my medicines were fortified with vitamins, so they were bound to do some good, even if they weren't able to treat the condition for which they were intended."

Did she really believe this, or was she simply reciting a litany she'd used to convince herself and her customers over the years? "Are you saying that you mixed up these remedies yourself?"

"For the most part, yes. I tested most of Dr. Miracle's original stock on myself, and disposed of anything that caused even the least adverse reaction."

"That was daring," he exclaimed, turning his back to the berths to remove his trousers. Not that he really believe she would peek, of course, but—"You might easily have poisoned yourself."

"I was careful, starting with minute amounts, then increasing to the recommended dosages if I observed no ill effects. Maire offered to help me test them, but her health was delicate after a bout of dysentery, so I was unwilling to allow that."

Stripped to his drawers, he doused the light and quickly climbed back into his bunk. Settling himself, he finally asked the question he'd been putting off. "The murder accusation—was it as a result of your remedies?"

"Yes. But not because they harmed anyone," she added quickly. "My ague remedy was perfectly harmless, and Mrs. Potts was already exceedingly ill. I didn't expect my medicine would cure her, but I'm absolutely certain it did not hasten her demise. Her husband was anxious to ascribe blame, however, and a certain rival apothecary was only too eager to direct suspicion my way."

Finally, he began to understand. "Was this apothecary also treating the unfortunate Mrs. Potts?"

"You're very astute." He could hear the approval in her voice. "He was, and no doubt feared for his own reputation if he were unable to fix the blame elsewhere. Particularly since questions had already been raised about his asthma cure. I sampled some myself once, out of curiosity, and I'm almost certain it contained significant quantities of opium."

"Then why should you fear his accusations? It sounds as though you had ample evidence to defend yourself." He wanted—needed—to have reason to doubt her, but it was becoming more and more difficult.

"I did," she sighed. "But as I believe I intimated to you before, Mr. Willis was more respected—and far wealthier—than I. He founded his shop just after the gold rush began, more than seven years ago. He had numerous associates who served on the last Vigilance Committee. I had no one, no family and no friends who would come to my defense, save my landlady. I admit my flight was impetuous, but I believe I had ample cause to fear for my safety, under the circumstances."

Unwillingly, he considered what it must have been like for her, alone in that lawless city, her parents dead, her sister married and gone. What had her life been but one abandonment after another? No, he really couldn't blame her. "Yes, I suppose you did. I'm sorry if I was harsh before."

Silence. Then, softly, floating up through the darkness, "Thank you."

*
          
*
          
*

Everything had been easier when Kent Bradford still irritated her, Della decided. When she still resented him for holding her to this bargain. She strolled along the promenade deck with Mary Patterson and Addie Easton, their sprightly chatter washing over her as her thoughts returned, yet again, to the subject that had plagued her for the past few days.

She had been certain that Kent would withdraw completely once he knew the truth about her recent life. In fact, she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd decided at that point to risk his business and reputation rather than spend another moment in her presence. Instead, he'd softened toward her. He'd even apologized. And yet, she realized guiltily, she hadn't even told him her real name. And now she didn't know what—or how—to think about him at all.

"How about you, Della?" asked Mary just then, breaking into her ruminations.

"Me? What?" She hadn't a clue what they'd been talking about. "I'm sorry—I'm afraid I was daydreaming."

Mary giggled. "No wonder! We were comparing the reality of marriage, after a whole week of it, to our expectations." She pinkened, but her eyes danced with laughter. "With a handsome husband like Mr. Bradford, though, I can't imagine you've been disappointed."

Now it was Della's turn to flush—which both of her companions took as confirmation of Mary's surmise. Her stammered reply only added to the impression, she suspected. "Disappointed? Ah, n-no, not ... That is to say—"

"No need to go into specifics, dear." Addie placed a hand on her sleeve. "Mary, shame on you for embarrassing her so! Surely the time doesn't hang so heavily on our hands that we need to discuss such very private matters to alleviate our boredom."

Mary quickly agreed, and Della absently murmured something about not being at all offended, but already her mind was elsewhere. Across the broad deck, Kent stood talking to several other gentlemen, the ocean breeze riffling his dark hair. A week of sunshine had given his face a bronze glow, reminiscent of a Greek god.

Della blinked. What was she thinking? Kent Bradford might be handsome, and a pleasant gentleman, but he was no god. Still, she could not suppress a quiver of appreciation at the way his muscular legs planted themselves on the deck, swaying slightly with the movement of the ship. Or the way the strong column of his neck emerged from his snowy-white shirt, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the fabric ... She stifled a sigh and looked away.

The routine they'd worked out, with her retiring first in the evenings and him leaving the cabin first in the mornings, gave her welcome privacy for her own toilette. No longer did she have to worry about what he might see—or imagine—as she dressed or undressed. But what of her own imaginings? Each night she had to pretend she slept while listening to the increasingly seductive sounds of his clothing being peeled from his body, while her imagination grew bolder and bolder.

It wasn't fair, she decided. Why should she be tormented so, by the first man who had ever truly attracted her, while he remained unmoved? Not that she
wanted
him to desire her, of course. Did she?

"So, my dear, are you ladies keeping yourselves amused?" Kent's own voice broke into her musings, making her jump.

Turning, she saw that he, Ansel Easton, and Robert Patterson had joined them. "Of course," she replied with a smile. "After the gloomy San Francisco weather, I can't seem to get enough of this sunshine, though I fear all the bonnets and parasols in the world aren't enough to keep my freckles at bay."

 
He grinned down at her. "I rather like your freckles. Haven't I told you that before?"

She shook her head, captured by his amber gaze for a long moment before nervously dropping her eyes, afraid of what they might reveal. After their first two days aboard, they had avoided private conversation, Della spending most of her time with the other ladies and Kent with the gentlemen, meeting mainly at mealtimes. Even now they were in a group of six, though the others paid them little attention at the moment.

"I've been negligent then," he said, making her blink until she realized he was referring back to his comment about her freckles. "They give you character—though goodness knows you have enough of that, even without them."

Surprised, she met his eyes again, to find a warmth there that sent odd tremors through her midsection. Her own eyes widened. Was it possible that she was
not
alone in her attraction? But even as the incredulous thought entered her brain, he glanced away, his tone suddenly lighter, making her wonder if she'd only imagined what she wished to see.

"I notice there are clouds on the horizon, off to the east. Perhaps you're right to enjoy the sun while you can."

She followed his gaze. "I doubt those clouds will affect us. I've long observed that storms in this part of the world generally come in from the west and move off to the east. That one will likely trouble the Mexican coast rather than head this way."

His eyebrows rose. "How observant of you. And, of course, you're quite right. I wasn't thinking."

Dared she hope she might be the cause of his distraction? But his next words seemed to dispell that idea.

"I've cemented deals with two more investors over the past two days," he informed her, his voice now low. Doubtless he'd noticed, as she did, that the other men didn't discuss business with their wives. "It seems Sharpe was right about the opportunities to be found aboard ship."

She took a few steps away from the others so that they might speak more privately. "Does that make your position more secure? Or do we need to be as much on our guard as ever?" The man with the walking stick had still not approached her, making her hope she'd been mistaken about that threat.

Kent shrugged. "It's hard to say. But I'm not finding our current situation too onerous. in any event." Again he held her with that golden-brown gaze. "Are you?"

Della shook her head, slowly. It would be fatally easy to develop a real attachment for this man, she realized. For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder whether that would be such a bad thing.

"Oh, here comes Mr. Birch!" Mary Patterson exclaimed just then, reminding Della abruptly that they weren't alone. "Virginia said he was composing a new song, even funnier than the last. Perhaps he has finished it."

They rejoined the group in time to hear Billy Birch promising to perform his newest bit of cleverness that evening after supper. Everyone expressed their eagerness to hear it at once, but he waved them away. "Anticipation will assure me a better audience," he joked. "Besides, any performance is better received on a full stomach, I've discovered, particularly if plenty of wine is served with the meal."

After a bit more banter of the same sort, the group again segregated by sex, the men to talk business and politics, the women to discuss fashion and gossip. Della's story of losing her luggage had been accepted without question, and now Virginia offered her tips on ways to make her limited remaining wardrobe appear more varied than it was.