Ship of Dreams (5 page)

"Are you?" he asked.

"Am I what?"

"The world's most experienced liar." Though his expression was more amused than condemning, Della could not suppress a surge of irritation—and hurt.

"Of course not. I've had to talk my way out of a tight place or two over the years, but in general I'm a very honest person." And she was, though his eyes clearly doubted her. "I do realize your limited acquaintance with me might suggest otherwise," she allowed.

"It might indeed. But trust is something that only grows over time. For now, it is more important that we guard ourselves against any obvious slips that would undermine the trust of our fellow passengers."

Della nodded again. "Not to mention our own embarrassment, if we happen to contradict each other's stories. For example, Mary Patterson was asking me about your family back in New York. I told her your father was dead and your mother alive, but I have no idea if that's true."

His dark eyebrows rose, but she thought he looked almost approving. "Strangely enough, it is. I also have two sisters, both of whom live with her, and one brother, who does not."

"I didn't dare invent any siblings," she said with a grin. "I managed to change the subject before she could probe further."

"It appears that you have more than your fair share of luck, Miss Gilley, as well as a facile tongue."

She felt herself pinkening again at his use of her alias, and ruthlessly subdued her emotional response to that steady, golden-brown gaze. "Yes, I do, actually. It must be the Irish in me."

"No doubt," he said dryly. "But rather than trust too blindly to it in the future, I'd prefer we learn enough about each other's background to avoid too many slips. Until we do, I fear it will be risky for either of us to go about the ship without the other, and I'm sure you have no more desire to be continually in my pocket than I have to be in yours."

Della swallowed, wondering if he realized how harsh that sounded—or if he cared. "I should say not!" she agreed quickly. "So, where shall we begin?"

"Since I am the poorer liar, perhaps you should first tell me about yourself," he suggested. She tried not to bristle at his implication. "Where were you born? Who were your parents? Any siblings?"

She twined her fingers together and leaned back against the cabin wall. "Right. I may as well start at the beginning. I was born, and spent the first twelve years of my life, in Cincinnati, Ohio, the daughter of Murphy ... Gilley and Aileen O'Dell Gilley."

Yes, she would keep the alias for now, though she was beginning to believe she could trust this man. In token of that trust, she added, "My first name is actually Odella, to honor my mother's family, but I've always gone by Della."

"It sounds as though the Irish in you is all of you," Kent commented, breaking his forbidding stance by the door to seat himself on the bottom berth.

She glanced sharply at him, but his expression was as neutral as his tone, revealing no particular prejudice. "Well, yes, I suppose so—though my mother was born in America and my father came here in his early teens. I've never met my paternal grandparents. They lived—perhaps still live—in Philadelphia."

He started slightly—or perhaps she only imagined it. "And your mother grew up in Cincinnati?"

"Yes. Her parents married there, and she lived with them until she married my father. They used to write to us, even after my mother passed away, but I haven't heard from them for well over a year now—though that's likely my fault rather than theirs," she admitted. "I've moved around a bit."

His gaze was definitely disapproving now. "Avoiding the law?"

"Of course not!" she said indignantly. "Just following the best business opportunities. I'm not a criminal, and never have been. I told you that."

"Yes, you did." But his expression was still wary. "So what brought your family to California?"

"What brought everyone to California? The gold, of course. My father was one of the first to head west when the news reached Cincinnati."

"And he brought the whole family?"

She nodded. "My mother refused to stay behind. In some ways my father was rather helpless, I suppose, though of course I couldn't see that at the time. She probably didn't think he could take care of himself properly—or perhaps she was afraid he'd never come back."

Glancing up, she surprised a shadowed, almost pained, look in Kent's eyes. "A legitimate fear, certainly," he said. "Many men never did."

"I'm sorry, Kent. Was there someone—?"

"Never mind. You're telling your story now. I'll tell mine later."

Della didn't allow his brusqueness to sting, since he clearly used it to hide some past hurt. "Of course." He frowned at her gentle tone, so she became brisk again. "Anyway, we headed west, along with several other families, in the spring of 1849. I suspect if my father had realized how rough the trail would be, he'd never have left. Certainly, he would never have brought the family along. It took us six months to reach Sacramento, though it seemed like years."

Now it was her turn to remember old pain, but she refused to dwell on it. "By the time we got there, in mid-October, thousands of prospectors had arrived, from all over the world. It was exciting but also rather frightening."

"I can imagine," Kent murmured. The sympathy in his eyes surprised her, making her wonder if he guessed at the part of her story she left out.

"We had very little money," she continued, "and everything was incredibly expensive. Still, we headed straight for the gold fields. My father was sure he'd make his fortune within the week, and then we'd never know another day's privation." She shook her head at such naiveté. Even at twelve, she'd had a far more realistic outlook than her dream-chasing father.

"So he never found any gold?" Kent prompted when she paused.

"Oh, he did find gold. But not right away, and not enough of it. In the mining towns and camps, things cost even more than they did in Sacramento. Luckily, my mother was an accomplished seamstress, and was able to mend and sew in exchange for some of what we needed."

She paused again, and he probed her with his eyes. "And you? Did you pan for gold, or help your mother sew?"

"Neither," she said with a sudden grin that made him blink. "I convinced my father to let me buy a hen from a traveling peddler with some of our precious gold, then I sold eggs to the miners for a dollar apiece."

He stared at her, one brow raised. "Quite the youthful entrepreneur, I perceive."

"It was only sense." She shrugged, refusing to be nettled by his sarcasm. "There were people finding fortunes in gold, but not many. Maybe one miner in a hundred at first, then progressively fewer. The ones making a consistent living were those selling goods to the prospectors."

He leaned back in the berth and stretched out his long legs until they brushed the spreading hem of her skirt. "So you contributed to the family income by selling eggs at exorbitant prices."

"In the mining camps, everything sold for exorbitant prices. A dollar an egg was the going rate," she said tartly. "Actually, I started off selling them for seventy-five cents, to undercut the camp store. Then we moved to another camp, where the store owner had no chickens, so I raised my prices."

His expression was unreadable, so she hurried on. "I helped my mother get the best prices for her sewing, as well. And my sister and I became quite adept at retrieving anything the miners threw away, then repairing what we could so that we could sell the items back to them. After a couple of years, Papa finally did find a big enough lode to allow him to stop mining. We returned to Sacramento and settled there. And now, Kent, suppose you tell me a bit about yourself?"

"You haven't brought your own story up to the present yet," he pointed out. "What happened to your parents? How did you come to be in San Francisco?"

"My mother died in the cholera epidemic of '52, less than a year after we left the gold fields. Papa died last year, of diphtheria. Anyway, we're telling everyone we met in Sacramento, remember?" She was reluctant to describe her most recent business venture, of which he would certainly disapprove.

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought he would insist on further details, but then he shrugged. "I suppose that will do—for now. I'll take my turn, and let you rest your voice."

Della wondered whether the man was capable of making a statement that didn't sound sarcastic. She leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee, and gave him her undivided—and exaggerated—attention.

One mocking glance told her he saw what she was about, but he began his own narrative without further delay. "My name is
Kenton
Bradford, of the New York Bradfords. Only my sisters call me Kent."

No doubt she was supposed to feel rebuked, but she had to suppress her amusement. Could the man truly be this pompous, or did she bring out the worst in him?

 
"I was born and raised in New York City," he continued, "where my parents were both prominent citizens. My father founded Bradford Shipping & Mercantile with his father, and I inherited the business when he died."

As she'd suspected, he hailed from one of New York's high-society families, the kind she'd only heard stories about. No wonder he seemed so full of himself. She leaned back again, though still giving him her full attention.

 
"I've done my best to keep the business going," he went on, "but it was necessary to expand to stay afloat. A year ago, I met Nelson Sharpe in New York, and he told me there was still great demand for shipping in California. I came to Sacramento six months ago to research the possibilities for a west coast branch of my business, and now I am headed back home to complete the arrangements." He stood up and stretched, his hands touching the low ceiling of the cabin.

"And that's all?" she asked in disbelief.

He looked confused. "What else is there to tell?"

She stared at him, exasperated. "Why, the sorts of things people are likely to ask me about, of course. You mentioned a mother, two sisters, a brother. What are their names? Do you have friends? How old were you when your father died?"

"Oh." He blinked and sat back down. "Let's see. I was seventeen when my father died. His name was also Kenton Bradford. I am the third of that name. My mother was born Willa Maples, from Philadelphia." That explained his start earlier, when she'd mentioned that city. "My sisters are Barbara and Judith, my brother Charles. I do have friends, of course, but as you wouldn't have met them anyway, I see no need to list them."

He seemed oddly reluctant to reveal further details. "Seventeen. That was very young to take over the responsibility for the family business," she commented, hoping to draw him out further. "How old was your brother at the time?"

Her question clearly irritated him, and for a moment she didn't think he was going to answer.

"A year younger," he finally said. "We managed well enough. We had the advice of Father's friends, of course, and our longtime managers knew the business. They were able to keep things going until I—we made the adjustment."

It had been hard for him, and there was something—something about his brother—he wasn't telling. She read it in his face, in his voice, in his hesitation. But she wouldn't push. Not now, anyway. "And your sisters?"

"Barbara was twelve, and Judy ... let me see. She would have been eight."

"I hope you won't find my next question impertinent," she said then, trying to keep any trace amusement from her voice, "but exactly how old are you now?"

To her surprise, he grinned, his face briefly transformed into something approachable, friendly, and disturbingly handsome. "I guess you would need to know that to pose as my wife. I was thirty in June. And if I've done my arithmetic properly, you're ten years younger."

"Yes, I was twenty on February fifteenth."

Leaning forward from his seat on the bunk, he examined her face closely—so closely that she had to fight against the blush she felt threatening. Would he tell her she looked older than twenty, or younger, she wondered? He did neither.

"It occurs to me that you've experienced far more in twenty years than I have in half again as many. I find it a bit surprising that your past hasn't left its mark visibly upon your face. If I knew nothing about you at all, I'd assume you were as innocent as any other girl your age."

She lost control of the blush. "What exactly are you implying?" she demanded. "I
am
innocent. I told you earlier that my virtue is perfectly intact."

He smiled again, but not so pleasantly as before. "Oh, I'm not doubting your virginity. But innocent, Miss Gilley, you definitely are not."

Clearly he did not mean that as a compliment. "I won't apologize for the way I've lived my life. I am accountable only to myself, and I have no regrets."

"Even now?" He was openly mocking her, but she refused to rise to the bait.

"I have had unpleasant experiences before, and this will doubtless be another. That's not the same as regretting my own decisions. Had I not come aboard and begun this ruse, I imagine I would now be having a far less enjoyable time than even this." She hoped her tone was cutting enough to put him in his place.