Jo Goodman (6 page)

Decker thought about the woman in the painting. Charlotte Reid would have wanted her child close. He started to open the door to the room next to his, then stopped. Jonna would have struck out independently sometime on her way to adulthood. Decker was sure of that. He closed the door carefully and padded on bare feet to the west wing.

He really hadn't expected to make it to her room without discovery, and he had no hope that he would find her alone. Yet no one stopped him in the hall, and when he found her bedchamber she was quite without company.

Decker shut the door behind him and approached the bed. Laid out in the middle, the covers neatly folded back across her breasts, she was wearing a plain, long-sleeved cotton shift that was buttoned to just below her throat.

Her arms had been positioned outside the blankets, the pose serene but not entirely natural. Her long fingers were pale, the nail beds faintly blue in color. Someone had taken time with her hair. It had been dried and braided, and the long plait had been drawn over her right shoulder. The oil lamp at her bedside lent her hair a blue-black sheen. The contrast with the porcelain texture of her skin had never been more profound.

There was a rocker beside the fireplace. The flames had not been attended to recently. Decker added two logs, then ignored the heat he had afforded himself by moving the rocker closer to the bed and sitting there. He stared at her until his vision blurred and his eyelids grew heavy.

He could make his peace with Jonna Remington, but how would he ever tell Colin?

* * *

Jonna bolted upright in bed the moment she realized she was not alone.

Startled out of his sleep by Jonna's rise from the dead, Decker gave a surprised shout.

Panicked now, Jonna yelped.

That brought Decker leaping out of the rocker to his feet. He stared at her.

Jonna blinked owlishly and stared back. Decker Thorne was looking considerably wild-eyed and not at all amused. To Jonna's way of thinking it was rather funny. The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of her wide mouth. "You look as if you've seen a ghost," she said. "Or what I expect I might look like if I ever saw one."

Decker's hand was reaching out before he thought better of it. He placed the backs of three fingers against Jonna's forehead. When she flinched, his hand dropped to the curve of her neck. His thumb found her racing pulse just to one side of the hollow of her throat. Her skin was not nearly so cool as it looked, and her heartbeat, though racing, was strong.

He stepped back from the bed as she moved to push his hand away. "You're alive," he said.

She touched her throat. Had he been set to throttle her? "Well, yes," she said slowly, confused. "Of course I'm alive. That was the point in jumping in after me, wasn't it?"

There was no sarcasm in her tone that Decker could discern. She was asking the question quite honestly, with her usual directness. Decker shook his head, not believing it himself. He raked one hand through his hair in an absent gesture. The dark, coffee-colored strands fell back in precisely the same position as before his fingers combed them. "Yes," he told her, "that's why I went in. But I..." He shook his head again.

"Do you mean you came in here thinking I was dead?" she asked. That was an astonishing thought.

"I wasn't sure. Mrs. Davis wasn't completely clear about the matter when I asked. So I thought I'd find out for myself. When I saw you... well, you looked..." His brows furrowed. "Do you always sleep on your back with your hands at your sides?"

Jonna blinked again. Her thick lashes slowly lowered and then rose over her violet eyes. It seemed a terribly personal question. "I don't suppose I can say how I sleep, can I?" she said.
"I'm
the one sleeping." She stuffed a pillow behind the small of her back. The pressure there brought back an unwelcome memory.

"What's wrong?" Decker knew he should go. Clearly she was uncomfortable with him in her room, and he hadn't meant to compromise her, but something in her expression prompted him to ask the question.

"It's nothing." She was not a skillful liar, and Decker's skeptically raised brow told her she was not good at it now. Jonna tried again. "My shoulder," she said. "I hit the pilings. Dr. Hardy says I'm fortunate not to have dislocated it or broken my collarbone." That was true enough, but not the real answer to Decker's question. Two hands pressing at the small of her back, shoving hard, that's what had been wrong.

Decker could see that she was favoring her left side as she eased back against the headboard. The current had pounded him against the pilings too, so it was a reasonable response. It was only the fact that she couldn't quite meet his eyes that gave him pause. He was used to Jonna's directness, but as her employee he was in no position to challenge her. He stood and turned to go.

"That was my father's dressing gown," she said.

He looked back at her. "I thought as much. Your housekeeper put me in your parents' room."

Jonna nodded. "She must have thought you would be comfortable there."

"I think it was because your father's clothes were easily available." He indicated what he was wearing. "My own things were spirited away."

She smiled faintly. "All will be returned to you, Captain Thorne."

His head came up, and Decker's clear blue eyes narrowed on Jonna's face.

"I know what I just said," she told him. "It was no slip that you heard. Mr. Quincy informed me he placed you at the helm of
Huntress
and that you're responsible for the record run."

"I didn't do it alone," Decker said.

She waved aside his modesty. The simple gesture with her left hand caused her to wince. Pain radiated from her shoulder to her wrist, but she continued speaking as if it were of no account. In truth, she acknowledged that it could have been worse. If not for Decker Thorne she could have been lying in this bed feeling nothing at all. "You know you were not my choice to master
Huntress,"
she told him. "In spite of Mr. Quincy's recommendation I thought you were too inexperienced to take the helm for this run. I will always believe it was probably more luck than skill that brought you in ahead of schedule." She saw one corner of Decker's mouth turn up. Most men would have been sputtering a defense when she presented this opinion. Decker Thorne appeared more amused than offended. She quelled her own irritation with his response. "Still, I don't dismiss luck. It's a force like wind and fire and water, and some people know how to make it work for them. I think you're one of those people, Captain Thorne. Perhaps, if I'm completely honest with myself, I can even admit to being a little envious of you for it. So you see, however it was accomplished, I believe you've earned the right to be called captain." And to be certain there was no misunderstanding, she added, "It has nothing to do with your heroics on the wharf. But for that action today, I thank you."

Fascinated, Decker nodded slowly. Was there another woman like her anywhere else on the globe? She was totally without guile and possessed remarkably little tact, yet he found her approach as refreshing as a cool spring rain. In one breath she told him he wasn't skilled enough to handle her ships and in the next, gave him his due for being able to command good fortune. And to be sure he knew it wasn't his rescue that she was rewarding, she made a point of thanking him.

Jonna swiped at the tip of her nose with her index finger. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked when he continued to stare.

Decker blinked and came out of his reverie. Did she know she had a dimple at the corner of her mouth when she pressed her lips together? Probably not, and he wasn't going to be the one to tell her. "It's nothing, Miss Remington," he said. "I'm glad you're well."

He turned on his heel and left.

* * *

Grant Sheridan took the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Davis's protests were ignored, and she could not summon help quickly enough to keep him from mounting the steps. She heard doors open and close in the west wing as he tried to locate Jonna's room.

Jack Quincy limped out of the library on one crutch, a tumbler of brandy in his free hand. "What is it, Mrs. Davis? What's the racket?"

The housekeeper's hands twisted in her apron. "It's Mr. Sheridan. He heard about the commotion at the harbor this morning, and he's come to make certain Miss Remington's all right."

Jack grunted as he glanced down the hallway at the staircase. "I'd like to know what's kept him. If I was planning on marrying Jonna I damn well would have been here before now." A glance over his shoulder at the library's mantel clock assured him it was every bit as late as he thought it was. "It's been almost twelve hours since she fell in the harbor. Where's the pup been all this time?"

That was not Mrs. Davis's concern now, though she had wondered it privately some hours earlier. "But Dr. Hardy said Miss Remington was to rest. She's not past chills and fever yet, he said. And her shoulder's horribly bruised. She requires quiet, not visitors."

Jack knocked back a third of his drink. "Do you want me to go up there and drag him down?" he asked only half in jest.

Mrs. Davis eyed his splint as if she was seriously considering it. Finally she said, "No, you're supposed to be in a chair with your leg up. That's what the doctor advised."

"I
was
in a chair with my leg up," he told her. "That is, until I heard you caterwauling out here." Before she could object to his description, he held up his arm so he could fit it around her shoulders. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to help me back, we'll give Mr. Sheridan a few minutes with his fiancée before we mount a rescue."

The housekeeper let Jack's arm settle around her before she looked up at him. She was biting the inside of her cheek, her expression still worried. "There's been no official announcement, so I don't think he's properly Miss Remington's fiancé."

Jack nodded sagely. "Then we'll give him a little less time, Mrs. Davis. Just to satisfy your notions of what's proper."

* * *

Jonna was sleeping soundly when Grant walked into her room. He went immediately to the bed and sat on the edge. His weight depressed the mattress and moved Jonna closer to him. He touched her cheek with his fingertips, stroking softly. As tired as he knew her to be, he couldn't stop himself from waking her.

"Jonna," he said softly. Bending low, he kissed her cheek. Her skin was warm, flushed with sleep. "Jonna, dear. It's Grant." She moved a fraction, adjusting the hand that lay palm down near her face. Beyond that she didn't stir. He tried one more time, this time placing his hand on her shoulder and shaking her gently.

Jonna came awake, gasping for breath. Stinging darts of pain brought tears to her eyes. She caught enough air to finally cry out. The effect on Grant was the opposite of what she could have wished for. He gathered her in his arms and hugged her. The words were soothing, but the action was not. She screamed this time, and then her screams became sobs. She struggled against him, wrenching her shoulder until the pain threatened to make her pass out.

"For God's sake, man, let her go!"

Grant turned sharply on the bed. He recognized Decker Thorne, but the man's presence in Jonna's home was more confusing than helpful. "Get out!" Grant snapped. "And fetch the doctor. There's something wrong with her."

Disgusted, Decker crossed the room and wrested Grant away from Jonna. That was not accomplished easily. Sheridan was as tall as Decker but thirty pounds heavier, and not one of those pounds was soft. Pulling him up from his sitting position on the bed took the last vestige of Decker's strength.

"Miss Remington?" He turned to Jonna as he pushed Grant away. "Are you all—"

He saw it in her eyes. He knew the blow was coming a full second before it connected. With his strength sapped and his reaction time stretched, Decker couldn't duck the roundhouse punch. Grant Sheridan came from behind, and his fist slammed into Decker's temple. The force of the blow knocked Decker sideways against the rocker. He was out cold before he hit the floor.

He didn't hear Jonna Remington call his name.

Chapter 2

"I don't think you're listening to me," Grant said.

Jonna heard the discreetly tempered anger in Grant's tone and finally put her pen down. She looked up from the ledger she was reviewing to regard him with the full attention he thought he deserved. He was standing on the opposite side of her wide desk, his arms braced stiffly on the edge while he leaned forward. It was a posture she knew he used to intimidate shippers and clerks and business associates. He had never done it professionally with her, and she had to remind herself that he still hadn't. This was personal.