Gallant Match (14 page)

“You can have no idea.”

“Being a man, you mean. It happens. Though not, generally, without some…some fault in the matter.”

If her aunt had been there as chaperone, he would never have spoken of such a possibility, never ventured a hint at such misconduct. Sonia was torn between appearing worldly enough to understand his allusion to unwed passion between men and women and a disinclination to encourage more of the same. Uncertain how best to answer, she allowed silence to speak for her.

“Arranged marriages are not unknown where I'm from back East,” Tremont went on, apparently oblivious to her reticence. “Still, they seem to happen more often in New Orleans.”

“Perhaps.”

“Wealth and position tend to marry wealth and position the world over. It's the way dynasties are formed.” He lifted a neat shoulder. “Men on the western frontier post notices in news sheets for wives, too, and
women answer them. Now, there is courage, to risk everything on a mere printed notice.”

“Desperation, rather. Such women must be destitute or have abandoned all hope of finding a husband in the normal manner.”

“Many are alone in the world, granted, or else moral condemnation forces them to leave everything behind.”

He meant to suggest these desperate brides were often in a family way. Did he think, perhaps, that was her condition? “I can assure you the last is seldom the cause in New Orleans. Nevertheless, I agree it's a great gamble.”

“Yes, which leads me to suggest…”

“What,
monsieur?
” She stopped walking as she waited for what he might say, waited to see if he meant to offer her succor.

At that moment, Kerr stepped from the companionway ahead of them, paused for a moment, looking up and down the deck, then came toward them. Glancing at him, then back to Sonia, Alex Tremont shook his head. “Nothing for the moment,
mademoiselle.
But if I may be of service in the future, I hope you will call upon me.”

With that she had to be satisfied, for he inclined his head in farewell, nodded briefly to Kerr and left them. After so abrupt an abandonment along with all else, Sonia wasn't at all sure she could rely on him. Nor could she hold too firm a belief in his concern.

“Setting up a tête-à-tête with Tremont?” Kerr inquired, his gaze sardonic as he watched the other man's retreat.

“Enjoying a civil discussion for a change.” She could
feel the annoying heat of a flush rising in her face, a direct result no doubt of her thoughts moments before. Or it might have been her sudden recall of being pressed against the hard body of this man while his heartbeat pounded drumlike against her breast. She had not enjoyed that instant of acute vulnerability, certainly not, yet it threatened now to turn her bones to water.

What to do with her hands suddenly became a discomfiting problem since she had no fan, no parasol, no book or handkerchief to occupy them. The best she could do was inspect her gloved fingertips for signs of soot from where she had clutched the railing earlier.

“I'd like to have heard that,” he said, the words shaded with caustic amusement.

She met his eyes for a tried instant. “It might have proven educational.”

“Or not, for those of us who are less than civilized. I wouldn't put too much dependence on anything he may have told you.”

“Why should I not?” That he had come so close to echoing her own thought made her voice sharper than she intended.

“If I tell you he is less than trustworthy, will that make you determined to add him to your conquests?”

“I hope I am not so unreasonable.”

“So do I, since that's exactly what I mean to say.”

“You have a good reason, I suppose.”

“An excellent one.”

She waited, but he did not go on. “Which you don't intend to impart to me?”

“I prefer to keep my own counsel for the time being.”

“A fine excuse.” She surveyed the hard planes of his face, wondering at their grim cast. “It might surprise you to know he feels much the same about you.”

“Said I wasn't to be trusted, did he?”

“He did.”

“Since he spoke first, and we are at outs, you believe him.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Unnecessary. I can see it's so.”

“What an infuriating man you are.”

She turned her head, staring out over the shifting waves that buffeted the steamer, throwing themselves against its prow and surging through the paddle wheels. He could have tried to convince her at the very least, she thought. The contradiction of wanting to be persuaded she was wrong in spite of preferring to think the worst did nothing to relieve her temper.

His gaze rested on her face, for she could almost feel the heat of it. She longed to know what he was thinking, if he cared at all for how she might view him or had revisited at all the moment when he had held her close.

It was unlikely she would ever know.

Stifling a sigh, she began to walk again. Kerr Wallace, ever the faithful escort, fell into step beside her. They circled the deck until they were enticed inside by the wafting aromas of the noonday meal.

Since the indisposition of her aunt left Sonia without a female companion, she gravitated toward the table that had been claimed by Madame Pradat and her son.
As she approached, Gervaise half rose from his bench seat with an expression of shy welcome on his face. The urge to respond to the admiration in his eyes, flouting Kerr's warning, was strong. She had no wish to be the cause of a confrontation, however. Still less did she care to play upon whatever feelings Gervaise might have conceived for her. Kerr might think her heartless, but it was not so. Well, except toward those who had given her cause.

She changed directions, taking a place farther along the extensive board, across from young Madame Dossier who had her babe on her lap and a youngster on either side of her. Kerr waited until she was settled, then stepped over the bench and seated himself next to her.

From the corners of her eyes, Sonia saw Gervaise's olive skin turn dusky red and his teeth press into his bottom lip. Her chest ached in sympathy with his obvious embarrassment, but it could not be prevented. Better that than having his death on her conscience. She only hoped no further discouragement was required, for she wasn't sure she had it in her to accomplish it. Swallowing hard, she reached for the water glass at her place, taking a sip to help dissolve the knot in her throat.

“He will recover,” Kerr said in low tones. “You've only blighted his morning, not his life.”

“It was not my intention to injure him at all.” She plunked her glass back on the table so hard that water slopped over the rim to wet her fingers.

“It can't be helped. That is, unless you would expect to marry every gentleman who yearns after you.”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“No, only making a point. You'd have had to let him down before we make landfall. It might as well be now.”

What he did not say, but she knew well, was that it had been wrong of her to encourage Gervaise Pradat in the first place. She would not have except for Kerr's presence on the ship. Giving him the satisfaction of admitting it, however, was more than she could face at the moment.

“I take it you have never been disappointed in love,” she said, the words quiet as she dried her fingers on her shawl fringe.

He was silent so long that she finally looked up to meet his eyes. Their steel-gray depths held a brooding expression before his thick lashes came down to conceal it. “Why would you say that?” he asked in curt tones.

“It would undoubtedly have given you more consideration for the feelings of others.” Her answer was a moment in coming and the words had a random sound, as if she'd almost forgotten their import.

“Take heart,” he said in stringent irony, “you may yet live to see it.”

“I should doubt it, since we are unlikely to be in each other's company so long.”

“You're right. How could I forget?”

How indeed? That they would part in Vera Cruz was engraved on her mind. She could not wait for that moment to arrive.

T
he fine weather did not last. By midafternoon of that second day out, the
Lime Rock
began to wallow through an endless series of swells. Its smokestack waved back and forth against a leaden sky and the sails billowed and strained overhead. A gray bank of clouds gradually took away the light, draping everything in gloom. The sea, tinted by sky reflections, became a dull blue-gray as it shifted in troughs around them.

Nor did matters improve. Walking became difficult, a matter of lunging from one handhold to another. Lamps burned day and night in passageways and in the common rooms. And so it continued without let up.

Tante Lily burrowed deeper into her bunk, taking a few sips of water now and then but moaning at any mention of food. Sonia urged her to dress and come above decks with her embroidery or a book as it seemed fresh sea air would be better for her than the rank miasma below. Her aunt could not be convinced. Any attempt to set foot on the floor brought on another bout of retching,
she said. It was a calamity that there was no priest on board to hear her confession. And, no, the Reverend Smythe would not do. She had no faith in the man, no dependence on his prayers to get her into heaven.

Nor was Tante Lily the only person to succumb to the movement. Madame Dossier and her children were absent at mealtimes, as was the American commissioner and a half-dozen others. Even one or two of the crew took to their bunks or hung over the stern with a green tint to their faces.

On the morning of the third day, the captain gave it as his opinion they were being overtaken by one of the northerners that plagued the latitude from winter through late spring. Accordingly, preparations for it began. Lines were strung along the passageways and across the dining salon, and seamen went from cabin to common rooms to make certain the lower portholes were securely battened down. Buckets half filled with sand were set out at all doorways. Condiments and other unnecessary articles were removed from the dining tables. Cuspidors vanished from beside the chairs favored by gentlemen, forcing any man using snuff or chewing tobacco to go topside and spit carefully downwind.

Sonia was only marginally affected by the motion. She didn't feel actively unwell, but her appetite deserted her. That was no great cause for concern since she had not felt really hungry since her first sight of Kerr Wallace.

That gentleman was faithful in the pursuit of his duty, appearing at regular intervals to see how she fared. Sometimes he lingered for a question or two, though
more often he retreated again to the gentleman's parlor. A card game of some duration seemed in progress there, one only postponed for meals instead of being brought to a close.

Monsieur Tremont sometimes sat in on this game, but more often found his way to her side. Sonia might have been flattered at the attention except for being well aware that she was the only female of even semi-unattached status on the vessel. Add to that the fact that most of the exchanges between the two of them revolved around Kerr in one way or another, and she could be forgiven, she hoped, for suspecting it was the Kentuckian's activities that held the planter's interest.

There were gentlemen, she well knew, who doted on the
maîtres d'armes
of the Passage. Their prowess, muscular strength and ability to face death with sang-froid roused intense admiration. To be admitted to their company for an hour was a prize that might be talked of for weeks. Young boys trailed after them on the streets, the beaus and bloods about town aped their manners and articles of dress, and older gentlemen considered it a high honor to be allowed to stand them a drink or a meal. Rather like the heroes of one of Scott's novels, they were endowed in imagination, if not in truth, with ideal strength, power, courage and honor.

It was difficult to accept that Alexander Tremont could succumb to that kind of awe, especially given his misgivings about Kerr. Nonetheless, she could fathom no other reason for his fascination.

She did little to discourage Monsieur Tremont's
attentions, but was friendly in a noncommittal fashion. It seemed appropriate to have a sympathetic admirer in reserve for when she might require aid. The run from New Orleans to Vera Cruz took no more than a week in the normal course of events. Soon, too soon, she would have to decide what she would do when she arrived.

The uncertainty was maddening. It shortened her temper while making her listless and inclined to headache.

She wasn't alone. The general malaise and outright illness caused by the surging rise and fall and side-slipping of the steamer set everyone's nerves on edge. The captain snapped at the officers, the officers shouted at the seamen, and the few passengers left upright ran the gamut from chill politesse to irascibility and downright surliness.

On the evening of the fourth day, the tables in the dining salon were set for fewer guests than ever. Soup was removed from the menu because of the difficulty in serving it, and the sound of breaking dishes from the direction of the kitchen came with hideous regularity. The appearance of a cold fish course cleared out several more passengers, as they took one whiff of the odorous dish and left the long room.

Among those affected was Kerr. He was grim of face and pale around the mouth as he departed, Sonia noticed. She was sympathetic, of course, but also be-mused. That so invincible a man could be laid low while she remained able to function was a small irony of the kind that appealed to her female soul.

Halfway through the dessert, as the wildly swinging
whale lamps threatened to strike the ceiling at the peak of the ship's roll, a pair of crewmen swept through the salon, extinguishing lamp flames and unhooking the globes to prevent fire. The wicks in a single pair of girandoles at each end were left burning, but the flames danced and wavered, casting more shadows than light. In the semidarkness, the flash of lightning was almost constant. Thunder rolled overhead and wind whipped across the decks along with the surge of building waves. The tops of wind-torn waves dashed against the dining-salon windows. Rain began in a downpour so violent it was almost impossible to be heard above it.

Sonia felt sure the salon would empty when the meal came to an end, and it very nearly did. No one troubled to clear the space for dancing and the violinist departed with the passengers who straggled out. A few hardy souls refused to give in to the elements, however. Those who remained behind were Tremont, the Reverend Smythe with his prickly beard who had turned out to be on a mission to the Yucatán, an elderly lady knitting on a lapful of puce wool and a trio of card players who commandeered the far end table and laid out a hand of euchre.

Sonia and Tremont talked in a desultory fashion for perhaps a half hour, lifting their voices above the storm while sitting on facing benches with the table between them. The reverend left then and, shortly thereafter, the elderly woman gathered up her knitting wool to go. As she passed by where Sonia and Tremont sat, she gave them a small sniff of disapproval.

The lady's feelings were easily deciphered. To be left
the only female among a company of men was highly irregular. It was also uncomfortable for Sonia. Retreating to the noisome cabin she shared with Tante Lily held no appeal, however, and she had no reason to think insult would be offered her under the present circumstances. More than that, she was accustomed to late hours, was often up until dawn during the hectic social round of the
saison des visites.
She would not be able to sleep for some time yet, even without the wind and rain.

On the other hand, her position was awkward enough without inciting gossip that might attach itself to her skirts wherever she finally settled. She frowned in indecision.

“Don't go,” Alex said, reaching out to catch her hand.

“It would be best if I did.”

“I'll look after you in Wallace's absence. Surely I can't be any less suitable for the post.”

She wore no gloves as they were always removed before dining and she had not donned them again. She had acquired casual habits as the days passed, as well, as if the ship had become home territory. His thumb stroked the fine skin on top of her hand in something very near a caress.

“I can see how suitable you intend to be.” Firmly but without rancor, she removed her fingers from his grasp.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, instantly contrite. “It seemed so natural I hardly noticed what I was doing. I will apologize a thousand times, I swear, if you will only stay.”

“Shall I count, or will you?”

“Fiend. Charming, yes, but a fiend in lovely human form. I believe you would enjoy watching me grovel.”

“Immensely, I assure you.”

It was mere banter, of course, the kind of meaningless exchange that eased formal meetings between men and women. She meant not a word, nor did he. Nevertheless, the accord between them was real enough, as were their smiles.

Tremont's faded first. Leaving his seat, he moved around as if he meant to join her on her side of the table. It was not the most graceful of maneuvers due to the rolling of the ship. The deck pitched upward. He caught the table corner and swung around it, coming down hard beside her.

The bench on which she sat rocked backward. She cried out, snatching at the table's edge.

It wasn't enough.

The bench tipped over in a slow arc, then slammed to the floor as the sea lifted the ship again. Sonia's head hit the carpeted decking with a solid thump. Alex landed beside her, cursing. She lay for a stunned instant in a welter of petticoats and skirts and with her slippers pointing at the ceiling.

The ludicrous picture the two of them must have presented struck her, along with the vivid memory of a less disastrous incident not so long ago caused by wind and water. Her escort had caught her then, but this time he was not here. She began to shake with silent laughter.

“Sonia—Mademoiselle Bonneval—are you hurt? Here, allow me…”

Alex rolled toward her, trying to find a place to put his hands for purchase, trying to get his feet under him. His way was impeded by the layers of silk and lace-
edged cambric that spread over them both. He reached across her to brace himself against the heaving of the deck under them, but could only grip her shoulder.

She attempted to help by grasping his sleeve, but the position was so awkward, and she was so weak with tremors of mirth, that she only fell back again. It was then that a shout came from the door behind them.

“
Monsieur!
Release her! Release her at once.”

Gervaise.

Alex muttered an oath as he twisted his head to look over his shoulder. A groan rose in Sonia's throat, though she clamped a hand over her mouth to hold it back. Of course it was Gervaise, exactly the kind of quixotic young idiot certain to make a bad situation worse. At least it wasn't his mother or, worse, Kerr.

“Release her, I say, or you will answer to me!”

She sobered instantly as the possibility of blows or even a duel surfaced between the two men. Hot embarrassment caught up with her as well. She bent her knees, struggling to right herself in spite of her corset stays that prevented her from bending her upper torso. “No, no, really, Gervaise,” she protested.

“Why, you impudent pup, I'll flay you alive for daring to think…” Alex began.

Another voice, deeper, richly caustic, joined the fray. “And I will be forced to take on both of you for neglecting the lady.”

Sonia closed her eyes in dismay. It was Kerr, of course. The man could always be depended upon to show up where he wasn't wanted.

An instant later, the sense of his words reached her and her eyes flew open again. He wouldn't challenge both Gervaise and Alexander Tremont over this ridiculous incident. Surely he would not.

Would he?

“The scoundrel has been manhandling Mademoiselle Bonneval,” Gervaise said in outraged condemnation.

“Nothing of the sort.” Alex's expression was pained. “It was an accident from the rolling of the ship.”

Gervaise drew himself up. “He has compromised her and must be brought to account for it.”

“I doubt it,” Kerr drawled. “The lady is unharmed so far as I can see, the bench in one piece, and Tremont more in need of sympathy than a lesson in manners.”

“I insist.”

“That's my place, I think. Unless you'd care to face my sword, being you're so set on a fight.”

The Kentuckian's manner might be offhand, but his words held a slicing edge of danger only a fool could disregard. The difficulty, Sonia feared, was that Gervaise might be just the sort of heedless young idiot who would consider his pride more important than his life. Fighting her skirts, she tried again to draw her feet down off the bench's seat so she could achieve a sitting position. The stiff crinoline of her petticoats threatened to fall into her face, even if her corset would allow it. Caught like a turtle on its back, she could not right herself without displaying more of her limbs and undergarments than any had seen thus far.

“Gentlemen, if you please!” she said in acid annoyance.

Tremont was closest, with Gervaise a near second. Neither of them moved, nor did they take their regard from the sword master who stood somewhere behind her. She wondered what communication passed between them.