chapter twenty

Six weeks later the Clorimunda sailed into the Mississippi River port of New Orleans. Amanda stood at the rail of the quarterdeck, dressed in Timmy’s breeches and shirt, the color high in her cheeks and her unbound hair streaming behind her like a crimson banner. Her eyes sparkled like jewels as she looked from the crowded harbor scene to Zeke, who stood beside her at the rail, a grin splitting his thin face as he answered her many eager questions. It was Zeke who had told her about Belle Terre, Matt’s plantation on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, where they would go after spending a few days in New Orleans. It was Zeke who laughed at her excitement as her eyes darted everywhere in an effort to take in the colorful port as the Clorimunda eased in expertly at the dock between two other tall ships. Matt was at the wheel, directing the crew, but even if he hadn’t been needed there, Amanda would have preferred Zeke’s company. Zeke had come to seem like a brother to her over the past few weeks, and she felt at ease with him as she no longer did with Matt, who had become a cold, distant stranger.

He had not touched her since she had slapped his face that day on deck. In fact, he had barely spoken to her. She was allowed the sole occupancy of the captain’s cabin, and Matt bunked with Zeke in the first mate’s. Where the first mate now slept, Amanda had no idea and had never asked.

Zeke, who had witnessed the confrontation, tried to serve as peacemaker and had earned the lash of his brother’s tongue as a reward. Amanda, although grateful for Zeke’s concern, was equally unresponsive to his efforts. If Matt’s coldness hurt, she vowed he would never know. And she didn’t think he was capable of feeling a thing.

The Clorimunda’s sails were lowered and furled, and the small boats that had towed her in had released their lines when Matt finally gave the order to drop anchor and lower the gangplank.

“Can we go ashore now?” Amanda demanded excitedly of Zeke. He smiled down at her, his expression indulgent. He had grown as fond of Amanda as she had of him, and strongly disapproved of his brother’s treatment of her.

“I don’t see—” he began, only to be interrupted as Matt appeared beside them.

“Not today,” he said in answer to Amanda’s question, and as she turned a disappointed, sulky face to him he added, “Zeke and I have business to attend to today. Tomorrow we’ll take you ashore. You wouldn’t be safe alone, and I don’t trust any of the men enough to send them with you. You’d twist them around your little finger inside an hour.”

Amanda glowered at him. He was just being contrary, she knew. If he had thought she didn’t want to go ashore, he would have forced her to, if necessary. But now that he knew that such an excursion would give her pleasure, he had denied her out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Zeke asked his brother uneasily. Since he and Amanda had quarreled, Matt had grown moodier by the day. His once even-tempered, even jovial brother was now as likely as not to bite his head off at a wrong word. Indeed, the entire crew of the Clorimunda had felt the heat of his ill temper.

“No, it cannot,” Matt replied brusquely, and turned away. Zeke stared after him, frowning. Then he looked down at Amanda.

“Sorry,” he said with a grimace. “But I promise I’ll take you ashore myself tomorrow, no matter what. I don’t know what’s got into Matt, but he’s like a bear with a sore head. I’ll have a talk with him.”

“Please don’t,” Amanda said swiftly, and Zeke’s mouth twisted as he looked at her.

“You’re probably right.” He shrugged, looking after Matt as he disappeared down the stairs to the main deck. “I’ve tried four times now, and the last time he damned near throttled me. Why don’t you try, Amanda? Perhaps if you tried to make him see reason, he’d listen.”

“As he did the last time?” Amanda’s voice was bitter. “I’m not likely to try that again. Besides, I no longer care what he thinks. He’s stubborn and pig-headed, and I don’t give a snap of my fingers for his opinion of me.”

“Really,” Zeke said dryly. Amanda scowled at him, knowing very well that he had a shrewd idea of the state of her feelings toward Matt. Well, she’d be damned if she’d wear her heart on her sleeve. Matt clearly didn’t want to know, and she wasn’t about to tell him.

“Yes, really,” she said, defying him to say anything further. Zeke eyed her, clearly thinking about calling her bluff, and Amanda turned an impatient shoulder on him to stare out at the town.

“Oh, go with Matt, Zeke, before I quarrel with you, too. Then I really would be miserable.”

“Would you?” He smiled down at her. “So would I. But I think I’d better go anyway. Big brother definitely does not like to be kept waiting.”

Amanda hunched her shoulders as he left her, miserably aware of the excitement in the air. New Orleans appeared a thrilling place, and she wasn’t going to see it—at least not today and, considering Matt’s bloody-mindedness, perhaps never. Moodily she sniffed at the air, enjoying the tangy scent of citrus fruits and spices mingled with salt from the sea. How she wished she was on the dock to discover the source of the tantalizing aromas for herself. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the sun glinting off a familiar blue-black head, and turned to watch moodily as Matt and Zeke strode side by side down the gangplank and disappeared into the milling crowd on the wharf. She glowered at their retreating backs and felt a little better.

For a moment she toyed with the idea of going ashore herself, on her own. It shouldn’t be too hard to sneak away and she would not stay long. She would be back before Matt, and he need never know she had disobeyed him. But then she studied some of the men on the quay and thought better of it. Swarthy men with bright scarves around their necks and gold rings glinting in their ears pushed carts full of oranges and other, less readily identifiable fruits through the mob, calling out in a language unknown to her to advertise their wares; ragged children darted in and out among the sea of long legs; sailors, some alone, some in pairs or groups, and some with women on their arms who looked no better than they should be, overflowed the nearby saloons to swill whiskey on the dock itself. Though she hated to admit it, Matt had been right when he said it would be dangerous for her to go ashore alone. As much as she relished the idea of defying him, she was not foolish enough to put herself at risk to do it.

Some hours later, after Amanda had retired disconsolately to her cabin, she heard a commotion on deck. Matt had left a skeleton crew aboard, with orders to keep an eye on everything, including, Amanda suspected, herself. Before she could leave the cabin to question one of the men, she was surprised to hear a brisk rap on the door. Opening it, Amanda blinked in astonishment at the figure who stared imperiously at her.

It was a lady—a very elegant lady. From the top of her plumed bonnet to the fashionable walking dress to the soles of her high-heeled buttoned shoes, she was the epitome of fashion. For a moment Amanda stared without speaking, too bemused to do more than blink while she wondered what possible business this woman could have on the Clorimunda. Then it came to her that the lady had knocked on the door of Matt’s cabin, which meant that, more than likely, she was a friend of Matt’s. Amanda’s eyes narrowed and moved over the woman critically. Quite attractive, she thought, if one didn’t mind that the lady was a trifle long in the tooth—and Matt apparently didn’t.

“I’m sorry, but Captain Grayson is not here at the moment,” Amanda said coldly, and made as if to close the door.

“Pooh, what has that to say to anything?” The woman shook her head, clearly scornful of such stupidity. “You are Lady Amanda?” She looked at Amanda with some suspicion, as if a lady could not possibly be found in a man’s ill-fitting breeches and shirt, with her hair tousled and tumbling over her shoulders.

“Yes,” Amanda admitted, eyeing the woman curiously. Who on earth was she, and how did she know her name?

“Then it is you I wish to see,” the woman announced, and swept by Amanda with a haughty grace that would not have been out of place in a duchess. Surprised, Amanda turned to look at her, only to be even more astonished when two other, younger women, each dressed in a severe black gown and carrying a large valise, followed the first woman inside. She had been so bemused by her visitor’s finery that she hadn’t noticed her retinue.

Seeing nothing for it, Amanda turned to face her uninvited guests, cautiously leaving the door open. “How may I help you?”

“It is I who will help you,” her visitor sniffed, withdrawing a lethal-looking pin from her hat before removing the feathered concoction and placing it on the table. She eyed Amanda critically as she drew off her gloves. “I am Madame Duvalier, the most fashionable modiste in all of New Orleans. I was told that you need a complete wardrobe tout de suite.” She favored Amanda’s breeches with a disdainful glance. “And I can see that it is true. We will begin.”

Amanda gaped as the two young women in black descended on her and began removing her clothes, making scornful noises at her unconventional attire all the while.

“These are my assistants, Rose”—the pretty brown-haired girl, who was helping Amanda off with her breeches, smiled shyly up at her—“and Marie.” Marie had removed Amanda’s shirt and was now opening one of the valises. She was not so pretty as Rose, Amanda saw, but her coloring—black hair and eyes and vivid red lips—was more striking. Madame Duvalier herself was a redhead, but Amanda suspected that the brassy tint owed more to artifice than to nature.

“But who sent you?” Amanda’s voice was faint. She was standing in the center of the room, clad only in her much-laundered chemise, while Marie ran a tape measure around different parts of her anatomy, calling out the measurements in a businesslike tone to Rose, who jotted them down in a small notebook. Madame Duvalier herself had commandeered a chair and from it supervised the proceedings.

“Captain Grayson,” Madame replied patiently, as if she were addressing a slightly backward child. Amanda would have taken exception to her tone if she hadn’t been mulling over that most interesting bit of information. Matt . . . Matt had ordered a dressmaker for her? He must not be so indifferent to her as she had supposed. At least he was concerned about her creature comforts. Then the sudden animation faded from her features as she considered the alternate possibility that Zeke was responsible for the modiste’s presence. That seemed far more likely. Zeke would have known she needed clothes if she was to go ashore. Matt wouldn’t have given the matter a single thought. Still, she would ask.

“Which Captain Grayson?” she asked carefully. Marie was putting away the tape measure while Rose extracted a book of fashions from the valise and carried it to Madame Duvalier. Madame accepted it without so much as a word of thanks and began to leaf through it, alternately looking at Amanda critically as she did so.

“That will do. Number three, Rose, in figured white muslin, I think. Very jeune fille. And number seven, in blue silk—”

“Madame,” Amanda interrupted impatiently. Marie was pulling a garment over her head, so her words were briefly muffled.

“You do not know?” Madame looked surprised. “I would have thought only a very particular friend . . . But perhaps they both are that, as they are of mine. I have known both since they were boys. Matt is très beau, is he not? And Zeke is very attractive too, in his own way.”

“But which one sent you to me?” Amanda had to know.

“I do not know,” Madame answered, sending her hopes plummeting. “I received a note: ‘Lady Amanda on Clorimunda needs complete new wardrobe. Bill to Captain Grayson.’ Matt or Zeke, no matter. Either will pay.”

“I see.” Marie was pushing her this way and that as Rose pinned the garment. Looking down rather abstractedly, Amanda saw that it was a lovely dress of deep cream muslin, figured with tiny green flowers. The neckline, which bared her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, was edged with exquisite handmade lace in the same deep cream as the dress. The hem of the full, fashionably short skirt—it just covered her ankles—was edged with more lace. The narrow waist was bound with a wide green satin sash that tied in the back in a ravishing bow. Looking down at herself, Amanda could not suppress a little thrill of pleasure. Except for the yellow silk dress that Matt had torn to shreds, she had never owned a garment so beautiful. She would be less than human if she did not relish the idea of wearing it in Matt’s presence.

“A little tighter in the waist, Rose,” Madame instructed as she eyed Amanda, her head cocked to one side like that of an inquisitive bird. “And just a tiny bit shorter in the skirt. There—ravissante. Is it not fortunate, Lady Amanda, that the family of one of my best customers was visited by a tragic loss? She had ordered this dress for her daughter, but with the family in mourning for six months, of course she had to cancel the order. I understood perfectly. C’est la vie. Besides,” she added with a sudden smile and without her French accent, “she wouldn’t dream of letting anyone else supply her and her daughter’s mourning clothes. Her unpaid bill is too big.”

Amanda smiled back, suddenly liking the woman. When she reverted to her true self, she was much nicer than when she assumed the role of the formidable Madame Duvalier.

“This dress you will have tomorrow early,” Madame decreed, reverting to her original manner as Marie lifted the dress over Amanda’s head, careful not to disturb the pins. “And accessories, of course. The others—one or two the next day. The rest—a week.”

“Thank you for coming, Madame,” Amanda said as she stepped back into her breeches and shirt, which the women eyed with severe disfavor. Rose had packed everything in the valises and they were ready to leave.

“It is my pleasure,” Madame said formally. “For Matt or Zeke, which one it doesn’t matter, I am always available. You will have the dress tomorrow,” she repeated as she preceded her assistants out the door. Amanda stared bemusedly at the closed door for some little time after the trio had gone.

The prospect of new clothes relieved one of Amanda’s nagging worries. She had been wondering how she was to get about in New Orleans clad in ill-fitting male attire. In England it would have been considered scandalous for a lady to appear in such garments, and she doubted that the New World was much different. But without a skirt to her name, she had had no choice. It was thoughtful of Zeke—or Matt—to think of her difficulties and take steps to remedy them. Which brought her to another problem: it was less than respectable for either Matt or Zeke to pay for her clothes, but as she had no money, she didn’t suppose that there was anything she could do about it. Besides, so much of what had happened to her since she had met Matt had been unconventional, to say the least, that she must now be quite outside the social pale. Losing her virginity had been dreadful, but no one but herself and Matt need ever have known of that. But she had been missing for nearly two months now, and she was sure that most of the people who mattered to her must be aware that the Duke of Brookshire’s young half sister had disappeared. Even if no one had associated her disappearance with Matt—who, after all, was presumed dead—an unexplained absence of such length inevitably meant social ruin. And if it became known that she had spent the time with a company of men, one of whom had shared her bed . . . She shuddered; she would be lucky to find a convent that would take her in.

Amanda frowned. She was in a strange country, without friends or money, and with no place to go. She doubted that Matt would see her in want—indeed, he seemed to take it for granted that she would make her home with him and Zeke—but she could not allow him to support her for the rest of her life. The knowledge that she was now indebted to him for every morsel of bread flayed her pride. What would it be like in the future, when he had another woman and she was merely an object of charity living in his home? Unbearable, she thought with a grimace. True, he was solely responsible for her presence—he had stolen her away from her school; she certainly hadn’t begged him to take her with him—but that didn’t alter by so much as a hair the situation in which she now found herself.

Painful as it was, it was time to face facts: socially she was ruined as thoroughly as ever Susan had been. No gentleman would marry her now. As she saw it, she was left with three choices: she could continue to live with Matt, labeling herself his mistress in the eyes of everyone and thereby cutting herself off forever from the respectable society of the wives and daughters of gentlemen; she could leave Matt’s protection (if he would let her go, which was unlikely) and make a life for herself independent of him, which would undoubtedly include genteel starvation; or she could return to England, and eventually to Edward, whose family pride would at least ensure that she did not starve to death—if he did not plan a worse fate for her.

She was happier now than she had been since before her father died, she acknowledged. For the first time in years she felt alive, free; every day was an adventure. Matt’s coldness was the only cloud in her newly blue sky. But with a sudden flash of insight, Amanda knew that she would rather be with Matt, coldly angry or not, than without him. He had become the focal point of her life—and that was something she hated to admit to herself. Damn the man, Amanda thought despairingly, and damn me, too, for being foolish enough to fall in love with him. But at least it solved her dilemma: feeling about him as she did, she could not bring herself to leave him. It would be easier to live without her pride than without her heart.

It was long after dark when Matt and Zeke returned. Amanda was curled up on the bunk with a book when she heard Zeke’s laughing voice and Matt’s muted reply. They undoubtedly intended to go to their cabin without disturbing her, but Amanda was determined to resolve the matter of the clothes as soon as possible. She would be unable to sleep a wink if she did not.

She flew out on deck, a small, slender figure, with streaming red hair and clad in too-big men’s clothes. The still-crowded dock was lit by flaming torches, which cast flickering shadows over the Clorimunda’s deck; the ship herself was lit by a few strategically placed lanterns. The two sailors who were assigned to remain topside as officers of the watch were nowhere in sight. Presumably they were at either end of the ship to sound a warning if someone unauthorized tried to board her. Matt and Zeke were just coming aboard, with Zeke in the lead and Matt a pace behind. As they stepped into a golden pool of light Amanda noticed that they both looked oddly disheveled, Zeke more so than Matt. His brown hair was wildly tousled and his shirt collar was standing rakishly on end. Matt’s black curls were untidy, too, but his clothes seemed to be in order. What struck Amanda was the dangerous glitter of his eyes.

Zeke saw her first. She had stopped, eyeing them suspiciously. The thought came to her that they had been drinking. Then Zeke spoke, and the faint slurring of his words told her all she needed to know.

“Good evening, Amanda,” he cried, bowing so low that he would have fallen flat on his face if Matt had not caught hold of his coattails. Zeke straightened, with the assistance of Matt’s balancing hand, and looked at Amanda, frowning. “What, no new clothes? Didn’t that pox of a woman come after all?”

Her question had been answered for her without her having to ask. Amanda swallowed an aching surge of disappointment that it hadn’t been Matt, then summoned a smile for Zeke.

“Thank you, Zeke. As soon as Madame Duvalier told me why she had come, I knew that you were the only one thoughtful enough to have sent her. It was very nice of you.” If those words had been selected with an eye to pricking Matt, Amanda wasn’t admitting it. She didn’t look at him as he stood a half pace behind Zeke, holding his brother unobtrusively upright. But she sensed his gleaming eyes boring into her.

“It was nice of me, wasn’t it?” Zeke nodded, looking owlish and pleased with himself. Then he held out his arms to Amanda, grinning wickedly at her. “Won’t you thank me properly?”

Ordinarily Amanda would have laughed at such a suggestion from Zeke. She knew it was made tongue-in-cheek, probably with a little-boyish desire to annoy his brother and shock her girlish sensibilities at one and the same time. But she, too, was conscious of Matt standing just behind Zeke’s shoulder, watching her, his mouth and eyes sardonic. With a little toss of her head and nary a glance at Matt, she moved into Zeke’s arms.

They closed about her enthusiastically, and if he looked surprised, it was just for a moment. Then he was bending his head and kissing her heartily. Amanda hoped that Matt, standing behind him, couldn’t tell it was more the kind of kiss a brother might bestow on a beloved sister than a kiss between lovers. When Zeke let her go, stepping back from her with a lopsided grin, Amanda smiled at him, deliberately infusing as much warmth into that smile as she could.

“That was . . . very nice, Amanda,” Zeke said, sounding faintly regretful. Amanda’s brows began to knit at something in his tone. “But if that was a thank-you, you thanked the wrong man. It was big brother who sent Madame Duvalier to you.”

Amanda’s eyes widened and moved from Zeke’s grinning face to Matt’s dark countenance. He looked grim as he returned her stare, his eyes gleaming with mockery and something else she was afraid to try to define.

“Aren’t you going to thank me with a kiss, too, Amanda?” His voice was very soft as he stepped out from behind Zeke and looked down at her. Dressed in a dark blue superfine coat, black breeches, and a white shirt and carelessly tied cravat, he looked very big and more than a little menacing. The silvery eyes glittered at her, and the lamplight painted a gilded nimbus around the halo of thick black curls. He had not shaved since early morning, and a faint black shadow roughened the lean lines of his jaw and chin. All in all, he looked so handsome that he nearly took Amanda’s breath away—and he was holding out his arms to her as Zeke had done. Amanda could hardly think as she walked into them.

They closed about her so tightly that she feared he must crack her ribs. Then his mouth came down on hers, tasting faintly of whiskey, and she couldn’t think at all. He kissed her harshly, hungrily, as if he were starved for the taste of her mouth. He bent her back over his arm, his lips and tongue demanding and getting her total surrender. She clung to him helplessly, then, of her own volition, her arms were twining about his neck, drawing the black head closer, her nails embedding themselves in his nape. A sweet, wild trembling started somewhere deep in her belly and moved out along her limbs. She knew he had to feel it, holding her as closely as he was, just as she was totally conscious of every muscle and sinew of the hard male body enfolding hers—and of the growing arousal that he made no attempt to hide. Amanda forgot everything, their position on the open deck, where they were clearly visible to anyone who happened to glance their way, Zeke’s interested gaze, even the differences between herself and Matt. All she was aware of was that this was her man, and she was in his arms again at last. Her only wish was that he never let her go.

He did, of course. His arms dropped away from her without warning. Amanda, lost in a kiss-induced dreamworld, tried to cling to him. He detached her arms from about his neck with brutal efficiency, holding them tightly for a moment as he stared down at her with a restless glitter in eyes that had become the color of smoke. Then, without a word, he released her, swinging on his heel and striding back the way he had come and off the ship. Amanda was left staring helplessly after him, tears filling her eyes. She felt as if she had just been kicked in the stomach.