A Candle in the Dark (6 page)

Glancing ahead, he looked for the numbers on the berths, watching for theirs. It was the bottom tier, on the end, ten rows back. He counted silently, trying to ignore the pounding of his head and jaw, trying to concentrate despite the sickness clamoring in his belly and the growing need for drink. Eight, nine, te—

He stopped so suddenly, she stumbled.

“What is it?” she asked. “What?” She gasped in surprise.

Their berth partner stood there, staring at them in shocked dismay.

It was the Panamanian.

“—He is like a dog with two masters.” Jiméne Castañeras laughed, slurping a spoonful of thin mush and swallowing the lukewarm cereal rapidly. “One screams for water while the other wants tea, and he must answer them both.”

Ana smiled, tearing off a hunk of the hard, gritty bread they’d been given for breakfast. Jiméne was working hard, trying to amuse her while the stormy gray skies and tossing seas kept them belowdecks, presumably trying to make up for his earlier bad behavior. It was unnecessary; she didn’t have the heart to condemn him for seeing through her disguise, and in spite of D’Alessandro’s obvious distaste for their berth partner, Ana found she liked the quicksilver Panamanian. He was like so many of the men she’d known—anxious to please, entertaining.

“Damn Mormons,” Jeb Wilson said from his seat beside her. He spat on the floor and hunkered down further into his coffee. “Can’t see why they need to have more ‘an one wife, anyway.”

Jiméne’s dark eyes sparkled, he pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped delicately at his mustache. “A man can grow tired of only one,
amigo
.”

Before anyone could answer, the ship pitched. Men grabbed their bowls, and Ana braced her elbows on the table, trying to keep herself from sliding off the bench as the sidewheel tossed and thrashed, trying to gain purchase.

Nausea rose in her throat. She closed her eyes and fought it back with sheer force of will, ignoring the stumbling of men to their bunks, the white-faced vomiting of others who had already lost control.

Jeb Wilson steadied his cup of coffee, watching the activity around him impassively. “Feels like a big sea’s on.”

“There is no worse time than winter for sea travel,” Jiméne offered, leaning close to his bowl and shoveling the last few spoonfuls of mush into his mouth. “It is an unfortunate time to go looking for gold.”

Ana frowned. “That’s not what the papers say. I heard it’s a paradise in California—nothing like New York in the winter.”

“That is true enough.” Jiméne nodded. “But to get there is not so easy. You are a delicate flower,
cariña
. Do not tell me you would come this far if not for
su esposo’s
wish for riches.”

” ‘
Su esposo’
?”

Jiméne waved impatiently. “Your husband,
amiga
. That… That—” He paused, as if searching for a word horrible enough to describe D’Alessandro. “He is a selfish man, forcing you to come with him.”

“It’s not—” The ship plunged, Ana’s stomach lurched, and she inhaled deeply, waiting for it to steady.

“Where is D’Alessandro?” Jeb asked curiously. “Ain’t seen him about for a while.”

Ana pursed her lips, looking away so neither of her breakfast companions saw her disapproval. She knew exactly where her partner was. On the other side of steerage, buried in cards and spending her money, just as he’d been since their second day out.

She thought back to the first day, when he’d spent every moment hovering about her, growling at anyone who came close. For an hour or so, she’d appreciated it. It was true that discovering their tickets were for steerage had surprised her—more than surprised her. But her worries about spending eight days as the only woman in a group of men were quickly allayed. Her deception worked. After their initial shock, most of the men treated her with the respect due a married woman. She grudgingly admitted D’Alessandro had done his best to initiate that respect.

That alone was worth the price of his ticket, she reasoned, though once it became clear she could handle things on her own, D’Alessandro’s protection was annoying. She had no intention of spending eight days cooped up with only a dissolute doctor for company, and when Jiméne had tried to start a tentative friendship, she had welcomed it.

Once Jiméne began to talk, D’Alessandro had retreated.

She glanced toward her partner. One or two of his group had been lost to the ravages of seasickness, but D’Alessandro wasn’t among them. He was probably used to the sight of the world spinning before his eyes, she thought wryly, noticing the glass in his hand. He probably hadn’t even noticed the pitching of the ship.

Though he didn’t seem drunk now—and hadn’t seemed that way since they’d boarded the ship, in spite of the fact that he drank as much as the others. The thought made her frown. For a moment, she wished she hadn’t brought him along. She’d had a bad feeling about him from the beginning. There was something in his eyes, something that made her vaguely uneasy. She liked it better when he was across the room, too far away for her to see his measuring gaze—the gaze that made her wonder what he was seeing when he looked at her.

Probably nothing, she told herself. Probably it was just her imagination. But then she remembered how he had looked standing on the steps leading to his hotel room. She’d had the same feeling then, as if there were secrets behind his eyes.

Ana tore her gaze away, staring at the gray bread in her hands.

It was too bad she hadn’t met someone like Jiméne first. He would have made a good partner. He was honorable, dependable. Ana turned her gaze to the wiry Panamanian. “You don’t seek gold, then, Jiméne?”

Jiméne took a huge sip of coffee and swallowed, shaking his head. She thought she saw a flash of sadness in his eyes. “I am no miner,” he said. “I am only anxious to see
mi familia
again. I have no interest in California.”

“Why not?” Jeb asked. “You’re single. Seems to me a young man with no ties could make a fortune there.”

“Perhaps.” Jiméne shrugged. “I will leave the gambling to you and the others, Wilson. It is no place for me.” He glanced at Ana. “It is no place for a woman of your beauty, either,
cariña
. You belong in Panama, in the moonlight.”

Ana ignored his ready, familiar compliments. “Do you think it’s true, what they say, Mr. Wilson? That California will soon be full of millionaires?”

Jeb stroked his gray-bearded chin. “I’m betting on it, Mrs. D’Alessandro. Isn’t that why you’re going? Or does your husband have other ideas?”

“Ideas about what, Wilson?” It was D’Alessandro’s voice behind her. Ana didn’t bother to turn around.

“We’re just talking about California, D’Alessandro,” Jeb said easily. “About getting rich.”

“Ah yes,” D’Alessandro said. “Getting rich. I’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” Jiméne twisted around, his eyes full of challenge. “It is not even that important to you, yet you would force your beautiful wife to go?”

Ana tensed. “Jiméne—”

“I’m not forcing her to do anything,” D’Alessandro said. “She wants to go. Just ask her.”

“She would only defend you. It is not—”

“Jiméne.” Ana glared at him. “Please.” She turned to look over her shoulder, but D’Alessandro wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was pinned on Jiméne, his mouth tight.

“What’s the problem, Castañeras?” he asked slowly, his fingers clenching the cigar he held.

“I do not like her alone,” Jiméne said stiffly. “
Someone
should care for her.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“But you are not always here,
señor
.” Jiméne’s voice held more than a trace of scorn.

“Excuse me, please.” Jeb got to his feet, pushing past D’Alessandro. “I think I see a friend of mine.”

Both Jiméne and D’Alessandro ignored him. In fact, if anything, Jeb’s absence seemed to give Jiméne strength.

“If I were her ‘husband,’” he pressed on, “I would—”

“Unfortunately for her, you’re not,” D’Alessandro said shortly. “Do me a favor,
amigo
, and go away.”

“I will not.”

This had gone far enough. Ana touched Jiméne’s arm gently, ignoring her partner. “This is ridiculous, Jiméne. Please, just do as he says. It’s better that way.”

“Don’t want to see my violent temper.” D’Alessandro smiled.

Ana threw him as cold a glance as she could gather. “Really, Jiméne. I need to talk to him.”

She saw his hesitation, and then Jiméne nodded slowly and got to his feet. He glared at D’Alessandro one last time before he moved off, his bootheels clacking sharply on the floor.

Before she could move or say anything, D’Alessandro sat beside her on the bench. She caught a whiff of bourbon as he leaned close, but he didn’t seem drunk. She wondered how he did it. How did a man drink so much without even looking the least inebriated?

She backed away. “You should be nicer to Jiméne.”

“He should be nicer to me.” He glanced at the bourbon Jeb had left behind on the table, and then looked away. “You seem to be holding your own with all of them.”

“I’m used to men like them,” she said shortly.

“I see.”

There was something in his voice, something vaguely disturbing, and Ana turned her head to look at him. He sat very close to her, so close she could see the dark hair on his chest where his shirt was unbuttoned. He had long since abandoned his cravat and frock coat, and his blue brocade vest hung open. Thick dark hair spilled onto his shoulders and into his face. Seemingly oblivious to her scrutiny, he put the cigar to his lips and drew heavily.

The sight and smell of the smoke made her queasier than any ship’s motion had. Ana suddenly couldn’t bear his presence for another second.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

He looked surprised. “Thought I’d come over and make sure they weren’t bothering you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I don’t need your help,” she said sourly. “Just go away and leave me alone.”

“But—”

Ana clenched her fists. “Go back to your card games, Mr. D’Alessan—”

“Cain.”

“
Cain,” she
said through gritted teeth. She lowered her voice to a dull whisper. “It’s only pretend, you kno—”

The floor pitched so violently Ana was thrown sideways, into D’Alessandro’s chest. Her chin cracked sharply on his sternum, she heard his grunt of surprise, and then his arms were around her shoulders, holding her steady in a world that was suddenly tossing and turning wildly. The wheel churned, iron and wood shuddered.

The steamer rocked again. The floor shifted, the bowls on the table went sliding, and D’Alessandro fell back, letting go of her, grappling for balance. Ana landed on her side, hard, her head banging against Jeb’s bottle of bourbon—now spilling into a pool on the floor. The scent of rotgut filled her nostrils.

Along with another smell. Bilge water. The sickening, overpowering odor of sewage crept through steerage like a fog.

It was the last straw. Ana tore away from D’Alessandro’s arms, sliding back through the bourbon, gagging on the smell filling the confined space. Her stomach lurched, she felt suddenly, horribly ill.

D’Alessandro struggled up to his elbows. “Christ,” he muttered, reaching out for her. “Duchess, are you all right?”

“Get away from me,” she whispered, scrambling out of his reach. God, she was going to throw up. She was going to lose control, and she couldn’t stand the thought that he would see it. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to get away from him. Far away. She didn’t want him even touching her. She couldn’t stand to see that mocking, knowing look in his eyes, the spiteful joy in her discomfort. He would no doubt love to see her so sick, love to see her helpless. They all did. Everyone did.
Watch the Duchess lose control
.

Well, she wouldn’t do it, not for him, not for anyone. Ana staggered to her feet, grasping on to the table for balance.

“Duchess,” he sat up, grabbing the half-empty bottle. “Ana, wait. Drink this, it’ll help.”

Ana’s stomach turned over. She gasped. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, her imperious tone lost in the misery of trying to keep the nausea down. “I’m all right.”

“Are you?”

She couldn’t answer him. Ana stumbled away, pushing past the other groaning men to the comforting, mildewed canvas of her bunk.

It wasn’t until she got there that she realized she hadn’t seen the mocking taunt in his eyes.

It was the fifth day on the
Delilah
, and yesterday the steamer finally escaped the cold, tossing northern waters and slid down the coast of Florida. Now they were inside the Gulf, close to the edges of the coral banks bordering the lower states. The sky was azure, the water nearly so, and the breeze was soft and warm and smelled of spice.

Passengers clustered on deck, sitting with feet hanging over the guardrail. Now that they’d hit the warmer climes, the excitement was palpable. Gold was all anyone talked about, debates held over the best ways to find it by men who had never even seen a mountain stream, much less panned one.

Cain leaned over the guardrail, wishing a bottle of whiskey were hanging loosely from between his fingers, and stared at the flat shores of New Orleans. The forest and swamp fringing the rest of the Gulf had receded, giving way to fields of sugarcane and maize that came down to a narrow levee. The stench of rotting vegetation and stagnant water mingled with the sweet scent of the blooming orange trees. It was a scent he was all too familiar with. A scent that pulled at his heart until he wanted to bury himself in a pool of bourbon.

It was
home
.

His eyes narrowed, squinting at the low, balconied planter’s houses buried among the oranges, acacias, and crape myrtle, shaded and cool while the adjoining slave huts ran in unshaded, parallel rows. It was all so familiar.

He remembered playing at La Belle Hermitage when he was young, racing through the fields with Benjamin Home. What had ever happened to Ben? What had happened to all of those boys Cain used to play and wench and drink with?

Undoubtedly, they were all wealthy landowners now. After all, they were the sons of plantation owners. Ben Home was probably sitting on the balcony of La Belle Hermitage right now, watching the breezes turn the leaves of the acacias, sipping a fine French brandy as far removed from the rotgut Cain could afford as the sun was from the moon.