Ship of Dreams (4 page)

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Della was exhausted by the time they left the table. She'd never, in her whole chequered life, had to improvise so thoroughly or so quickly. Mr. Bradford had been no help, other than filling in a few details about his shipping business. He'd left the entire burden of describing their meeting and courtship to her.

"An occasional comment from you might have made the story more convincing," she murmured as they moved away from the others to climb the stairs to the promenade deck.

"You seemed to have the whole matter well in hand," he replied. "I was agog to hear what you would come up with next." He carefully did not touch her, she noticed—as though she were slimy, or contagious.

Reaching the railing, she turned to face him, suddenly angry. "It was your idea—no, your
command
—that I continue in this role, if you recall. What else was I to do when they began asking questions? I only did what you demanded, and now you despise me for it."

Surprisingly, he smiled. "I'm being most unfair, am I not? You're right, of course, but I'd have been little help even if I had tried. I fear I have nowhere near your, ah, skill in such matters. It's not something I've been used to."

He was still mocking her, condemning her. "You'd best develop such skills, then," she snapped, "if you insist we play these parts for the next two weeks."

"Don't forget—don't ever forget—that you brought this upon yourself, Miss Gilley." The smile was gone now, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm merely trying to minimize the damage you've already wrought."

It was true, she knew, but she tossed her head and stared out at the sparkling water rather than meet his gaze. "Then you'll have to play your part as well. Behaving as if your new wife has the plague will hardly convince anyone that our story is true."

He was silent for such a long time that she finally risked a quick glance to make sure he hadn't left her standing there alone. But no, he was also staring at the sea, his brow furrowed.

"This whole thing is alien to my nature," he said at last. "But I see no other way now. I'll endeavor to do better."

It pricked her pride that he should so obviously regret being thrown together with her, but she could hardly blame him, under the circumstances. "If it helps at all, I'm truly sorry I've forced you into such a situation," she said softly.

He turned to look at her, his expression enigmatic. "Thank you. It does. But I imagine that before all is over, you'll be sorrier still."

She glared at him, her sympathy abruptly evaporating. "And you plan to make sure of that, don't you? It appears I made a poor choice after all. You, Kent Bradford, are a bully!" With that, Della stalked off to find another section of rail for her vantage point—one as far from the infuriating man as possible.

The weather was fine, warm but not uncomfortably so, and the promenade deck was crowded, but she managed to find a corner to herself near the bow of the ship. As she watched the ocean flowing away beneath them, the enormous twin paddle wheels compensating for the lack of wind, Della's anger seeped away.

So many things could have gone wrong, preventing her from being where she was right now! That accusation could easily have come on any other day, as the steamer sailed only every second Thursday. She could have been too late for the sailing, or the police could have caught her as she boarded. Or Mr. Bradford could have denounced her the moment she first spoke.

No, awkward as her situation was now, it could have been far, far worse! Lady Luck had been her ally yet again, and Della had much to be grateful for—even if she'd rather not be obligated to an insufferable man like Kenton Bradford.

A high, breathy voice broke into her musings. "Mrs. Bradford—or may I call you Della?—isn't this a lovely day?" Della turned to see Mary Patterson, blonde and bouncy, at her side.

"It certainly is," she agreed. "And please, call me Della. I've never been one to stand on ceremony."

"Oh, good! Neither have I. I'm sure we're going to be great friends by the time we reach New York!"

Della had every intention of leaving the group long before that, but she smiled. Certainly, she could use all the friends she could get, just now. "I hope so," she said lightly. "You're originally from New York, aren't you?"

"New Jersey, actually. Close enough. I'm a bit homesick, I confess. Of course, I never thought, when I came to California with Papa last year, that I'd be going home a bride—though I rather
hoped
I might!" She tittered.

Mary was a bit silly, Della realized, but good natured. And she'd hardly been a paragon of sober responsibility herself, she had to admit.

"Your Mr. Bradford is from New York too, is he not?" Mary asked her then. "One of the New York Bradfords? He seems terribly young—and handsome!—to be the owner of his own business, as my Robert says he is. That's not uncommon in California, of course, where fortunes are made and lost overnight, but things are more, ah, settled in the East, I know."

Della felt her smile become fixed, and strove for a more natural expression. "I ... I believe he had the business from his father," she improvised, remembering a comment by Mr. Sharpe. "He really hasn't spoken much about it to me." Much? She knew nothing whatsoever about Bradford's New York business concerns!

"No, I suppose not. Business is so dull, after all, and our feminine brains really aren't made to handle it. Robert often tells me so."

With an effort, Della refrained from contradicting her. She herself had always had an excellent head for business—far better than her father's, certainly! "Dull. Yes, of course."

"So Mr. Bradford's father is dead, then?" Mary continued. "How sad. And you an orphan, too! Is his mother alive, at least?"

Della tried to remember whether he had mentioned his family during the noon meal. He hadn't. "I, ah, believe she still lives in New York. I hope her surprise at our marriage won't keep her from welcoming me into the family!" What did it matter if she were wrong about his family or business in New York? She'd be long gone before the truth came out.

But no—Mr. Sharpe might know the details, and Mr. Bradford himself would no doubt reveal various facts about himself to the others aboard. It wouldn't do at all for her stories to conflict with his. That might arouse suspicions, and she couldn't afford that—not yet.
 
For one thing, there was that man with the walking stick. She'd caught a glimpse of him in the dining saloon, though he hadn't looked her way ...

"Mary, if you don't mind, I believe I'll return to my room for a deeper brimmed bonnet. This lovely sunshine will make me freckle terribly if I'm not careful."

Her companion completely understood such vain concern, and waved her away cheefully, promising to resume their conversation later. "If you're not back right away, I'll know you and Mr. Bradford are passing the time more agreeably," she added with a playful wink.

Della turned away quickly, before Mary could see her blush. That was another curse of her coloring, besides the tendency to freckle. She'd discovered long ago that she had to keep her emotions ruthlessly in check or her blushes would betray her—which could be disastrous in the middle of a business negotiation.

So why should Mary's teasing so easily overthrow her practiced control? She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

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A
bully?
Had that infuriating woman actually called him a bully? Kenton stared at her receding back with something akin to shock. No one had ever called him a bully before! He was generally held to be among the most upright and reasonable of men, never making any decision before weighing all of the options, giving a respectable portion of his income to charities and the church. A
bully?

With a snort, he turned to glare at the sea, frowning at the puffy white clouds meandering along the horizon. He would
not
let her rattle him, or make him behave in any way out of character. No more than she already had, anyway.

He started when a hand unexpectedly clapped him on the shoulder. "So Bradford, you were going to finish telling me how your negotiations in Sacramento turned out."

Just as glad to turn his mind to other matters, he faced Nelson Sharpe with a smile. "Indeed I was. Competition will be a bit stiffer than I'd hoped, but shipping still seems to be a rapidly growing business in California."

Nelson nodded. "It hasn't reached saturation point yet, by a long shot. The days of overnight fortunes may be nearly over, but a man can still make quite a comfortable profit here. I know your main focus has been manufacturing in the past, but you've got some shipping contracts already, don't you?"

"Only in the immediate New York area, but that's about to change." Kenton went on to elaborate on his plans for expanding the shipping portion of the Bradford business, letting his enthusiasm color his voice.

What he didn't say, and preferred Sharpe not discover, was that without this expansion, Bradford Shipping & Mercantile would be in danger of becoming obsolete. He had to land these California contracts to ensure the survival of the original business—the business that supported his mother and sisters, as well as his own future hopes.

Nelson's enthusiasm seemed to match his own. Of course, as a partner in the California shipping branch, the man stood to make a substantial profit himself. "And then there's the extra bonus you picked up on this trip, too," he commented, after listening to Kenton's list of the Sacramento firms that had committed to him.

"Bonus?"

"The little lady, of course," Nelson clarified with a grin. "You managed to snag yourself a pretty armful there. Dare I hope she's an heiress to boot?"

Kenton felt vaguely repelled by the man's blatant avarice. Nor did he know the answer to his question, though he rather doubted it. "She's hardly destitute," he replied, remembering that she at least had the means to buy a steerage ticket—and that flattering dress she wore. "But an heiress? I'm afraid not."

"Ah, well, one can't have everything." Nelson chuckled. "So her father wasn't one of those who struck it rich in the gold fields, eh? She does seem rather too high-class to be the daughter of a prospector, I suppose."

They were getting into dangerous territory now, for Kenton knew absolutely nothing about Della's parents or background, beyond the little she'd fabricated over lunch. She could be the illegitimate daughter of a prostitute, for all he knew!

"I believe he tried his hand at mining, but didn't make a career of it," he offered, hoping Miss Gilley wasn't even now telling a completely different story to someone else. "Speaking of my wife, however, reminds me that I was to meet her back at our stateroom five minutes ago. We'll talk more about the business later, if that's all right."

Nelson shot him a knowing grin. "Business can't compete with the joys of a new wife. I'll see you at supper, if you can bring yourselves to leave your cabin."

With a curt nod that he hoped would be interpreted as impatience rather than irritation, Kenton turned and hurried toward his stateroom. He glanced about the deck as he went, hoping to spot Della and subtly let her know he needed to speak with her, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He felt a sudden stab of anxiety. Who was she with? What was she saying? Might he find himself in an even deeper quagmire of lies than before?

A fair number of people had retreated from the sun to converse or play cards in the dining saloon, but Della wasn't there, either. With an exasperated sigh, he opened the door to their stateroom.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Della greeted him. She was seated on the padde

d trunk, her green skirts billowing about her most fetchingly, though they again took up nearly half the space in the cabin.

"We need to talk," they said simultaneously.

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CHAPTER 4

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched

With a woeful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale;

And then it left me free.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

A spurt of laughter escaped Della and to her surprise, Kent joined in—for a moment. Almost at once his expression sobered, as he leaned against the closed cabin door.

 
"I take it you've discovered, as I have, that we need to fill in a few gaps in our stories?" asked Kent—as she was already calling him in her thoughts.

Della nodded, shifting her seat slightly on the trunk, trying for a more comfortable position. "I know you think I'm the world's most experienced liar, but I'd really rather not make up an entire fictitious family for you if I can learn about your real one instead."