The Last Honest Seamstress (23 page)

"But is that any reason for such trepidation? Isn't it possible for a person to withhold opinions, even information, to avoid hurting another person? What about the proverbial white lie?"

"You spar too well, Captain."

He shook his head. "Something darker, more painful bred your overall distrust of people. Someone has hurt you deeply, Fayth."
 

He seemed to know her so very well, almost to read her thoughts.
 

"Who? I don't need detail, only some clue. I want you to trust me."

The depth of emotion in his eyes mesmerized her, carrying her away. How easy it would be to fall into his arms and become his. How easy, but nothing could be more foolish. He kept something from her. Something for her own good, or his? She answered his question. "I was jilted in love." She didn't speak necessarily of just Drew. Perhaps he sensed that, but he didn't seem surprised by her answer.

She smiled at him. "I see you are determined not to press me further. Have I given you clue enough?" She laughed. "But as business partners should keep no secrets, I will settle your curiosity.

"In Baltimore, I was engaged to be married. He was all I thought I ever wanted, and I expected him to make me happy and comfortable. To protect me, care for me. And I imagined he would, that he would never desert me. But he did. Just after my parents died. Just when I needed him most." She paused, took a deep breath before continuing, weighing how much to divulge.
 

"I didn’t know a thing about business. Without the help of Father's lawyer, Mr. Benchley, I would have lost everything."
 

The Captain covered her hand with his. His expression was at once hard and sympathetic. He clenched his jaw, anger danced in his eyes. Anger? He gave her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. He didn't direct his fury at her, but at whom? Drew?

"After my fiancé abandoned me, I sold the shop, took what little money the sale of the business provided, and came to Seattle." She looked down at her sketch and sighed. If only she could fill the face in, honest and handsome.

"It's a beautiful drawing, Fayth."

She pulled her hand from his and stood, thankful he didn't press her further, make an inane comment, or offer sympathy. Thankful there was no condemnation in his look or voice. "You're a shameless flatterer. It's not finished, but I promise you—I'll finish it another day."
 

Yes, another day. When she knew the man.

Chapter 10

That evening, Fayth and Con sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table going over the books for their respective businesses. The Captain hummed happily. Fayth smiled, caught by his tune and the way the sound of his happiness lifted her spirits. Her account ledgers were only slightly less than depressing. Seeing the numbers, so many costs and such slender profits, should have given her nervous palpitations. Everything she held dear hung by the thread of her needle and her ability to bring in clients. But sitting next to the Captain, with his confidence and strength, she felt optimistic.
 

"Do you know anything popular?" She looked up from her books and smiled at him.

When he lifted his head, his eyes twinkled with amusement. "What?"

"I don't recognize the song you're humming."

He set his pen down. "You don't recognize a good Irish tune when you hear one?"

"No. Sorry. But I like your voice. Hum something I know." Yes, she liked the sound of his voice very much. Too much, perhaps, given their arrangement. But then, it wasn't a crime to enjoy the company of one's partner. Though perhaps it wasn't wise to sound so flirtatious.

"What do you know?"

"Nothing Irish." Fayth rolled her shoulders and stretched her stiff fingers. "My ancestors were all very British. My parents wouldn't have approved of me marrying an Irishman." She didn't know why she blurted that out. She was at a loss to understand her emotions lately and her motivations had taken on a life of their own. Was she trying to goad him? Or show him how independent and freethinking she was? That she chose him despite the values and prejudices that had been instilled in her?

"Wouldn't they?" He clucked his tongue. "Seems they didn't approve of much. Would their disapproval have stopped you?" He was still smiling, but he sat up straighter and watched her closely, as if her answer was vitally important.

How could she answer in a way that wouldn't disappoint him, or tip the hand of her delicate heart? She could love him. She was falling in love with him. She was honest enough with herself to admit it. But protective and savvy enough about their business arrangement to deny it to everyone else, including him. A simple, straightforward answer seemed best. "No."

He relaxed and his smile deepened. "You have a trace of the headstrong Irish in you."

She laughed, glad she'd answered correctly, happy that he was happy. "Now that would really upset my parents!"
 

She glanced down at her ledgers and frowned automatically. "Then again, they'd be disappointed in me for everything I'm doing. Father would scold me for carrying so much debt. Frankly, it makes me nervous, too. One small crisis will send the whole thing toppling. And Mother," she rolled her eyes. "If she'd ever found out I was sewing for a notorious madam like Lou Gramm, she'd have disowned me." She watched him closely for his reaction to Lou's name, for anything that gave away him and his suspected connection to Lou. But he seemed completely at ease.

"Then quit." He looked hopeful she would.

Which seemed natural enough in a protective husband. But equally so in someone who didn't want her too near his source of pleasure and wished to remain undiscovered.

She cocked her head, studying him. If only she could be sure of his motives. "One more dress and I will. Lou keeps threatening to bring in a new seamstress from back East, anyway. Let her and good riddance. I don't ever intend to sew for that flesh peddler again. Not if I go bankrupt! To be indebted to that woman is to sell your soul to the devil."

A look crossed his face, a creasing of his brow as fleeting as quicksilver. And then he masked it, becoming inscrutable. What had she just seen? Worry? Or worse, guilt?
 

Neither were a good sign. Her heart and spirits sank. There was a connection between him and the madam. Or more specifically, him and her girls. "Is something wrong?"

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "No. I'm sorry. My thoughts drifted back to my books. I should get back to work. Mathematics is puzzling enough when I've got my full wits, but when I'm tired, it makes no sense at all."

He was lying. She'd seen him work figures in his head. He was very good with numbers. But not so good at deception.

Con lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. When had he become such a liar? Not good at mathematics! That was the best lie he could think up? Man alive, he needed more practice. No, he needed to tell the truth, as soon as possible. Before he ruined any chance he had of making a real marriage out this sham with Fayth.
 

She suspected he was up to something; he'd read it on her face and known he'd slipped up. He should have told her about the loan from Lou from the start, but had feared her disapproval, and his own vulnerability. Still did. Would she see how much he loved her, if she found out the truth about why he'd taken a loan from Lou? Or would she throw it in his face?

He hated himself for his dishonesty. There was no honor among liars, and no trust. He wanted her trust. Hell, he wanted every part of her—her body, her mind, her heart. Would telling the truth win her affections, or lose them?

He squirmed uncomfortably as he adjusted himself. Thoughts of Fayth always aroused him. Couldn't she see how much he loved her? Here he was lying to her because he loved her. Damn the son of a bitch who had hurt her!
 

A cat mewled outside. Olive. Better get up, throw on a pair of pants, and let her in.

Olive, screeching and clawing at the kitchen door, woke Fayth. Immediately alert, like a mother in tune to her infant's cry, she swung out of bed, and swept across the room and down the hall to the kitchen without pausing to grab her robe. When she opened the door, Olive rushed in, tailed by a cold draft.

"Olive, you naughty girl. What gives you the right to go catting about town this late?"

Olive didn't look the slightest bit contrite. She arched her back and stretched lazily.
 

"You gave me a scare. I'm beginning to think that's all you're good for, you little deserter."

Olive mewed contentedly before scooting past Fayth across the kitchen. Fayth closed the door and spun around to chase her. No doubt the tiny traitor was headed for the Captain's room.

Con stood in the kitchen doorway, admiring Fayth, smiling at her rebuking the cat. Suddenly, Fayth spun around to face him. Her loose nightgown swirled around her, wrapping itself against her, revealing slender curves, and breasts pointed by cold. Wearing the thin, white cotton gown, she looked like a delicate moth floating in the dark. But even the dark did not hide the round circles of her nipples or the delicate curve of her hips. He clenched his fist, imagining the feel of that fine, sheer cotton in his hand as he slipped it away from her, revealing the full beauty of her form.
 

She had spun with arms outstretched like a young girl in full skirts, smiling as if she enjoyed it. Olive ran past him to the bedroom. When Fayth spotted him, her mouth fell open. His gaze lingered a moment too long on her breasts. Her arms flew up, crisscrossing to cover them. Pity.

"Fayth." He leaned against the doorframe as he felt himself grow hard, felt a tug at his crotch where he tented his pants in arousal. Maybe she wouldn't notice, or maybe she would. A man could hope. "I came to let the cat in."

"She's in."

"I see that."

Did he intimidate her, or was she afraid of her own desire? Fayth remained rooted in the center of the kitchen. He had no intention of moving. If she wanted to get back to bed, preferably his, she'd have to brush past him.

"Well." She took a tiny step. "We'd better get some sleep."

"Uh-huh." Did he see desire in her eyes?
 

She studied him. Her gaze traced his chest. She clenched herself tighter. "I'll just be going now."

"Fine." He didn't move.

Fayth straightened her shoulders and came toward him. He didn't give an inch. She'd have to squeeze past him. He'd at least get a feel. When she was directly in front of him, she cleared her throat. He motioned with his head to go on past. She looked like she was calculating her chance of successfully negotiating the tiny passage he'd left her. She turned sideways and tried to duck under the arm that held him in place. Nipples, firm and erect, brushed him. He turned, and trapped her. "Fayth."

"Captain."

Her eyes begged a kiss. Her mouth was open and moist. What was a man to do? He turned and pulled her into his arms, bringing his mouth down on hers. She smelled of rose water, and soap, soft cotton. Everything feminine and sweet. She opened her mouth and pressed against him as he bent at the knees to level their heights. His boy searched for home. When he pressed himself between her legs, he felt her tremble, heard a tiny sigh.

He ran his hands along her body, exploring her hips, hiking up her gown. Man alive, he wanted to feel, to see. With one hand, he cupped her breast. Perfect, a perfect handful. Round and firm. His own pulse raced wildly. The other hand continued sliding the cotton gown up, pulling it over her hips. He was a visual man. He wanted to see. Naked in the kitchen would be fine, naked in his bed, better.

When his left hand slid to bare skin and tugged to pull the chemise up over her arm, she suddenly pulled back. She wrenched her mouth free and braced her hand between them, against his chest. "No."

"Fayth."

"No, I can't."

"What is it, darling? What's wrong? We're man and wife; this is what they do."

"No, you promised. Just partners." Her voice was soft and raspy. She didn't sound insistent.

"I lied. You're beautiful." He nuzzled her neck. She tried to pry his hands away. He paused to look at her. "Give me a good reason we shouldn't."

"I . . . I don't love you."

Her words slammed into him like a punch in the gut. Even his boy started to wilt. But he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't let her go. He could make her love him, if she gave him the chance. "So don't love me. Let me love you."

She shook her head. "No."

"Fayth, what's wrong with lust?"

"Everything." Tears welled in her eyes.
 

He let her go. She turned and ran down the hall to her room. What had he done?

Fayth's heart pounded as she slid into bed. Pressed against the Captain, she could forget everything. But then the woman came back, the whore from the ship. Fear pulsed through her. She curled into a ball, pulling her knees tight against herself. As she closed her eyes, she pictured him again. Biceps bulged nicely without being flexed. Stomach flat and rippled. His freckles ended at his forearms leaving the bulk of him pale and unblemished. His face, so perfect and handsome.