Jo Goodman (46 page)

Jonna examined the bottle. The maker claimed on the label that just a teaspoon a day would relieve headache, toothache, nausea, constipation, fatigue, muscle cramps, and insomnia. "But I don't have any of these ailments," she said.

Decker grinned. "I think the doctor's saying that if you want to be the reason that he's here, then you've got to let him treat you."

"Oh." She looked up in time to see Hardy and her husband exchange amused, indulgent glances. Her mouth flattened in annoyance. She was not entirely witless. "Thank you, Dr. Hardy," she said, this time dismissing him. "Jack will escort you to the door."

"Prickly, aren't you?" Decker said after the physician had gone. "Don't apologize for it. It's one of your most delightful traits."

Quite unable to help herself, Jonna prickled again. "I had no intention of apologizing."

Decker kissed her without warning.

"What was that for?"

"For having the good sense to have a dimple at the corner of your mouth."

Further annoyed that she had risen so easily to his bait, Jonna's dimple deepened as she compressed her lips. He simply smiled at her. It was no good even pretending to be aggravated with him, she thought. She placed the bottle of tonic on the bedside table. "Will you want to stay with him?" she asked.

Decker was instantly serious. "A while longer," he said. "Could you arrange with Mrs. Davis to have someone with him at all times?"

"Of course. I'll see to it right now. I have to talk to Jack as well."

"All right."

Jonna watched him as he turned back to the bed and gave his full attention to the man lying there. Was it friendship that kept Decker here? she wondered. Or just his humanity? A full minute later, Jonna left soundlessly.

* * *

It was after midnight when Decker returned to his room. Jonna was sitting up in bed, a book cradled in her hands. She closed it and put it aside as he crossed the space separating them. Her face lifted most naturally for his kiss. He hadn't known what to expect when he opened the door. Jonna could easily have been in her own room, asleep in her own bed, and he would have felt the full measure of disappointment he was guarding himself against.

"How is he?" she asked quietly.

Decker began to get ready for bed, unbuttoning his jacket. He tossed it over a chair. "He seems to have fallen into a natural sleep. His breathing was coming easier when I left him with Amanda."

Jonna watched him disappear into the dressing room. "Did you know he had been shot?"

"No," he called back. He pulled his shirt free of his trousers. "I suspected illness, not injury. I didn't know it was a pistol wound until his jacket fell open."

"So he didn't tell you anything about it."

"Not a thing." Decker finished undressing, washed quickly with the cool water in the basin, and returned to Jonna. He was tying the loose drawstring of his drawers as he walked in.

Jonna reached for the bedside lamp to turn it down. She stopped when she noticed that Decker was no longer moving toward the bed. She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was simply no longer moving. His entire attention was fixed on the small table that complemented the sitting area of the bedchamber. "What is it?" she asked. There was nothing on the table but a brass lamp and a porcelain figurine. Neither of those items were worthy of Decker's intense concentration.

"There were some papers on that table," he said, walking toward it. "Were you reading them?"

"If I had been, I would have returned them." Jonna bent her head to see if they had fallen under the nearby chair. They weren't there.

Decker paused beside the table. He tapped the polished surface lightly, thinking. Had he taken them out of here? To the library, perhaps? He tried to remember if he had placed Sheridan's papers with his sketches for
Huntress.
The papers could easily be at the ship.

Jonna's voice came to him as if from a distance. He shook off his reverie and looked at her. "Did you say something?"

"I asked what the papers were. Obviously you think they're important. Might you have taken them to the harbor this morning?"

"I carried some sketches inside my jacket," he said. "I could have put everything together." He remembered reading them in this room when Jonna joined him last night. And this morning, before he could look at them again, Rachael had come in. Had he simply taken them in a hurry, without thinking, when he left? The more he considered it, the more likely it seemed. Rachael certainly had no use for the papers, nor had anyone else in the household. How many of Jonna's servants could even read?

Decker ran a hand through his hair. His drawn brow cleared a little. "They must be at the ship," he said. "I'll find them in the morning."

Jonna raised the covers as he climbed into bed. Belatedly she realized he hadn't told her what the papers were, nor had he identified their importance. As she stretched out beside him, rubbing her feet against his legs to warm them, this lack of answers didn't bother her at all. She turned away long enough to extinguish the lamp. His arm slipped across her waist.

"I'm sorry about Mr. Denison," she whispered.

"So am I." He paused. "Thank you for taking him in, Jonna. It was generous of you."

She wished he hadn't said it quite that way. "You make it sound as if it were my decision alone."

"Wasn't it?"

"No. That is, I didn't mean it to be... it shouldn't have been. This is your home as well." She had never told him that before, she realized. He probably felt as much a guest here as Graham Denison did. "I want this to be your home."

Decker didn't say anything. He couldn't speak. He felt her take his hand and thread her fingers between his. She squeezed gently and edged closer. The room had taken on the silence of a confessional.

"I never loved your brother," Jonna said. "Not the way you think I did. He was a good friend and mentor. There was a time when I imagined that he might love me, but it was just that—my imagination. I was sixteen then, coming out of a year of mourning my father. For the first six months I was numb with grief. Papa had prepared me for years to run the line, but I was still too young when the time came. Perhaps if I had been Papa's son..." Her voice trailed off. Several moments passed before she spoke again. "Colin and Jack held my hand through that first year. Sometimes figuratively, sometimes in fact. I suppose it was inevitable that I would begin to think Colin's affections might be engaged. It was just a schoolgirl vanity. I never thought the same of Jack."

Jonna felt Decker's thumb pass across the back of her hand. There was enough light for her to see that his eyes were intent on hers. She had his full attention. "When Colin took to the sea again I was disappointed but not surprised. It had always been his mission to find you and Greydon. He could hardly do that in Boston Harbor."

"Colin
does
love you," Decker said.

Her smile was soft, a trifle wistful. "I know. And I know the nature of that love. It's the same I feel for him. Brother to sister. Friend to friend. Student to teacher. I was afraid to see him at Rosefield. It had been so long since we exchanged anything but letters. I wondered if I had mistaken my feelings or his. He had a brother now. He had you, Decker. I didn't know if there was a place for me any longer."

"You were jealous," he said softly, slowly. There was something akin to wonderment in his tone. "Of me."

"I was... jealous." It was not so easy to admit, but it was the truth. "I know that you thought my affections ran more deeply and that you didn't entirely trust Colin. I played on your uncertainty, even when I knew that nothing had changed between Colin and me."

"You were getting a little of your own back."

Jonna hesitated. "That was part of it."

Decker said nothing. He simply waited and placed no expectation on the silence. She would tell him or she wouldn't.

Jonna's throat was tight, her mouth dry. When she spoke her voice was husky. "I let you believe some things that weren't true," she said. "About
Huntress.
I never intended that Colin should have it. It wasn't built for him at all."

"But you let me think it was."

"I've just said that, haven't I?" Her expression was earnest now. "And it was your notion in the first place. It had never occurred to me until you presented it. I merely went along. I had no expectation that you would force a marriage to keep
Huntress
and me out of Colin's hands."

"I thought you were of the opinion last night that I married you for love."

"Well... yes." Her tone was uncertain. "But I didn't know that then. And I'm not sure I know it now. It's not as if you've told me so."

He didn't tell her now either. "You gave me
Huntress."

"Yes," she whispered. His head had moved closer to hers. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek.

"Even though you built the ship for someone else."

"Yes."

He waited again. He didn't know the answer to the question he wouldn't ask.

"I built it for a man I've never met," she said finally. "I built it for Falconer."

* * *

Rachael stared down at the sleeping man. She touched his forehead with the back of her maimed hand, and for a moment forgot why she had done it as she studied the contrast between their skins. His was warm and faintly damp. Hers was cool and dry. His was pale as milk; hers like coffee.

She backed away from the bed and bumped into the chair behind her. She sat down slowly. It wasn't entirely a surprise that this man was here. After all, he was acquainted with Captain Thorne. Yet his coming here seemed out of the ordinary. Rachael had never expected to see him again once she left Michele Moreau's brothel. But then, she reflected, she hadn't expected to see the captain either.

In fact, she had prayed she wouldn't.

The mantel clock behind her struck once. Her patient didn't stir. She was expected to remain with this man until she was relieved in four hours. By rights Amanda should have still been in attendance, but she'd begged this favor from Rachael just after the captain left. Rachael hadn't been able to refuse. Amanda had helped her out on many occasions. This was but a small repayment of kindness.

Or it had been until Rachael had seen clearly who she was attending. Now other decisions had to be made. There was little choice involved. Her direction had been set when she was first placed on the slaver
Salamander.

Rachael did not expect to be noticed leaving the house, and she wasn't. There were no other pedestrians on the street at this late hour. The air was brisk as she walked down the hill. It blew under her woolen cape and parted it so that she had to hold the material in a tight fist to keep it closed. She walked with her head down, in part to keep the icy air off her face, in part so that she might not be recognized.

There was some traffic as she turned the corner at the bottom of the street, and for a moment her shrouded figure was illuminated by a lamp. She did not see whether the drivers of the wagons and carriages took any notice of her. She didn't look at them.

When she started out she wasn't at all sure that she could find her destination unaided. It was not so often that she left the Remington house with Mrs. Davis or one of the other servants. Neither had she much experience with the Boston streets when she had been in service elsewhere. There was more surprise than satisfaction when she found herself at the proper doorstep.

Rachael didn't knock, but extracted a key from her apron pocket instead. She let herself in quietly. The foyer was dark, and there were no lights coming from under any of the doors in the hallway. Rachael drew some comfort from the servants being in their quarters. Her presence would be difficult to explain. They would want to know why the runaway had returned.

She drew a calming breath and waited for her eyes to adjust and her heartbeat to slow before mounting the staircase.

His suite began at the first door off the landing. Again, she didn't knock. Unless he had someone with him he wouldn't lock the door. She almost hoped he had found someone to take her place.

The handle turned. Tonight, at least, he had no one in his bed.

Sheridan sat up abruptly. "Who's there?" It was a rough demand, one he fully expected to be answered. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the door. He heard it click closed and could make out the darker shape against it, but not the intruder's identity.

"It's me," Rachael said quietly.

Grant threw off the covers. His nightshirt gave him a ghostly appearance as he crossed the room to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders. She had brought some of the cold night air in with her. He guided her to the fireplace and let her warm herself at the dying embers. Kneeling in front of the hearth he began to build a fire.

His thoughtfulness touched her. She had not expected this kindness. When the fire was blazing she took off her cape. Under one arm she held some papers. She handed them to him.

"What are these?" Grant asked, rising to his feet. He thumbed through them quickly once, then more slowly the second time. It was quite clear what they were. He didn't bother asking that question again. "Where did you get them?"