Natchez Flame (5 page)

Just two more days to Corpus Christi—or was it three? She felt so dizzy it was sometimes hard to remember. Surely the seas would soon calm and she’d be able to get back on her feet. She’d scrub the offensive odors from the cabin before anyone discovered her secret. No one ever need know how terribly sick she had been.

Least of all the tall, handsome man who acted as her escort. The thought of Brendan Trask seeing her
limp and disheveled caused another round of lightheadedness. She would do anything to keep that from happening—anything.

Priscilla refused to ask herself why Brendan Trask’s approval had become so important.

“Excuse me, sir,” the little steward said. “Aren’t you Trask, the man who’s traveling with the lady downstairs?”

“I’m Trask.” Brendan rested on a deck box, his feet propped up, watching the rising moon against the backdrop of the sea. “Why?”

“I’m worried about her, sir.” Black-haired and sporting a tiny mustache, the steward stood facing him, a cloth-covered tray in his hands. “Every time I take her a tray, she says she’ll get something to eat in the salon. She never lets me in—won’t even open her door.”

“So she’s eating in the salon,” Brendan said absently, but he felt a little guilty for abandoning her so completely.

“Nobody’s seen her down there. Cook hasn’t made anything special—I think she’s … well, just saying that, sir, to keep me away. I don’t think she’s had a bite of food for the last three days.”

“What?” Brendan swung his long booted legs to the deck and stood up. “Surely you’re mistaken.” But she’d said those same words to him each day, just as she had the steward.

“Sea’s been pretty rough, sir. If the lady wasn’t used to it—”

“Goddamn it!” Instinctively, Brendan knew the steward’s guess was right. Prim and proper Priscilla
Mae Wills wouldn’t want anyone seeing her seasick. He brushed past the little man and strode toward the ladder that led to the passengers’ quarters below decks, the steward hurrying behind.

When he reached her cabin door, he pounded on it hard. “It’s Trask, Miss Wills, I want to talk to you.”

“I … I’m not dressed,” she replied. “I … I’ll talk to you later.”

“You’ll talk to me now. Open the door.”

“I told you, I’m not dressed. It wouldn’t be seemly—”

“Open this goddamned door, Priscilla. Open it, or I swear I’ll break it down!”

Even through the planking, he could hear her gasp of horror. “Give me a little time. I … I’ll come upstairs—I promise.”

“You’ve got three minutes, Miss Wills. Then I’m coming in.”

“No!” she shrieked, raising up on her berth then fighting the dizzying swirls in front of her eyes. “You can’t come in here. This is my room. I absolutely forbid it!”

Brendan cursed roundly. “Time’s up, Miss Wills.” Wedging one broad shoulder against the wooden planks, he slammed hard against the door. With the second hard effort, the lock gave way and the door burst open to crash against the wall. Brendan forced himself not to recoil at the smell of sickness that permeated the tiny airless cabin.

In the flickering light of a small whale-oil lantern, Priscilla lay on her berth, her brown eyes huge and sunken, her skin so pale it looked translucent. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, dark against
her thin white cotton nightgown. He noticed the rise and fall of her breasts where they peaked beneath the gown, much fuller than he had imagined.

“I don’t want anyone to see me,” she said dully. “Please, go away.”

Brendan looked at her sallow complexion, saw the trembling in her hands, and anger seared through his veins.

“Forget it, lady. You’re my responsibility—as you so cleverly pointed out. You’re wasting away to nothing and I won’t have it. Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

He lifted her into his arms as gently as he could, considering the temper he found himself in. Why hadn’t he watched her more closely? He knew when he’d agreed to this job, it wouldn’t be easy. The lady was as helpless as a newborn babe. How the hell would a woman like this survive on the Texas frontier?

“M-my clothes …,” she said, glancing down at her thin cotton nightgown. “I’m not properly dressed. Th-this is indecent.”

“I don’t give a damn about decency.”

“That,”
she said, in a show of spirit he welcomed, “goes without saying.”

Brendan muttered an oath and kept on walking. As he strode the narrow passage, the little steward approached.

“I’ll take care of the cabin, Mr. Trask. You just take care of the lady.”

Brendan nodded. “Before you start working in there, bring me a cup of beef broth and some soda crackers.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Trask.” He scurried past them both and headed up the ladder.

Priscilla sniffled, trying to fight back tears. “I can’t go up there—please don’t make me. I’m only wearing my nightgown. What will people think?”

Brendan’s hold tightened. “It’s late and it’s dark—and I don’t give a tinker’s damn what people think. I promised to take you to the Triple R. I mean to get you there in one piece. I’m not about to let your modesty get in the way of your health. Christ, lady. How could you do this to yourself?”

Priscilla steadied herself against his shoulder. “I thought I’d start feeling better.”

Brendan crossed the deck and seated himself on the deck box, cradling Priscilla on his lap. The breeze blew strands of her thick dark hair against his cheek and plastered her damp nightgown to the curves of her body.

“You’re too thin,” he said gruffly, guilt and worry combining to prod his temper. “You were slender before; now you’re downright skinny.”

Priscilla flushed crimson. In the silvery glow of the moon, he could see the rosy hue that tinged her cheeks. The points of her breasts pushed into his chest and her bottom felt warm and feminine where it pressed against his thighs.
Skinny? Like hell
, he thought. She’d lost a little weight, all right, but she sure wasn’t skinny.

The steward arrived with the soda crackers and broth, and Brendan held the mug to her lips. “Just a little at first. If you keep this down, you can have some more a little later.”

Seeing no one on deck, just as he had said, Priscilia
relaxed a little and began to nibble a cracker. “I can’t remember when anything tasted this good.”

Brendan smiled at that. “The seas are beginning to calm. A little fresh air, and you’ll be fine.”

Priscilla looked down at herself, saw the matted strands of hair on her shoulder and her perspiration-soaked nightgown. She wanted to crawl in a hole. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance of my getting a bath,” she said softly.

Brendan’s hand touched her cheek. “Captain Donohue is a very creative man. He’s figured out how to heat water with the steam engines. After this much rain, the stores will be full. I imagine I could manage to get the only woman on board this tub a nice hot bath.” He smiled. “Especially if it makes her feel well enough to join him for a little conversation.”

Priscilla leaned into his shoulder and looked up at him. “I wasn’t wrong to trust you, Brendan Trask,” she said, meeting a pair of worried blue eyes, “but I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done to my modesty.”

Brendan looked down at the scant covering her nightgown provided and wondered what she’d say if she knew he’d already imagined her naked.

Priscilla shoved the last pin into her dark brown hair, fastening the heavy coils behind each ear, and tried to see her reflection in the tiny metal mirror above the chipped porcelain water pitcher on the bureau. A single chair, a scarred wooden table, the bureau, and her berth were the only pieces of furniture in the little inside cabin.

Before her return from the deck two nights ago, the steward had scrubbed the cabin spotless, and, as Brendan had promised, Captain Donohue had provided a steaming copper tub filled with heated rainwater in which she was able to bathe.

The captain had sent lengthy apologies for her uncomfortable quarters, the only thing available to passengers on the small merchant steamer, and the first mate had offered her his, which Priscilla immediately declined. She wanted no special treatment, she just wanted to feel good again—which at last she did—and she wanted to reach Corpus Christi—which they would in the morning.

It had taken her two full days to recover her health, but her appetite had returned with a vengence, and the weight she had lost reappeared on her slender frame. Trask had been solicitous, bringing her food, walking with her on deck. They hadn’t really talked much, Priscilla hadn’t felt much like talking.

Not until tonight.

Glancing once more in the mirror, she reached behind an ear and screwed in a small pearl earbob, an inheritance from a mother she couldn’t remember. It being her last night at sea—praise the Lord—the captain had announced a dinner party of sorts. Priscilla had bathed again, the one great luxury the captain could provide, and dressed in one of the gowns she had sewn for her trousseau.

She wished she could see how she looked in it, but the lantern was too dim, and the mirror no more than a shiny piece of metal. The gown she had chosen was one of several she had made after her aunt died. Ella Simpkins, one of Aunt Maddie’s few friends, had given her the fabric as a wedding present, a lovely pink crepe more beautiful than anything she had owned before.

In a moment of daring, Priscilla had fashioned the gown in the latest vogue, the waist cut in a deep vee to accent her slender torso, the bodice sweeping lower than any she had ever owned. The dress was still conservative, by society’s standards, barely displaying the tops of her breasts, but Priscilla felt perfectly wicked. She couldn’t wait to see Trask’s handsome face when he saw her—skinny, indeed!

Priscilla’s light mood faded. Why should she care what Brendan Trask thought of her? She was betrothed to a very fine man. Soon to become his bride. She would have everything she’d ever dreamed of. The last thing she needed was the approval of a worthless gunman, a tumbleweed of a man without a home of his own or any thought of the future.

Stuart Egan would look after her, take care of her
needs, and she would be sensitive to his. They would have children, raise them together, grow old together.

One day they might even find love.

Brendan knocked on the cabin door and heard the light patter of footsteps. “It’s Trask,” he said, though the lady was expecting him.

“I’m almost ready.” He heard the rustle of her skirts a few moments later, then the door swung open and Priscilla stepped into the corridor.

Brendan stopped breathing. Even in the dim yellow light of the passage, he could see she looked lovely.
Pretty
, he had thought,
not beautiful, but attractive.
God, he must have been blind! Then again, it wasn’t really his fault—not after the effort she had made to disguise it.

“Pink is definitely your color, Miss Wills,” he said when he finally found his voice. “Stuart Egan is a very lucky man.”

Priscilla smiled softly. “Thank you.”

Taking in the simple but expertly fashioned gown, the tempting yet modest display of bosom, Brendan felt his body stir. Damn! Every time he thought of the woman lately, his blood began to boil. What the hell was the matter with him? He wasn’t some randy youth. Nor a man who let his mind be ruled by his loins.

Forcing his thoughts in a safer direction, Brendan offered his arm and Priscilla accepted it, assessing his appearance without the censure he’d half expected. Maybe her eyes even held a hint of approval.

“Black breeches and a clean white shirt aren’t exactly
evening clothes,” he apologized, “but these days it’s the best I can do.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your clothes, Mr. Trask.”
And nothing wrong with the way you look in them.
Broad shoulders and narrow hips encased in the masculine garments he wore with an easy grace any man would envy. He stood so tall he had to duck to keep from bumping his head on the beams above them.

“Why don’t you call me Brendan?” he said with a lazy smile. “Surely we know each other well enough.” There was something in his expression that said he was remembering her near-naked state on the deck, and Priscilla fought to keep from blushing.

“That would hardly be proper,
Mr. Trask”
she said pointedly, but her mind repeated his first name over and over, and it was all she could do to keep it off her tongue.

Trask’s smile faded. “Whatever you say.” As he helped her climb the ladder, one long-fingered hand at her waist, Priscilla’s pulse began an unsteady rhythm. Surely it’s just anticipation of the evening ahead, she told herself, and worked to calm the trembling in her limbs.

Brendan led her across the deck and opened the door to the main salon to find all five male passengers and Captain Donohue awaiting them. One look at their suddenly flushed faces gaping at Priscilla with awe told him they weren’t disappointed.

“So glad you’re feeling better, Miss Wills,” the captain said, stepping forward to greet them. He accepted her smile along with her white-gloved hand.
“May I present Nehemiah Saxon. Arnold Sharp, Walter Goetting, Badger Wallace, and Thomas Camden.”