Ship of Dreams (22 page)

"As have I." Kent remembered some of Captain Herndon's tales from last night. He sat back down next to Della, who was keeping Addie and Virginia company with a second cup of coffee and chatting about the antics of one of the steerage children. She appeared to be taking the weather in stride.

In fact, when the men expressed their intention of going up onto the deck, she insisted on joining them. "Why don't you come too?" she suggested to the other ladies. "I'm sure the wind will revive you as nothing else could."

The others reluctantly agreed, and the ladies all linked arms to follow the men up the curved stairs to the promenade deck. A light, flying rain was falling, but more daunting were the waves which occasionally broke across the bow of the ship, sending a heavy spray of saltwater over them all.

Kent concluded, upon watching the waves for a few moments, that they had nothing to fear, and said so clearly for the ladies' benefit. Seeing the ship's second officer nearby, Kent called out to him, hoping to verify his analysis of the situation.

"This storm is nothing out of the ordinary, is it, Mr. Frazer?"

The seaman actually laughed. "Storm? I'd not call this a storm yet—it's naught but a bit of a blow. You might want to keep your ladies below, though, if they don't like saltwater in their skirts." Even as he spoke, another wave broke across the bow, showering them all. The ladies' hoops danced wildly in the wind.

Addie was already tugging at her husband's sleeve, urging him back toward the stairs, and he went willingly enough. The Birches followed. Della, hesitated, however.

"Can't we stay out here a bit longer? The sea and sky are so different, so fascinating. It's almost like riding a fast horse into the wind."

Now that the crewman had allayed his lingering worry, Kent was willing enough. "Don't forget that you have only two changes of clothing, however," he reminded her.

She made a face at him. "Spoilsport. This lilac will just have to be my topside dress, until this blows over. I'll save the two green ones for drier pursuits."

They stood side by side, clinging to the rail and steadying Della's hoops, laughing as the spray drenched them repeatedly. Though windy, the air was still fairly warm. Even so, after an hour or so Kent noticed Della shivering.

"Come, let's go below for a bit. We'll both want to dry off before lunchtime, I think." He suspected that she'd deny being cold, but given a reasonable excuse to go in, she did not protest.

"Very well—for now. I'll want to come back out later, though," she warned him with a grin.

He leaned forward and kissed a drop of seawater from the tip of her nose. "Whatever you say—unless it really does become dangerous."

"You heard what Mr. Frazer said. 'Naught but a bit of a blow.' I'd like to experience it while it lasts."

Kent wondered whether her thirst for new experiences would ever be sated, but he had to admit it was contagious. On his trip west, he'd been careful not to allow the rain they encountered to dampen or disarrange his conservative attire. Now he found himself actually looking forward to another drenching on deck, with Della by his side.

She was good for him. As they reached the saloon, he turned to tell her so, but the sight of Nelson Sharpe striding toward him, accusation blazing from his eyes, brought them both up short.

"I knew there was something havey-cavey going on," Sharpe said without preamble. "I gave you more than one opportunity to come clean about it, too. Suppose you tell me the truth about your new bride—and your fiancée in New York?"

*
          
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Della tightened her grip on Kent's arm, trying to communicate silently that she'd support him whatever he said—or did. What could this odious man have discovered now?

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Kent responded with as much disdain as one might expect if he were truly ignorant of any deception.

Sharpe looked nonplussed for a moment, but did not back down. "I've been talking to your would-be brother-in-law, Cadbury. He left New York less than a month ago, and at that time, he says, his sister still considered herself engaged to you. Jilting the daughter of one of Philadelphia's wealthiest families is not an action likely to endear you to your investors, Bradford. It might make them wonder whether you'll be as faithless with their money as you've been to that poor girl."

"Caroline is no 'poor girl' by anyone's measure," Kent retorted with a coldness that made Della shiver—or perhaps that was just the seawater soaking through to her skin. "Your money is perfectly safe, Sharpe."

"You can be sure it is—safe in my cabin." He gestured across the saloon. "And it will remain in my possession, every bit of it, until I get to the bottom of this matter."

Della's fingers twitched but Kent covered her hand with his own. "I don't see how my private life is your concern, Sharpe. I had a falling out with Caroline Cadbury, and her brother has understandably taken her part. What more needs to be said?"

Sharpe's shrewd eyes narrowed, as though he would bore holes in Kent with them, but Kent remained impassive. After a moment, Sharpe snorted. "I'll be very interested to hear which story prevails when we reach New York. Till then, I'll reserve judgement."

"Always a wise course." Della marvelled that Kent could sound so calm, knowing as he must that their deception would be exposed shortly after the ship docked.

"You won't find Cadbury so patient, however," Sharpe warned him then. "He spent last evening in conversation with a Mrs. Benbow. It appears you told her rather a different story from the one you told him. I imagine he'll wish to discuss it with you."

With a mocking smile, he tipped his hat and headed for the far end of the saloon to join one of the card games just forming.

"What do you think Mr. Cadbury will do?" Della asked anxiously. She remembered how the big man had behaved at first.

"Nothing to you, I promise," said Kent soothingly.

But that was not the reassurance she sought. "To you, I mean. He doesn't seem the type who will easily forgive being lied to."

"No—unless he sees a profit in doing so. Which he will."

"Do you really think he'll be that rational? I saw how close he came to attacking you when he came aboard, even though you were surrounded by people."

She thought Kent hesitated for a moment before replying. "I can handle him, Della. I've done so before."

For his sake—and hers—she hoped he was right.

By lunchtime, a few more people had tired of their cabins, though not many seemed inclined to eat. The weather remained the primary topic of conversation, as the wind had not yet abated at all—if anything, Della thought it had increased. Even so, as soon as she finished eating, she went to change back into her damp lilac gown—sans hoops—for another foray onto the deck.

Kent did not try to dissuade her, though he looked as though he wanted to. She couldn't explain the need she had to face the wind, to experience the raw elements. Almost, she found it cleansing—to brave physical rather than social dangers. Eagerly, she mounted the steps again.

At the top, however, they were nearly driven back by the wind, which had increased more than she'd realized over the past two or three hours. The waves crashing across the bow seemed to have doubled in size, and now sent ankle-deep swirls of seawater along the deck at regular intervals.

"I don't think—" Kent began.

"No, please, just for a few minutes," she interrupted him. After that encounter with Mr. Sharpe, and in all likelihood an even more unpleasant one with Mr. Cadbury to come, she needed the perspective of the storm. "Look—the sailors seem not the least bit concerned, so surely there can be no real danger even now."

Kent gave her a long look, then slowly nodded. "I don't pretend to understand, but I can see you really want to do this. Come on, then." Supporting her against the wind with one arm about her waist, he accompanied her to the windward rail.

She saw that they weren't the only passengers on deck after all—though the others appeared to be here from necessity rather than desire, lined up as they were to lean over the leeward rail. She felt a surge of sympathy for the poor, wretched souls. What a mercy that she was unaffected by seasickness—so far, anyway. She was glad she had left her hoops below, however.

Della turned her face to the wind and rain, reveling in the way it whipped her hair to a frenzy and scoured her skin. This, surely, was life at its most intense! Petty concerns about her reception in New York fell away as the power of Nature, far greater than that of any human machinations, bore down upon her.

All too soon, Kent recalled her. "Darling, you are drenched again, and shivering, however you try to hide it. Let's go below."

In truth, she hadn't even noticed her own trembling, but at his words she discovered he was right—she was chilled to the bone. "How long have we been here?"

"Nearly an hour. Were you seeing visions, or simply communing with the elements?" he asked teasingly as he guided her away from the rail and back toward the stairs.

"Both, I think," she responded in the same vein. "I was trying to draw on the power of the wind and sea to shore up my own weakness."

He squeezed her shoulders as they began their descent. "Weakness? Della, you are the strongest woman I've ever known."

She looked at him curiously. "Really? I've never thought of myself in that way. Certainly, I haven't been one to resort to tears or fainting spells in the face of trouble, but I always regarded that as practicality rather than strength."

"I suspect the two are rather closely related." His eyes were twinkling again, and she only belatedly realized he'd been worried about her.

She saw that there were certain things she needed to make clear to Kent—to be sure he understood. And things she needed to know herself. "Let's go back to our cabin, where I can dry off," she suggested. "And there's something I'd like to talk to you about."

He had already been leading her in that direction before she spoke. "Of course. And then I mean to fetch you a cup of something hot, that you can sip while wrapped in at least two blankets."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Don't start treating me like a brainless child. I'm fine. Just wet, but that can be easily mended."

"I won't have you neglecting yourself, or falling ill," he said firmly, and the concern was back in his eyes. "Go on in and dry off, and I'll be back in a moment with some tea."

Abruptly, Della understood that she herself had become a point of vulnerability for this man she loved. That his feelings for her had the power to injure him—that
she
had that power. The idea frightened her.

She'd become accustomed to being on her own, knowing that should she disappear or die, no one but herself would be affected. That was no longer the case. For the first time since her sister reached adulthood, she had a responsibility to take care of herself for someone else's sake. The thought left her both shaken and warmed.

"Thank you, Kent." She hoped her eyes expressed the gratitude for which her words were inadequate.

He bent to kiss her lingeringly on the lips, then left her. Della had her sea legs—or storm legs—now, and was not hampered by the motion of the floor as she quickly stripped off her sodden lilac gown. She pressed as much water out of it as she could with a towel, before draping it over the top bunk to dry somewhat. Then she removed her wet bloomers and shift and put on her nightrail, her driest undergarment.

She picked up her newest gown but then recalled what Kent had said and put it back down, instead pulling on her wrapper and then draping a blanket over her shoulders. Sitting on the edge of her berth, she tucked her feet under her for warmth, just as Kent returned with two steaming cups.

"This should take away the chill," he said, handing her one. She took a long swallow, then sputtered.

"This isn't just tea!"

"No, I added a drop of brandy, courtesy of the Eastons. It'll warm you more quickly. Drink up!"

She sent him a speaking glance at such coddling, but obeyed. The heat of the spirit-laced tea coursing through her veins, warming her to her toes in minutes. Contentment swept through her as well, almost making her forget what she'd wanted to talk to Kent about—but not quite.

"I know a way to finish the warming process," he said suggestively when she set down her cup. But she put up a hand when he began to rise from his seat on the trunk, his eyes alight with desire.

"Before you distract me—which I well know you can—I want to discuss something."

He settled back on the trunk, a slight frown between his dark brows. "There's something we haven't already discussed?"

"Actually, I want to finish a discussion we began some days ago. Kent, you've spoken confidently of how we'll overcome all barriers once we reach New York, but ... what if we can't?"

He shook his head, as she'd known he would. "I told you, we'll manage. I'll manage. I won't allow—"

"No, Kent, I want to discuss realities now. I tried once before, but you swept away my objections without truly addressing them. After seeing Mr. Cadbury's reaction to our marriage, however, and Mr. Sharpe's this morning, I believe we must consider all possibilities, even the most unpleasant ones."