Southern Seduction (31 page)

“Didn’t see nothin’,” Paul told her quickly. “Fog was so thick it remin’ me o’ dis here molasses. We’s lucky we were not run over by de paddleboat, to tell you de trut’, but you was lucky we were so close.”

“We heard you rip a blood curdlin’ scream, and den we hear de splash,” Étienne told her.
“We know someth’n’ is wrong toot sweet. By de time we get to you, you done managed to get out o’ your frock and you’s splashin’ in de water like a drowned puppy.”

“You sure was,” Paul agreed.
“And it was darn lucky dat you hadn’t passed out. You didn’t do dat until we pull you in de skiff.” He shrugged. “We thoug’t about chasin’ de boat, but we was afraid somebody tryin’ to kill you. We surely did not want to put you back in dat danger.”

“Thank you,” Brooke told both of the boys.
“I’m sure I would have been dead if it hadn’t been for both of you.”

“Only t’anks we need is fo’ you to get mo’ bett
ah,” Paul told her. “I bet your family is real worry about you.”

“Perhaps they are,” Brooke said softly, then thoughtfully glancing down at her hand.
“or maybe it was one of them who intended to kill me.”

She glanced up, with tears in her eyes, but the boys didn’t say anything.

Who would want to kill her? She needed her memory back, straight away. Brooke shivered involuntarily and hugged herself to fend off the chill. She had to know what was what before they found her and tried again.

Chapter Eighteen

Travis was going through the motions of living.

At night he’d sit in his study, feet propped up, a drink in his hand, thinking of Brooke, trying to forget her touch, yet having a difficult time of it.

Instead of forgetting, he remembered how Brooke felt when she’d melted in his arms.
And her rare golden eyes . . . how could any man forget those eyes? They haunted him day and night.

Travis had wanted her from the moment he’d helped her mount Gray Mist, and she had told him that they were more alike than he knew.

Brooke had been right. They were very much alike . . . bastard children who had to learn how to survive in a world that looked down on them. He sipped his drink, welcoming the numbing of his senses.

How could she have become so much a part of his life in such a short time?
When he came in at night, he still expected to hear her voice or to see her glaring at him as she always had when they argued.

One morning when he woke up, he finally realized why he couldn’t forget her.
Even though it had only been a short time, he’d truly been happy with Brooke -- maybe for the first time in his life. She had filled an empty place inside him that he hadn’t know he had.

Travis slugged down the rest of his Scotch.
Anything to dull the ache. Every night it took a little more liquor to ease the pain.

How could Brooke have jumped overboard?
It wasn’t possible. How could she have left him? Especially after the night before when he’d felt they had bridged a gap in their relationship. What a fool he’d been. From the moment Brooke had entered his life, he’d quarreled with her, resenting her, and not once had he realized that she was the first person he looked for when he entered a room.

Now she was gone.

The rail was a little lower in the place where they found the tattered scrap of material, so it was quite conceivable that Brooke had tripped and fallen over, but even that was hard to believe. She was such a graceful and sure-footed woman.

Why hadn't he stayed with her?

Had he done so, perhaps none of this would have happened
, Travis thought ruefully. Had his impatience cost him the one thing he’d finally realized he couldn’t live without?

Since their return, his mother had been understanding and sympathetic.
She'd even told him that she was sorry that he’d lost his wife. And then she had made the mistake of trying to remove Brooke’s clothes from her room as if she’d never been there.

That’s when Travis knew that his mother had been putting on a show for him.
He realized then he’d never be able to make his mother understand how he felt. He was just coming to terms with it himself.

Lately, his mother had begun to mention Hesione.
She’d casually worked her name into the conversation, and Travis really didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to forget his beautiful, young wife. He wasn’t ready to move on. His mother might as well learn that she wasn’t going to push him into anything. He was not going to allow her to make him feel guilty. He had nothing to be guilty for.

Brooke had been right.
None of his mother’s problems had been his fault.

Everyone and everything
irritated Travis of late. Especially the person who had been trying to kill him. He wanted to find out who the son of a bitch was before he got lucky and put a bullet in him.

Twice when he'd been riding around the plantation
, someone had taken shots at him. The first time, he’d brushed it off as a stray shot from hunters, but now he wasn’t so sure.

On top of that, a fire had been set in the sugar mill, burning half the millhouse.
Workers were rebuilding, so it would be ready by the next harvest, but it was a slow process. At least rebuilding kept him busy and his mind off Brooke.

Mr. Jefferies was being difficult.
He had stopped all the paperwork transferring everything to Travis and Brooke. Travis remembered their conversation well . . .

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jeffries had told Travis.

“Sorry doesn’t help one damn bit,” Travis grated out from behind his desk. “Not only have I lost my wife, but I still have a plantation to run!”

The unflappable Mr. Jeffries looked at Travis and said, “There is no reason to raise your voice. I understand completely
what you must be going through, but we have no proof of Miss Brooke’s death.” Jeffries folded his hands on his lap as if he were thinking, then he said, “I can tell you that Miss Brooke would not have taken her own life. She’s been through very difficult times, and she is a survivor.”

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t push her,” Travis retorted sharply.

“I would hope not,” Jeffries said. “But others might look at the way the two of you used to argue and think differently.”

“You son of a bitch.” Travis pointed his finger at the man. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

“As you wish,” the solicitor said. “But until her death is confirmed, we will have to proceed with caution.

Mr. Jeffries hadn’t accused Travis again.
The man was paying some of the bills to keep the plantation operating. Since there had been no body found and, therefore, no proof of death, Jeffries couldn't turn over Moss Grove to Travis. They would have to wait until a body washed up on shore or a good amount of time had passed. No matter how much the man had protested, Jeffries sometimes seemed to look at Travis as if he’d pushed Brooke overboard himself.

At first Travis had been furious that the solicitor didn't believe him about Brooke.
Why would he make up something like that? Then he remembered all the disagreements he and Brooke had had. Finally, he began to see how Jeffries could have doubts.

Travis, himself, would have had his doubt, too.
Given his and Brooke’s past.

In retrospect,
his life with Brooke seemed like a dream. Now there were moments when he wondered if he was living in a nightmare and might eventually wake up. Travis grabbed the decanter on the table and poured another drink, part of it sloshing out on the table. He down that glass, too.

Brooke had been in his life one minute and gone the next.
He would never have imagined how much it hurt. He’d have to put everything behind him in order to move on. For now, he just functioned.

He'd forgotten that Christmas was fast approaching, and he had no desire to attend the party his mother was planning.
However, his mother was insistent, and he was certain he’d have to die to keep from being there.

There were moments when he knew that the option would be preferable to continuing this barren and empty life.

He felt no joy. Why celebrate?

Work was what Travis needed.
It was what he understood. He could tamp down his memories when he was hard at work.

With plenty of rest and good food, Brooke finally regained her strength.
She had lost all concept of time while she’d been recuperating along with her memory. The best she could do was concentrate on the things she understood.

She occupied her time helping
Penny, but no matter how much Brooke did to stay busy, she couldn't shake the feeling of sadness that lingered. It was as though something very important was missing from her life.

She had hoped that her memory would have returned by now, but little had.
Brooke only saw glimpses every now and then of people she didn't recognize, nor remember.

One morning, Étienne announced that they were nearing New Orleans.
With the dishes done and little else to do, Brooke decided to walk outside on the small porch. She wrapped a wool blanket around her to keep warm and watched as they drifted past the large mansions facing the river.

They were all so pretty and elegant, and Brooke wondered who lived there.
As she stood on the small deck, she imagined the occupants and their lives. Brooke had been so lost in thought that she didn’t notice when Paul joined her.

The next mansion the boat floated past was much larger than the others, Brooke noticed.
The regal house sat back from the river’s edge among a large group of Live Oak trees. "How beautiful," she murmured, pulling the blanket tighter around her. She glanced at Paul and nodded toward the house. "Do you know the name of that one?"

Paul leaned against the rail.
"Well now . . . that's de largest plantation in Nawlins. It's call Moss Grove."

"Such a pretty name.
Moss..." Brooke stopped. There was something familiar about the name. She repeated it. "Moss Grove." The name kept running through her mind again and again. She grabbed her head and shut her eyes. "Moss Grove."

"What's de matter wit’ you, chere?” Paul asked.
He looked at her, concern in his eyes.

Brooke merely repeated the name of the plantation over and over.

“Jus' you set you'se'f dere," Paul told her. He helped Brooke to a barrel so she could sit down, still holding her head, shaking it as if demons had taken her over.

Brooke couldn’t let go of her head because it hurt like hell.
She squeezed her eyes tight while images formed in her memory and began to flash through her mind: a plantation, a promise, a business partner, and a carriage with a man and a woman riding up to the front of Moss Grove. And finally a man on a white horse . . . her husband
.

Travis!

Penny rushed out and put an arm around Brooke. "What's de matter? You're not feelin' well, chere?"

Finally, Brooke was able to open her eyes.
Unbidden tears spilled down her cheeks. She looked up at the woman. A crooked smile brighten her face. "I'm a little dizzy,” she whispered, awestruck. “But I remember everything. I own that plantation we just sailed past. I’m half owner of Moss Grove."

"Ooo
we. You are rich, no?" Paul said, clapping his hands. “So what you doin’ in de river, chere?”

Brooke managed a strained laugh.
"Not exactly rich. My name is Brooke Hammo – No! Wait! I had just been married, which is the reason I was on the
Natchez.
It was my wedding trip. My name is Brooke Montgomery." She looked up at them grinning with triumph.

"Sweetie, you were on your honeymoon and you fell overboard?"
Penny asked. “What you were doin’?”

Everyone hurried inside where it was warmer so they could talk.
"I didn't fall, Penny. I was pushed," Brooke said, and then she told them all about her life -- at least, the parts she wanted them to know.

“
What you do now?" Penny asked.

"When we get to New Orleans, I'll send word to Mr. Jeffries -- he’s my solicitor -- to meet me.
I must speak with him first, and then I'll go from there." Brooke wanted so much to go home, to throw herself into Travis’s arms, but she knew she had to proceed with caution. She would always remember Travis telling her he was a good actor.

What kind of reception would she get when she got there?
Brooke asked herself along with a dozen more questions.

Everyone must surely think that she was dead.
But did they care? Had what she and Travis shared been real? Or had he merely been acting? And had he already moved on with his life?

The biggest questions of all was, did he push her?

By late afternoon, they had docked by the levee in New Orleans. Brooke sent Paul with a message. It was to be given to Mr. Jeffries only. No one else was to receive the note, she warned him. At the moment, she wasn't sure whom, beside Mr. Jeffries, she could trust.