Against the Tide (13 page)

She paused for a moment. “I suppose I want my life to mean something. I know the admiral appreciates my work. And it is important work, I realize that. But if I were not here to do it, he could hire someone else to fill my position. I want to do something that
no one else can do.
” She paused and her brow furrowed a bit. “Does that make me terribly conceited?”

Although Lydia did not possess a conceited bone in her body, Bane suppressed a grin because he knew her question was serious. “Actually, it makes you rather irresistible in my eyes—but then again, I always hanker after impossible challenges, so perhaps I’m not the best judge.”

Lydia tore a piece of bread and offered it to him. “Of course, I have no sense of direction and would surely get lost if I tried to be an explorer, so I should probably choose some other endeavor to make my mark on the world.”

Bane reached inside his pocket and retrieved the small flat disk. Without a second thought he pressed it into her hands. “There. Now you have no excuse.”

Lydia looked surprised as she opened the cover to reveal a compass. “I want you to always be able to find whatever you are looking for,” he said simply. She seemed flattered, if her gorgeous blush was any indication. He’d had an impulsive desire to give her something nice, and his compass was the only thing he had on him. Not the most conventional of gifts, but then again, there was nothing conventional about Lydia Pallas. He closed her hand around the compass. “I want you to have it,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. “Who knows when I’ll have to waltz out of your life, and I want you to have something to remember me by.”

“Thank you, Bane,” she said as she glowed with pleasure. He wondered if this might be the first actual gift Lydia had ever been given. Not a story written in the stars by her father or the peppermint sticks that were handed out to all the orphans on Christmas morning, but an actual, tangible gift from someone who cared about her. The look on Lydia’s face as she gazed at the simple compass showed she was as delighted by it as another woman would be by a stash of diamonds.

A shift in the breeze blew a cloud of leaves into the air. Lydia blinked as a fragment of dust must have gotten in her eye. She
dabbed at it with her finger, but it was useless. “Bane, there is a handkerchief in my bag. Will you fetch it for me?”

He opened her reticule and handed her the little square of cloth. While she attempted to remove the speck, Bane stared at the contents of her bag. There was almost nothing inside except for a few coins and a little blue bottle. He lifted it out and held it to the light, noting the dark color and syrupy thickness of the liquid.

“Much better. Thank you,” she said.

She reached for her reticule, but Bane held the blue bottle in the sunlight. “What is this?” he asked casually.

“Oh, that is my headache medicine. I need it occasionally.”

She took it from his hand and replaced it in her bag. She grabbed a handful of grapes and plucked a few free, but the image of that blue bottle was seared in his brain. He forced his tone to remain casual. “What is in it?”

Lydia finished chewing her grape. “I have no idea, but it works. It is the same medicine I always used growing up. Mrs. Winslow’s Syrup. They used it in the orphanage.”

Lord help me.
It was the worst thing she could have said, and his entire body seized with tension. Without conscious thought, he grabbed the bottle from her bag, shot to his feet, and hurled it into the pond with all the force in his body. The bottle landed in the water with a splat, sending a ring of ripples across the pond.

“What are you doing? I paid good money for that!”

“It’s poison,” he bit out.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lydia said. “It’s just a headache tonic. It is made for babies.”

He despised listening to people defend the vile tonics, but he reined in his emotions. Lydia might be completely innocent of what made the syrup so wickedly effective, and he watched her carefully. “How often do you take it?”

If her glare was any measure, she was still angry, but she stood up and answered him. “Not often. Sometimes at work I get a pounding headache, and it is soothing.”

“How often?” he demanded. He could tell she did not like his sharp tone, but this was too important to ignore.

“Maybe once a week. Never more than that.”

He studied her expression, the way her eyes did not shift or waver. He could not be sure, but he did not
think
she was lying. A bit of the tension drained away. If Lydia was addicted to opium, she would be taking it far more often.

He drew a ragged breath, but his emotions were still stormy. “I’m sorry I snapped,” he said. “But you need to understand that Mrs. Winslow’s Syrup is one of the
worst
drugs you could put in your body. I have been trying for years to get it banned because it is marketed to teething babies. It’s opium, Lydia. You can’t play around with that.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Opium! Are you sure?”

“Dead certain.”

“They gave it to us at the orphanage whenever we felt bad or couldn’t sleep. I’ve never been the worse for it.”

Her words cut him. All over the country, people gave opium to children to lull them into slack-jawed compliance when they were fussy or rambunctious. Orphanages were especially prone to abusing the drug, and the thought of Lydia Pallas, an abandoned child without a friend in the world, lined up to have opium spooned down her throat made him want to smash something.

“Then you dodged a bullet,” he said. “You can’t keep on dosing yourself with this, even if it is only a few times a month. Don’t take it again.”

Little waves still rippled across the surface of the pond where he had flung her bottle. There was no room to argue about this
with him. Opium was a corrosive poison that could leach into a person’s system and hold her captive before she was ever aware there was a problem.

“All right,” she said calmly. “I won’t use it ever again.” Her face softened and she took a cautious step closer to him, her eyes open and honest. “It is not a problem for me, Bane.”

He touched the flawless perfection of her cheek. Lydia was a woman of such unblemished strength and courage it humbled him to even stand in her presence. “I care about you,” he said reluctantly. Never in his life had he let a woman get this close to him, and it was a perplexing feeling. He wanted to laugh and indulge her, but more important, he needed to protect her. “I can’t look the other way. It could kill you, Lydia.”

His arms closed about her and she returned his embrace. The wind swirled around them and it felt like they were the only two people in the world. He pressed the side of his face against her soft hair. In some puzzling way he could not begin to understand, he felt bonded to her, as though he’d known her his entire life, even as she felt new and exciting to him.

He was playing with fire by allowing himself to get close to Lydia, but for once in his life, Bane did not care.

13

O
n Sunday morning, Bane remained in the church after the other congregants had left. Quiet minutes on his knees helped keep him humble, and it was the position from which he wanted to give thanks for the forgiveness he had been extended. He lowered his head in prayer and asked the same question he had been asking every day for the last ten years.
Lord, how might I undo the damage I have brought into your world? How can I rid the world of the scourge of opium?

Lydia’s image rose in his mind, and he blanched at the thought she might be addicted to opium. From the moment he saw the bottle in her handbag, he could not cease thinking about it. It was odd for someone with only a nodding acquaintance with opium to carry it on her person. The modest amount she claimed to use should have reassured him, except Bane never trusted any opium users to truthfully account for how much they imbibed. Not that he believed Lydia was deliberately lying to him. Opium, especially the version packaged in the charming bottles sold in the pharmacies,
was an easy drug for users to become accustomed to without even being aware of it.

Some days he fought his battle in the halls of Congress, some days on the waterfronts where the smugglers flourished. Today, he felt guided to protect a single person. He needed to be certain Lydia would not fall victim to the seductive powers of a drug she had been spoon-fed since she was only a child.

Firm in his resolve, Bane left the church and his footsteps quickened as he strode down the worn cobblestone street. Lydia was a puzzle that fascinated and attracted him like no other woman had. She was an utter contradiction. She had a relentless desire to achieve, and yet she was so rigid in her need for order and security. There was a picture of Lewis and Clark on her desk, yet she had never set foot outside Boston and feared anything that disrupted her routine. Yesterday she told him she wished to test herself to the limits of her physical and mental strength, but unless she was pushed, she would never do it. Dreaming about such things seemed to be enough for her.

As he expected, Lydia was at the counter of the Laughing Dragon having a bowl of clam chowder. “Hello, Lydia,” he said as he took the stool next to her. “Still quivering from your encounter with the cow yesterday?”

She looked pleased to see him as she set her spoon down and sent him a heart-stopping smile. “Last night I had the most wonderful dream,” she said. “I was sitting at this very counter, and you walked up and did not say a single rude thing to me. I was stunned with amazement.”

“And here I am—the answer to your dreams.”

The hefty woman who bused tables approached him. “Can I get you something to eat, sir?”

“Your name is Gerta, correct?” The woman flushed a bit,
apparently impressed he remembered her name. It would have been impossible to forget it, given how often Bane had heard Big Jim holler Gerta’s name. “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

When the serving woman placed a mug of the steaming brew before him, he looked up in appreciation. “Gerta, I think this place would grind to a halt if you weren’t here to keep it running. I ought to speak to Big Jim about the shoddy wages he pays. You are worth your weight in gold.”

Gerta sent him a gap-toothed grin. “Oh, go on with you, young man!” But she was still grinning long after she walked away to wipe tables.

Lydia looked a bit miffed. “Why are you so nice to everyone on the planet besides me? You even flirt with Gerta, and the woman is at least twice your age.”

Bane shrugged. “I flirt with Gerta because she makes the best coffee on the Eastern Seaboard. I flirt with you out of sheer pity.”

“Careful, Bane . . . if you keep flattering me like that I might fling another marriage proposal at you.”

By all that was holy, he adored Lydia. Never had he met a woman who could so easily match him, and it was enchanting. He had an insane desire to crush her in a quick bear hug. Instead, he feigned nonchalance. “Please, no. It would be the third proposal this week. Besides, I came here on a mission. Let me see your reticule,” he said abruptly. He did not wait for Lydia to respond; he merely snatched her bag where it lay on the counter. Before she could stop him, he poked inside and began nosing through her belongings. A handkerchief, the compass he gave her yesterday, and a few coins. She had not replaced the bottle of opium.

“And what is it you are looking for this time?”

“Same thing as last time. Just checking up, love.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “I told you I barely use Mrs. Winslow’s.
I certainly have not run out and purchased a replacement bottle.” Her face softened and she laid her hand against his cheek. “But thank you for caring enough to check up on me.”

She tried to mask it, but there was a slight quiver in her voice. Rather than being outraged at the invasion of her privacy, Lydia was touched by his actions. He wondered when had been the last time anyone cared about her welfare or had taken the time to ensure she was out of harm’s way. Lydia had nothing to hide; otherwise she would be angry and defensive about the way he nosed through her purse without permission. A burst of relief surged through him. He wanted to sweep her up in a hug and whirl her around in the center of the Laughing Dragon. Instead, he pressed a kiss into her palm. “I also came by to make sure you were being fed properly. You’ve been looking a bit of a hag lately.”

Actually, she looked beautiful, her heavy mass of dark hair lifted up into an elegant twist, emphasizing the coppery glints. He laid a hand across her reticule, his finger tapping against the smooth, round compass beneath the fabric. “Finish your chowder, then let’s see if you can use the compass to get us to the Boston Museum of Art. You can show me some of those Greek gods you say I resemble.”

“They are all naked.”

“And you say I look like them?” He flashed her a wink. “I certainly hope you haven’t been spying on me.”

The blush that suffused her cheeks was charming, and she was such a good sport that he could not resist the temptation to egg her on. Lydia was smart as a tack, but her real attraction was her sense of humor. When he had found the one tiny chink in her armor—her obsessive need for order—he could not resist fiddling with the items on her desk to see how she would respond. In pure Lydia fashion, she was willing to laugh over her
foibles and simply restore everything to order with the minimum amount of fuss.

Five minutes later they were on the street and heading due northeast to get to the museum. He had to show Lydia how to use the compass on city streets, as it was impossible to simply travel in a straight line.

“It’s strange; the needle keeps pointing at you,” Lydia said as she stared at the wobbly needle.

“My magnetic personality?” He could have explained it was because they were heading north and her concentration on the compass meant he was always a few steps ahead of her, but where was the fun in that? “We need to start heading east here,” he said as they approached another corner. Lydia angled the compass to point them in the right direction.

The Boston Museum of Fine Arts was an immense building in the Gothic revival style, but it turned out to be closed on Sundays. Not that Bane cared. He simply wanted to spend time with Lydia. “Let’s walk about the grounds,” he said. There were a few sculptures scattered around the immaculately landscaped setting, including a dolphin spitting water and a cherub strumming a harp.

As they circled the grounds, he held Lydia’s hand, and she made no complaint. This was what normal people did. They courted a fetching girl, looked at sculpture for no other reason than it was pretty. Tomorrow his world would revert back to the next congressional election, the next shipload of cargo entering the Boston harbor. He would need to leave Lydia as soon as he discovered how opium was being smuggled into Boston, but before he left, he wanted to share his gift of faith with her. There was very little else he could give to this glorious woman, but that was one thing he could do for her.

“Last night was a full moon,” he said.

She sent him a knowing glance. “I’ll bet you are about to ask if I went outside and prayed to the moon.”

“Did you?”

“What do you think?” she countered.

“I think the odds are pretty good you stepped outside for a little chat, yes.”

Her smile was unabashed and dazzling. “I suppose that is a good way of phrasing it. I don’t know if anyone was listening, but it made me feel a little better just thinking that perhaps there was someone or something out there watching over me.”

They circled to the side of the museum where a couple of mermaids cavorted in a fountain. His feet crunched against the gravel as they walked, and he thought carefully about his next words. “Lydia, when you were on that boat, living beneath the Mediterranean skies . . . did you ever feel neglected?”

“No.” Her answer was automatic. “My parents doted on me. I had everything I really needed.”

“You did not have a safe environment. You did not have birthday presents or decent clothing or even the chance to go to school. In fact, aside from a loving family, you really had nothing at all, did you?”

She stopped walking and her mouth hung open. “That’s a rather cruel thing to say.”

“Bear with me.” He held up his hands to placate her. He would never get anywhere if she shoved him away before he could get to the heart of the matter. “Now here you are in Boston. You have a home and a job you love. You have money in the bank, food in your pantry. And yet you are so terribly insecure. You get upset if your ink bottles are out of order. For heaven’s sake, ink bottles!”

She raised her chin a notch. “I like things in proper order.”

“I know you do. And even if you succeed in purchasing your
apartment and building up a fat nest egg in the bank, you will still want those ink bottles in precise order. I’ll bet you have the same meticulous organization in your home as well. What kind of order do you keep your books in?”

“Alphabetized by author.”

“And the clothes in your closet?”

“Hanging in the order I wear them. That way I always know which needs to be laundered.”

“And you don’t think this maniacal need for order is a bit odd? A bit wanting?”

She strolled to a bench beside the mermaid fountain and took a seat, looking up at him. “I’m not the master of the human mind that you appear to be. Tell me what you think it means.”

“It means you are looking for security in all the wrong places.” He placed a booted foot on the bench beside her and stood leaning over her. “The love your parents showered on you gave you a measure of well-being, but they are gone now. When they died, the moorings of your world were torn out from under you, and you’ve been seeking them ever since. You
know
there is no goddess of the moon, but you wish there were. Am I right?”

All she did was shrug. He lifted her slim hand into his own. “Lydia, I believe there is a deep, powerful magnet that is pulling you toward the Lord. Your desire to seek out some voice in the universe to speak to is the beginning of faith.
Listen
to that urge. Follow it. Begin living your life the way God would want you to, and I believe the tiny, fragile spark inside will begin to grow.”

When she looked up at him, there was cautious humor in her face. “So you aren’t going to make fun of me for praying to the moon?”

He kissed the back of her hand. “I am the last person on the face of the earth who could ever throw stones. Just say a prayer for me every now and then. I could use it.”

He turned to sit beside her on the bench to watch the setting sun. If he could capture a day and engrave it in his memory for all time, it would be this one. If it were possible, he would give whatever paltry fortune he had in the world to live out the rest of his days with Lydia Pallas by his side. He had always found it easy to compartmentalize his emotions in the past, but a wild, irrational part of his soul was calling out for him to sweep Lydia away, haul her before a minister, and marry her so he could solidify this fragile, glittering bond growing between them.

A bitter smile twisted his lips, for he knew he would be leaving Boston within a matter of days. And then he would turn off these inconvenient feelings and never think of her again.