Ship of Dreams (7 page)

To her relief, he turned his back on her then. "Tempting as it is to simply talk all night, we shall both have to sleep sometime. We may as well work out the arrangements now."

Did she imagine it, or had the back of his neck darkened as he spoke? Somehow, it heartened her to think he might be as embarrassed as she was.

"There are three berths," she pointed out, her voice more level. "As the cabin is yours, it seems only fair that you get first choice."

He nodded, not quite looking at her. "I'll take the top, and you may have the bottom. We'll leave the middle one free for our excess luggage."

She exhaled in relief. That would mean she need not climb, nor be assisted by him to her bunk. Modesty would be much easier to preserve this way.

Abruptly, her relief evaporated. Modesty! She could scarcely sleep in her best dress, even if she could discreetly remove the hoops. That meant—

"Er, I'll just get my night things out of my valise," she stammered, hoping a solution might present itself. She could ask him to leave the cabin while she changed, she supposed, but as she had just pointed out, this was
his
cabin. Surely, though, he would offer to do the decent thing?

He did not. "I'll sit on my berth and close the curtains while you change," he said instead.

Della was unable to completely stifle a gasp—not quite of outrage, but certainly of surprise and dismay. The look he shot her was far too perceptive.

"Yes, I'm certain you'd prefer that I leave the room entirely, but think for a moment. If anyone were to see me, it would look exceedingly odd. In any event, we may as well begin as we mean to go on. Even if I were unobserved tonight, I can scarcely leave you alone in here every evening without giving rise to speculation both of us would prefer to avoid."

She managed a shaky—very shaky—laugh. "Yes, we
are
supposed to be newlyweds. I suppose you're right." She hated to admit it, though—and hated even more that he'd seen her nervousness. At least it should convince him that she'd told the truth about being virtuous! "I'll ... wait until you're in your bunk." Not calling the berths "beds" helped a little.

"Just a moment." He sat on the trunk and removed his boots while Della did her best to control the ridiculous trembling in her midsection. She would
not
betray any further nervousness, she was determined. A minute later, in his stocking feet, he climbed up to the third berth and, true to his word, closed the heavy curtains behind him.

Della examined the juncture of the two curtains. Was there the tiniest gap there, or was she imagining it? She opened her mouth to ask him to turn his back as well, but stopped herself in time. She was behaving foolishly enough already. Turning her own back, she began undoing the long row of buttons down her bodice. Her fingers shook, making a clumsy business of it.

She was on the last button when his voice came from behind the curtain. "You will let me know when you've finished, won't you?"

Her head whipped around, but she kept her body turned away from him. "Yes, of course. Ladies' clothing takes a bit of time to remove, I'm afraid." Even as she said the words, she felt the rush of blood to her face at the thought that they might seem suggestive. "That is to say," she stammered, "um, I'll hurry."

"No, no, take your time. I'll endeavor to stay awake until it's my turn."

She heard his body shifting on the bunk as he presumably stretched himself out upon it. No, she would not imagine—Quickly, she undid the last button and unhooked her hoops. A few moments later, she was able to step free of the dress.

Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she unlaced her corset as quickly as her fumbling fingers would allow. As she'd never had a maid, it fastened in the front, which was a blessing right now. In a moment, she was free of its restriction. Thank goodness she had thought to pack her flannel wrapper! She would sleep in it.

Hurriedly, she dug the robe from her valise and scrambled into it, belting it tightly over her thin shift. Tossing her petticoats and collapsed hoops onto the trunk, she smoothed out her green dress and laid it on top, then tucked her corset underneath, out of sight. Finally, she splashed some water from the ewer onto her face, and dove through the curtains onto the bottom bunk, pulling them tight behind her.

"All right, I'm finished."

She heard his weight shifting above her, and then the heavy damask draperies parted—as they must, since they extended the height of all three berths. With a gasp, she pulled the inner cambric curtains, the ones shielding her berth individually, closer. But then his feet hit the floor with a soft thud and the heavier drapes fell back into place.

"Thank you," was all he said before beginning his own toilette.

Though she did try not to listen, Della could not prevent herself from hearing the sounds of his undressing—nor from analyzing each one. Vainly, she tried to block from her mind the picture of his coat and shirt parting to reveal his chest and arms, his trousers peeling away from his powerful legs. What would he sleep in? No, no, she mustn't wonder.

At the same time, she was embarrassed to think that her hoops, petticoats and corset were out there on the trunk, shielded only by her dress. What imaginations might those stir? Kenton Bradford was a gentleman, it seemed—but he was also male, and healthy. Very healthy.

Unwillingly occupied with such thoughts, it seemed no time at all to her before he was climbing back up to his berth, briefly parting the outer drapes and then closing them again. The sun had finally set, so now the welcome darkness offered additional concealment. Della breathed a sigh of relief. That had not been so terrible after all.

Above her, his bunk creaked as he lay back down. A rustle indicated he had pulled his blanket over himself. Again the bunk creaked as he settled himself, and then again.

"Not very comfortable, for the exorbitant price they charge," he commented.

She smiled into the darkness. "I've made do with far worse, I assure you."

"I suppose so." He was silent for a moment. "You're probably thinking that I've led a very pampered life."

"Actually, I was thinking how much less comfortable a berth in steerage would be," she replied. She
had
thought what he'd assumed as well, but admitting it seemed unkind.

"Or in jail."

Kindness be damned
, she thought. "Even jail would no doubt be more comfortable—physically—than many places I've had to sleep in my lifetime. Your existence may have been luxurious, Mr. Bradford, but it has also been very sheltered—and probably boring. I can't truly say I envy it."

Now the silence stretched for so long that she wondered whether she'd mortally offended him—or if he'd simply fallen asleep. But then he said, "I'm sorry, Miss Gilley. That remark about jail was uncalled for. Perhaps tomorrow you can tell me more of your experiences, that I might broaden mine vicariously. For now, though, I suggest we both get some sleep."

She was just as glad to discontinue the conversation. Talking into the darkness like this, while she lay on her bed, seemed terribly intimate, somehow—particularly when his voice softened, as it had just now. "A wise suggestion," she said. "Goodnight, Mr. Bradford."

But even rocked by the gentle motion of the ship and lulled by the hum of the engines, it was a long time before she fell asleep.

*
          
*
          
*

The next morning, Kenton awakened before Della did. As quietly as possible, he climbed down from his berth and dressed, not without frequent glances to assure himse

lf that the curtain in front of her bunk was still tightly closed. Then he left the cabin. She'd no doubt be most grateful to have it to herself when she awoke—and he needed some time to think before he faced her again.

A glance at his watch told him it would be a full hour before breakfast was served. Just as well. He headed out into the early sunshine, turning up his collar at the breeze which would doubtless become warm later, but was now almost uncomfortably cool. In fact, the sails were spread to take advantage of the following wind and ease the burden on the engines.

He took a few turns about the deck, then found a private spot near the bow from which to watch the slightly choppy sea, and to think.

Before falling asleep last night, he'd replayed their brief conversation over and over in his mind, wanting to curse himself each time he came to his quip about Della in jail. She'd said nothing to antagonize him—until after that unforgivable remark. And then ...
Had
his life been boring? That suggestion bothered him nearly as much as her calling him a bully had yesterday.

Certainly the years immediately after his father's death had been interesting enough, though the managers had dealt with most business matters until he was able to learn enough about it to take a more active role. Then there'd been the mad scramble after Charles sold out his share of the business and left. He had worked long and hard to rebuild after that. Boring? No. But not exactly exciting, either, he had to admit.

And what about the past few years? He'd fallen into a routine, no doubt about it. It had still involved hard work, but little risk, little imagination—until this trip to California. The past six months had been the most exciting of his life, he realized. Even so, he'd faced no hardship, no danger—merely the unfamiliar. Compared to what he now knew of Della's life, his own
had
been sheltered.

The bell signaling breakfast cut into his ruminations, but he welcomed the interruption. Turning from the rail, he saw Della coming toward him from the dining saloon. She was wearing a pale lilac dress today that set off her coloring nearly as well as yesterday's green one had, and made her look extremely feminine. And innocent.

"Thank you for leaving me the cabin to myself," she said as soon as she was close enough to speak without being overheard. The promenade deck was a good deal more crowded than it had been an hour ago.

"I didn't believe my rising early would cause comment," he replied. "This will probably be the easiest way to handle the mornings." Then, hoping to put things on a more cordial footing, he added, "That's a very pretty dress."

Her green eyes widened with surprise, then she smiled. "Why thank you. I'm glad you approve, as this and the one I wore yesterday are the only ones I have with me. I'm afraid I'll have to alternate them for the rest of the voyage."

"We'll come up with a plausible explanation," he said almost without thinking. "Perhaps we can say that your trunk fell overboard when the riverboat we took from Sacramento hit that snag—which actually did delay my arrival in San Francisco."

"I think I must be a corrupting influence." She grinned at him. "You're getting better at this sort of thing already. Or perhaps you have a talent for it that you've never developed."

Abruptly, all humor left him. "Perhaps," he said shortly. "We'd best go in to breakfast."

He knew she was watching him curiously, wondering about his sudden mood shift, but he did not feel disposed to explain. He wasn't even sure he
could
explain. All he knew was that her remark had reminded him forcibly of his brother, Charles, and that he didn't want to discover any likeness there.

"Good morning, Bradford!" Nelson Sharpe greeted him as they entered the saloon. Though the skylights let in ample sunshine, it seemed dimly lit after the morning brightness of the deck. "Sorry I didn't have a chance to speak with you last night. Invited to the Captain's table, you know, with all the bigwigs. Couldn't pass that up." A broad wink punctuated his words.

"No, of course not," Kenton agreed. Sharpe would always have an eye to the main chance, he reminded himself. No claims of friendship would ever take precedence over the man's ambition.

"Mind if I join you and your lovely bride for breakfast?" he asked then. Kenton nodded his assent.

Of the other newlywed couples, only the Pattersons appeared for breakfast and they sat apart, totally absorbed in each other. After an initial greeting, Sharpe largely ignored Della, plunging directly into business concerns.

"As you probably discovered yourself during your stint in Sacramento, California is overrun by knaves and grifters, becoming ever more clever at bilking honest men out of their money with so-called business opportunities." He paused to take a bite of toast and jam and a swig of coffee. "It's made investors chary of trusting newcomers."

Kenton nodded. "Yes, I noticed. More than one merchant took quite a bit of convincing. Of course, I brought references with me, testifying to the longevity and stability of Bradford Shipping. It also helped that I met more than one highly-placed gentleman who hailed from New York and remembered my father."

"Your father was highly respected," Sharpe agreed. "But some of those who are aware of his reputation have also heard about your brother's."

Kenton glanced quickly at Della. She was demurely eating her salt ham and eggs, but her eyes were alight with curiosity.
Damn
.

"I've had no contact with my brother for more than seven years," he informed Sharpe, hoping his tone would discourage further comments along this line. He was disappointed.