Savannah Heat (17 page)

“I have no money. I was hoping you would accept these.” Silver handed the obese woman several long satin ribbons of blue, pink, and green.

“Very pretty.” Mama accepted the ribbons with a chubby hand. “Use nettles with care,” she warned, “and good luck with your mon.”

Silver smiled. “Thank you.”

They left the shack, carrying the nettles in a small handwoven straw bag that Marnie promised to return, and started back toward the house on Chelsea Road. But the tiny black girl stopped when she spotted a number of unsavory-looking black men gathered in the lane not far ahead.

“We go dis way.” Marnie led her down a well-worn path through the heavy vegetation back toward the quay.

The harbor blocked one avenue of travel, forcing them to wind their way through the narrow streets that in this part of Bridgetown were lined with taverns. They hadn’t gone far when one of the swinging double doors burst open and a man flew backward into the street. Blood flowed from his nose, down his face, and onto his chest, soaking the front of his red-checked shirt.

For a moment he lay there groaning, and Silver fought the urge to go to him, to see if he was all right. She was just about to weaken when he staggered to his feet. With an unsteady glance toward the tavern, he spotted the big, bearded man who had followed him outside. Huge and muscular, the black-haired victor stood grinning beneath his thick mustache, his feet splayed and his hands riding low on his waist. He wore dark blue canvas breeches just about the color of his eyes, a wide-striped shirt, and the swaggering look of a seaman.

“Next time you try to cheat,
anglais
, pick on someone closer to your size.” His French accent heavy, the big man slapped a beefy thigh and laughed uproariously. The man in the street dusted himself off and worked his jaw back and forth to be sure it wasn’t broken. When the Frenchman took an ominous
step in his direction, the Englishman turned tail and ran.

With the disruption over, Silver was just about to continue on her way when the swinging doors opened again and Jordy stepped out on the porch, a wide, approving grin on his youthful freckled face. They spotted each other at exactly the same instant, and Jordy’s hazel eyes flew wide.

“Miss Jones! What the devil are you doin’ here?”

“I—I—” Silver glanced down guiltily, working madly to concoct a believable story. “Marnie was showing me a little of the city.” She indicated the tiny black woman beside her, who held Mama Kimbo’s straw bag in the folds of her bright cotton skirt. Marnie nodded and smiled.

“Hello.” Jordy doffed his floppy-brimmed hat politely, exposing a thatch of thick auburn hair.

“Jordy,” the Frenchman broke in, turning toward them, his accent heavy, “you must introduce me to
la belle femme
—your beautiful lady friend.”

“Sorry.” Jordy twirled the hat in his hands. “Miss Jones, this is Hypolyte Jacques Bouillard. First mate aboard the
Savannah
and the finest who ever sailed the seas.”

“M’sieur Bouillard! I feel as if I already know you.” Meaning it, Silver extended her hand. From the bits and pieces she had picked up from Jordy, and the hearty praise Morgan had heaped on, she was certain Hypolyte Jacques Bouillard was quite a man.

“Miss Jones is the daughter of an—”

Silver’s elbow found Jordy’s ribs. “My father is a planter on Katonga.” She cast him a warning glance.

“It is a pleasure, Miss Jones.” He lifted her hand and gently brushed the back of it with his lips. The
tickle of his heavy black beard made the corners of her mouth tilt up in a smile.

“The pleasure is mine, m’sieur.” She said the word in perfect French, finally glad she’d had occasion to learn it.

“You must call me Jacques.”

“Then you must call me Silver.”

“Silver,” he repeated. “The color of your ’air. It is an honor,
chérie.
”

“She’s the girl I told you about,” Jordy said. “The one who climbed the yardarm.”

Silver grimaced and subdued an urge to kick him.

“No!” Jacques’s mouth gaped open. “But that cannot be.”

“She sure did. She kin—can—swim like a fish, too. You shoulda seen her.”

“Jordy,” Silver said sweetly, but couldn’t keep the edge from her voice, “I’m sure M’sieur Bouillard isn’t interested.”

“
Oui
, but I am. Surely you cannot be the woman Jordy speaks of.”

“Please, Jacques, I would rather not discuss it.”

“The same woman who went toe to toe with Morgan Trask?” It seemed incomprehensible.

“I was trying to escape,” Silver said, beginning to get angry. What damned business was it of his? She lifted her chin and cast him a disparaging glance.

Jacques Bouillard ran his eyes up and down her body, taking in her slender build and average height, apparently incredulous that she could possibly be the woman who had wreaked such havoc on the crew of the
Savannah
.

Then he began to laugh. At first it was a chuckle, then a rumble that turned into a deep-bellied roar, and finally a guffaw that seemed unending. “You”—
he pointed at her between fits of hysteria—“
une petite
no bigger than a minute.”

“I’m not that small, and if you don’t stop laughing, I may just show you how I did it.”

That stopped the laughter. At least for a moment or two. “I am sorry. I meant no disrespect.” He tried to hold a chuckle back but several more escaped. “It is just that Capitaine Trask … ’e is a man few men can best. For a pretty little thing like you to ’ave done it—’e will never live it down.” Bouillard chuckled again.

Silver wished she could join him, but the memory of her battles with the major were far too fresh. “I didn’t exactly best him. I’m here because he was kind enough to bring me.” She glanced at Jacques beseechingly. “I don’t suppose I could convince you not to mention it.”

“Sorry, there is no way.” He laughed a little longer; then his expression changed. “Where are you going,
chérie
? You should not be walking in this part of town.”

“I’m staying with Lady Grayson. And it’s time we were heading back.”

“I will walk with you.”

“That really isn’t necessary.”

Jacques chuckled again. “I am sure it is not, Silver Jones, but I will walk you anyway.”

And he did, leaving them only after they had reached the rear yard. He didn’t ask why she wasn’t using the front door, as any proper lady would. Bouillard seemed a man who respected one’s privacy, accepting a person’s friendship on merit alone. Apparently hers was enough to satisfy him, and Silver was glad.

Already she found herself liking the big bearded Frenchman Hypolyte Jacques Bouillard.

* * *

Morgan left the
Savannah
, wearing a freshly laundered uniform and a pair of shiny black boots. A tropical breeze ruffled his neatly groomed hair, and he could still smell the spicy cologne he had put on. Behind his back, the sun formed a glowing half dome against the horizon, then slipped lower into the sea.

Morgan crossed the gangway leading to the dock, walked to the corner, and climbed into the carriage Lydia had sent for him, a handsome black calèche with the top down, pulled by a pair of matched gray horses. Morgan leaned his tall frame against the tufted leather seat, thinking about the night ahead. He’d been looking forward to his evening with Lydia for the past three weeks. More so, since his rousing encounters with Silver.

As Jacques, having met her that afternoon, had so clearly pointed out—to Morgan’s chagrin—the girl was quite a temptation. Jacques’s good-natured ribbing about her had gone on until the big Frenchman had pushed Morgan farther than he’d meant to. Morgan knew his outburst of temper had been unusual as well as unexpected, and the knowledge that it was gave Jacques some idea of the turmoil Morgan was in.

“It appears,
mon ami
, this is no laughing matter,” Jacques had said, turning serious. “The silver-’aired woman, she means more to you than you will admit.”

“You’re wrong, Jacques. The woman is a handful. More than a handful. I feel responsible, nothing more.”

“She is beautiful,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“She’s also willful, stubborn, and headstrong.”

“Then maybe it is I who should woo ’er. Those are the very traits I find attractive in a woman.”

Morgan pinned him with a glare. “Fine,” he snapped, but they both knew in some way Morgan had laid claim to the girl. Jacques would not interfere.

He chuckled softly. “I think maybe Major Trask has met ’is match.”

“I told you, she isn’t my type.”

“Think of the fine sons she could give you—the sons you ’ave always wanted.”

“Having children means a lot to me, I don’t deny that. But it also means marriage—and that I’m just not ready for.”

“Not all women are like your Charlotte. I was most fortunate in the women who loved me.” Jacques had two fine sons, from two different wives. The first had died in childbirth, the second of a fever that swept across France. Since he had married at sixteen, Jacques’s sons were nearly grown and already seamen themselves.

“Maybe they aren’t,” Morgan said, “but that isn’t the point. When I’m ready for marriage, I want a woman who knows her place.” He folded his arms across his chest. “My wife will do exactly what I tell her—I intend to set her straight on that score right from the start.”

Jacques shook his head. “She sounds very dull to me. I like my women fiery, like your Silver.”

“She isn’t
my
Silver.”

Jacques just grinned. “A pity,
mon capitaine
, to waste such a beautiful woman.”

Having thought something close to the same, Morgan hadn’t answered.

To the whir of the wheels, the carriage rolled along the darkening streets past merchants lowering their
shutters to close up their shops and young boys hurriedly climbing ladders to light gas streetlamps. The house on Chelsea Road lay up ahead.

Morgan shifted on the seat of the carriage. He’d been looking forward to his time with Lydia. Now that it had arrived, he suddenly found himself dreading it.

They were going out for the evening; he was taking her to a quiet restaurant on the road that led to Christ Church. Lydia had invited Silver, offering to provide her with a suitable escort, but Silver had refused.

Morgan was relieved.

What he and Lydia had planned for later in her upstairs chamber was something he’d rather Silver didn’t know about. Not that it was any of her business—and not that she didn’t already have an inkling. He hadn’t missed the scornful look she’d cast his way when he had left her. He owed her no explanations. Far from it. Still, it bothered his conscience, and he refused to question why.

“You look lovely, Lydia,” Morgan said to her, greeting her at the foot of the wide white-railed staircase.

Tonight she wore a pin-striped black-and-silver gown trimmed with black Belgian lace. Tiny black-and-silver slippers peeped from beneath the hem of the voluminous skirts. Her shoulders were bare, her breasts rising softly with each gentle breath.

“And you, my darling Morgan, look more dashing than ever.”

Unconsciously Morgan glanced to the top of the stairs, almost expecting to see Silver glaring down at him with feminine contempt.

“She’s fine, Morgan,” Lydia said flatly, reading his
thoughts. “After her weeks at sea, she probably needed a little rest.”

That was hard to fathom. Silver had more energy than any three people he knew. “We’d better be going.” Ushering her out to the carriage, he helped her climb in.

The evening passed far more slowly than Morgan had imagined. Why hadn’t he remembered Lydia’s conversation consisted mainly of planters’ gossip and the latest Paris fashions? In the past they had dined at home during his brief visits and spent most of their time in bed. Lydia was reserved on the surface, but underneath, she was a passionate lover. He hoped to hell she’d be able to arouse more interest in that subject than she had in the others.

When their elegant supper had ended, the carriage returned them to the house, and Morgan walked her to the door. Once she stepped inside, he waited a discreet amount of time then made his way around back and up the staircase that led to the veranda outside her chamber. Lydia hastily opened the door and drew him in, her arms going around his neck as she pulled his head down for a kiss.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for hours,” she whispered into his mouth, her lips soft and moist beneath his, her fingers working the shiny brass buttons that closed up the front of his uniform. Lydia wore a diaphanous white organdy nightgown trimmed with lace, her heavy breasts clearly outlined by the sheer gauzy fabric.

Morgan said nothing, just thrust his tongue between her teeth and tried not to notice how different her cool lips felt from Silver’s warm ones. His hands stroked her breasts, and he thought how full and heavy they were, not high and lush and curved to fill a man’s eager hands.
Little witch
, he thought, more
determined than ever not to let her image intrude on his passion. He pulled Lydia closer against him and filled his hands with her heavy breasts.

Damn him! Silver stormed away from the window. Morgan had done exactly as she’d suspected. She had seen him in the garden, watched him make his way upstairs. Now he was up in Lydia’s room, getting ready to make love to her.

Damn him! Working to control her temper, Silver carefully tapped the barbed-leafed plant another time against her cheek, hissing through clenched teeth at the sting.
This almost isn’t worth it
, she thought, adding a couple more stinging red spots to her neck and chest. But the burning didn’t last long, and the red spots remained, looking angry and painful.

Wearing a white cotton nightshirt, her hair plaited into a single long thick braid, Silver hurriedly pulled on her wrapper, shoved her feet into her slippers, opened the door, and stepped into the darkened hall. Marnie had pointed out Lydia’s room, seemingly miles down the corridor in the opposite direction. Taking a determined breath, Silver headed that way. Once outside the door, she could hear noises from inside the room and softly whispered words, but little else.