Captive Innocence (6 page)

Melancholia brought stinging tears to her eyes, and she fought them back in an effort to read the neat, small script. Something caught her eye, some oddly worded phrase that she couldn't comprehend. She then turned back to the preceding pages and scanned the lines. Nothing really, some mention of dates and appointments, a few others about a purchase of French wines for the cellars. Here:

Then another entry, two weeks later:

Another entry, a month later:

And among the last entries:

Royall couldn't understand what she had uncovered in the ledger, and it was too late to do anything about it anyway. She was already on her way to Reino Brazilia, Brazilian Kingdom. Richard Harding had died before he had had a chance to sell his share of the plantation. She pushed the chilling phrase that she had read in the ledger away from her thoughts. Father had always been overprotective; still, something was amiss.

Rifling through her bandbox now to find a fresh length of ribbon, she came across the letter that Carlyle Newsome had sent her upon the news of her father's death. She knew its flowery phrases by rote.

Coming back to the present, Royall found herself annoyed once again at Carlyle Newsome's letter. It said all the right things, but what it didn't say was that Royall now owned one half of Reino Brazilia. That what appeared generously offered hospitality was nothing more than her right to look into her investments. Pulling the brush through her hair, she scowled into the mirror. Enough of these dark thoughts. She would deal with “the Baron,” as he liked to call himself, when the time came. For now, she had more urgent problems: the sudden, unexpected appearance of the buccaneer. This was a new life with new opportunities, and she meant to make the most of it! Still, the buccaneer occupied her thoughts as she dressed.

Enough of all those dark thoughts. This was a new life with new ideas. With this new life, the first thing she had to see to was her person and her hair.

She finished her hair in the popular style of the day. Her coif of golden curls, pulled back from her smooth brow, Grecian style, was swirled into huge coils at the crown of her head. The style accentuated her graceful, long neck and softly rounded shoulders.

Choosing a gown of fine silk in a dark amber color, she held it close to her body and admired her reflection in the long looking glass behind the armoire door. Its rich, gleaming folds were perfect for an evening of entertainment. Excitement eliminated the need for rouge, and she applied only a touch of pomade to her full mouth. Would he notice her? How could he help but be aware of her?

Gathering up her reticule and cashmere shawl, she stole a final glance in the glass. Unashamedly, she appraised herself, liking what she saw. She smiled, remembering Mrs. Quince interpreting the native women's chatter and saying they called her golden girl. She thought perhaps she should feel conspicuous for her fairness in a land where most everyone was dark complected, but she recalled the eyes of the buccaneer on her and she tingled deliciously under the remembered feel of her body against his.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she turned away from the glass.

“Yoohoo, Royall, are you dressed?”

“Yes, Mrs. Quince, I'm ready to go.” The door opened, revealing Mrs. Quince sitting primly in her wheelchair. “I think I'm finally able to maneuver this dratted contraption,” Rosalie Quince sighed as she worked the oversized wheels with the palms of her hands. A handsome woman, she had chosen a deep burgundy silk gown that complemented her rounded figure.

“Royall, you look absolutely breathtaking. You'll turn every head when we enter the dining room. I hope you're prepared to parry the notorious flirtatious natures of our Brazilian gentlemen.”

Royall pushed Mrs. Quince's chair out of her room and onto the promenade deck, laughing over Mrs. Quince's amusing observations about the amorous nature of the Latin.

The dining hall was full to brimming when they arrived. “Oh, dear, I underestimated the number of passengers who will be having dinner here the evening of the sail. I hope we won't have to wait too long for a table. I'm famished.”

Royall was quite content to wait, however hungry she felt. The dining hall was sumptuous, approaching the point of garishness. Deep red carpeting, gilt-edge picture frames of questionable taste, floods of gloriously gowned women and scrupulously tailored men graced the hall. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the tops of the tables, causing irridescent shimmers to reflect from the jewels worn at the ears and throats of the ladies. After the sterile efficiency of the
Victoria,
which had brought them to Brazil, it was a welcome sight to Royall's eyes to feast on the opulence and splendor of the
Brazilia d'Oro.

A heavy-set, stern-looking maitre d' approached them.

“If you will permit, mesdames, it will be an hour before you can be seated at a table. Perhaps you would like dinner served to you in your rooms?”

Mrs. Quince turned to look at Royall to view her reaction. Seeing the disappointment on her face, she answered, “No, we'll wait. However hungry I am, I would not care to disappoint my young friend on her first night on an Amazonian river steamer.”

The maitre d's stern look vanished, and he braved a small smile in Royall's direction. He offered Mrs. Quince a slight bow as he took his leave.

The music had started to play again, and Royall turned to see the orchestra. The musicians were seated on a dais above the main floor of the dining hall. They were attired in bright red waistcoats and black trousers. She was surprised to see that all the musicians were Indian. They played the popular tunes so well, one would have thought they were English or American.

A movement caught her eye, and she lowered her gaze to the main floor. There, seated in an alcove, was the buccaneer. Suddenly, their eyes met and held. She tore her gaze away, then quickly found herself stealing another look. He was on his feet and coming toward her. Inexplicably, her heart beat faster, making her feel as though the pulsing in her throat was choking her. Her eyes followed his hindered progress through the crowded room. He was no longer looking at her; he was looking beyond her, and inexplicably her heart fell. As he approached, she noticed again how tall he was. Well over six feet, if her guess was correct.

Mrs. Quince made a slight gasping sound behind her. “Why, it's Sebastian. We're in luck. I was right! It was you on the wharf in Rio!”

He gracefully climbed the four or five steps to the level on which they were standing. He smiled, white teeth gleaming in his darkly tanned face; his eyes were black ... Indian black. “Mrs. Quince! I had not expected to see you until sometime next month. Had I known you were traveling on the same vessel as I, I would have invited you to join me at dinner much before this.” He was suddenly aware of Mrs. Quince's wheelchair, and his brows lifted in question.

“Oh, posh, Sebastian, don't ask questions and make an old woman feel more foolish than she is. I've broken my ankle. I'll be fine in a few weeks, I promise you.”

In a gallant gesture, he leaned over her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I am so sorry, Senora Quince. May you return to yourself soon.”

“I'll feel more like myself as soon as I've had dinner, Sebastian. Whatever are you doing in Belém at this time of year? One would think you were too busy getting your rubber to market to treat yourself to a sojourn in the east. However; I am sure, never has one been so happy to see you as I am. The maitre d' informs us it will be at least an hour before he can seat us to dinner.” At her last words, Mrs. Quince turned to Royall.

Sebastian's eyes followed Mrs. Quince's gaze, and he turned to Royall and gave a slight courtly bow. “Royall Banner, allow me to present Sebastian Rivera to you. Royall has been widowed recently and is journeying with me to the plantation, Sebastian.”

“How do you do, Senora Banner.” Sebastian's eyes formed questions and then seemed to find the answers. He wasn't surprised to find that Royall was a widow; it explained so many things. The night of Mardi Gras he hadn't been surprised, thinking she was a prostitute, to find that she wasn't a virgin. What had surprised him was her obvious lack of experience, her innocence. A smile formed on his lips. Royall had all the untouched innocence of a virgin, blended with a natural inclination for passion. No doubt her husband had never delved the wells of sensuality this woman possessed. Poor man, he found himself thinking, going to the grave never knowing what an exciting woman warmed his bed. The grin broadened; Senor Banner's loss was Sebastian's gain.

His eyes flashed at her; twin circles of jet bore into her being. She felt breathless and struggled for control. Never had she met so handsome and dynamic a man.

Regaining control, she answered, “How do you do, Senor Rivera. And that's Royall with two L's.”

Sebastian's eyes became hooded. He remained silent for a moment. Was she daring him to expose her? Or was she simply mocking him? How sweet and innocent she looked standing next to Senora Quince. His heart thumped in his chest as she boldly returned his gaze. There was no point in denying the fact that he found her exciting. She was indeed a sleek jungle cat.

“Ladies, please do me the honor of joining me at my table,” he said urbanely.

Mrs. Quince, in the abrupt manner to which Royall had become familiar, answered for them. “I thought you would never ask. But I wam you, if you hadn't, I would have invited us anyway. So it's just as well you did, Sebastian!”

The twin orbs of jet glowed at Rosalie Quince. “Based on our long acquaintance, I've no doubt you would, Senora. However, let me assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” His words were directed to Rosalie Quince; his gaze was for Royall alone. A gesture, a word, and two stewards lifted Mrs. Quince, complete with wheelchair, down the few steps to the main Salon. Offering his arm to Royall, they followed behind the steward pushing the chair to Sebastian's table.

The conversation was lively, owing much to Mrs. Quince's jocularity and loquaciousness, not to mention her constant references to her wheeled chair. The dinner of stuffed lamb and rice was delectable, and the wine Sebastian chose to accompany the meal was the perfect complement to the savory courses. In spite of her previous misgivings, Royall found herself relaxing in his company, in fact enjoying it.

When the waiter came to take the order for dessert, Mrs. Quince uttered a small squeal of delight. “At last,” she sighed. “Sebastian, I can't tell you how many months I've hungered for
clea'ho.”

“I can well imagine, Senora Quince. I understand guava is not a popular fruit in America.”

At this exchange Royall frowned. She did so hate to be left out of any conversation.

“Dear, Sebastian is referring to my passion for the favorite dessert of Brazilians—guava paste and white cheese. Do you think you would care to try some? Or perhaps you would like to have a Blessed Mother?”

Royall frowned again. “What is a Blessed Mother?”

Sebastian and Mrs. Quince laughed, but at the embarrassed look on Royall's face, Sebastian's features sobered.

“Senora Banner, forgive my rudeness. Senora Quince and I are enjoying ourselves at your expense, I'm afraid. A Blessed Mother is what the natives call certain little pastries. They're very similar to French petits fours. The Indians usually serve them on religious holidays, hence the name, ‘Blessed Mothers.' ”

“Oh, I see. Perhaps I shall try a Blessed Mother, if you don't mind.” Seeing the apologetic look on Mrs. Quince's face, she broke into a mirthful smile. If Sebastian Rivera could act as though nothing had happened between the two of them, then so could she.