Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (13 page)

He wanted that letter, certainly. But he was equally eager for a first-hand look at Russell's daughter, Catherine.

No sailor would ever admit it but seamen were a romantic lot, as given to boozy flights of fancy as any poet. Matthew had heard more than one man sigh into his bitters as he extolled the fairness of Lady Catherine Russell.

He wiped the last traces of lather from his face, reached for a fresh linen shirt, and pulled it on. He had a fast ship, a sapphire sea to sail her in, and the promise of riches beyond his dreams. Now, if the stories he'd heard turned out to be true and not the fanciful tales of men who'd been too long at sea, he would also have a playmate with whom he could pleasantly while away the hours whenever
Atropos
was in port.

Matthew grinned at his reflection. It was immodest, perhaps, but what was the sense in playing at being humble? Even if Catherine Russell turned out to be a rival for Venus herself, she would succumb to his charms. Matthew had not been lucky in the circumstances of his birth nor of his early years, and whatever he had today—his command, his knowledge of the sea and of ships—he had worked mightily to attain.

But when it came to women... ah, when it came to women, he was charmed. They had always flocked to him, as a boy to offer comfort and as a man... He grinned again. As a man, they offered everything they had, eagerly, willingly. Excitingly.

He had left half a dozen conquests behind, in Boston, in Plymouth, in Baltimore and in places far more exotic. Tavern wenches, duchesses, ladies of the manor and even a royal princess had wept copious tears at each departure. Matthew had tried to feel sorrowful as he'd held them in his arms and soothed them but in truth, he'd already been thinking ahead, to the next ship and the next woman.

Now, he had a new ship, the finest on the seas. Tonight, with luck, he would find the other. A man needed a diversion! And that was all a woman could ever be, a diversion. A woman could warm a man's bed. But a ship—ah, a ship could steal a man's heart.

Matthew gave himself one final glance in the mirror. His hair was its usual defiant self, the sun-lightened, softly curling strands struggling to break free of their ribbon. His razor had left his face smooth without imposing any nicks. And the royal blue dress jacket with its high collar and gold frog;, made to order in Baltimore at the expense of his backers, would surely not be out of place at Russell's fancy dinner table tonight, nor would his cream-colored trousers and well-polished, black, knee-high boots.

A knock sounded at the cabin door.

"Come," Matthew barked.

The door swung open and Robins stepped across the threshold and knuckled his forehead.

"Sir," he said. "The gig is at the mainchains."

Matthew nodded. The boy was barely eleven, a year older than he had been when he'd first gone to sea. Had his youth, hopes and dreams, been as clearly inscribed upon his face as they were on this boy's? God, he surely hoped not.

"Thank you, Robins." He strapped on his sabre, then swung towards the boy. "Well? What do you think, lad? Will His Lordship be properly impressed?"

Robins nodded stiffly. "Aye, sir."

"And Mistress Russell? Will I impress her, as well?"

The slightest possible smile twitched at the corners of the boy's lips.

"Indeed, sir. I am certain you will."

Matthew grinned. "Thank you, lad. Oh, and by the way, Robins...?"

The boy's heels damn near clicked together. "Sir?"

"If you're going to sneak into the galley and raid Cookie's sweets, you must remember to wipe your mouth."

Never pausing, Matthew made his way up the ladder to the deck, and to what he hoped would be the first of many pleasant evenings. The carriage Lord Russell had sent for him was waiting at dockside. It was an elegant barouche, emblazoned with the Russell coat of arms and drawn by a pair of perfectly matched, high-stepping greys. It was also complete with a liveried coachman and footman. Both men were black. Were they free men, Matthew wondered, or slaves? Slavery was a fact of life in these islands, as it was in some of the American states, but that didn't change Matthew's dislike of the practice.

The coachman tipped his hat.

"Evenin', sir."

"Good evening," Matthew said, waving off the footman who was already scrambling down to help him into the carriage.

The whip cracked the air and they set off. Matthew looked about him with interest.
Atropos
had docked the day before, but save for a brief visit to the Customs Office, he had spent no time in Hawkins Bay.

Now, by the fading light of dusk, he saw that it was a larger settlement than he had thought. Front Street, which gave onto the docks, was a hodgepodge of customs houses and narrow wooden buildings that seemed to offer everything a seafarer could possibly want. Shipbuilders, suppliers of salt pork and hardtack, makers of hemp line and tar jockeyed for position. And interspersed among those establishments were the taverns, what looked to be nearly one for every ship that lay at anchor in the harbor. The tropical air was heavy with the scent of rum and cheap perfume that wafted out their doors along with the shriek of coarse female laughter.

More dignified commercial buildings lined the next street. Not that banks and trading corporations were all that dignified, Matthew thought with a little smile. His Virginia backers, for all their blueblood lineage, fine homes and fancy airs, had proven themselves as determined to wring every penny from a dollar as any ship's chandler.

The paved roadway ended and became packed dirt. They were in the residential section of town now, first passing what were surely rooming houses. Matthew had seen enough of them in enough ships' ports halfway around the globe to be able to pick them out even at a distance. Then, as the road began to climb, the houses grew bigger and stood further apart, the homes, no doubt, of Hawkins Bay's merchants and bankers.

Finally, there were no houses at all, only the now-narrow road, climbing into lush hills that looked as untouched as they must have been when Europeans had first come to these islands. Everywhere there were flowers, sending their sweet scent into the night. Birdsong had given way to the chirrups of a chorus of insect voices. It was fully dark now, save for an enormous, butter yellow moon rising into a sky bright with stars.

Matthew sat back in the leather seat. He folded his hands behind his head, stretched out his long legs, and crossed his ankles.

Surely Lord Russell's daughter would be beautiful. How could she be anything less, in such a paradise as this? Half an hour later, the slowing of the horses roused him from a light slumber.

Matthew leaned forward as the carriage drew to a halt. Years at sea had taught him the value of caution; he laid his hand lightly on the handle of his sabre.

"Driver? Why are we stopping?"

"We got to open the gates, sir."

"What gates?"

"Why, the gates to Charon's Crossin'."

Matthew stood in the carriage. Ahead, like black stripes painted against the charcoal of the night, loomed a high iron gate. As he watched, the footman undid the lock and leapt aside just as the coachman shouted to the horses, which lunged ahead and up a rise. The scent of night-blooming flowers was strong, interspersed with the ever-present salt tang of the sea.

A blaze of light filtered through the trees. Matthew whistled softly through his teeth.

"Is that the house?" he said, raising his voice over the sound of hooves pounding against gravel.

The coachman nodded. "Charon's Crossin', sir."

By the time the coach pulled up before the house, the blaze of light had sorted itself into easily a dozen candlelit windows, augmented by the flames rising from oil-burning torcheres in the courtyard.

The front door swung open at his knock. Laughter, conversation, music and the smell of fine wines and expensive foods encompassed him.

"Sir?"

Matthew looked at the liveried butler standing squarely in the open doorway. His face was black, but his accent was straight from the rarefied reaches of upper London society. And if the look on his face meant anything, so was his attitude.

Matthew smiled pleasantly. "Good evening. Captain Matthew McDowell, of the
Atropos,
to see Lord Russell."

The butler's nose almost twitched. "The American vessel, sir?"

"Exactly," Matthew said, still pleasantly.

The butler nodded. "I shall see if his lordship is available."

"I am sure he is."

"If you will wait here, sir..."

The door began to shut. Matthew wedged his foot in it and smiled coldly.

"I don't wait on any man's doorstep. Either announce me, man, or I shall announce myself."

"Sir, I am afraid..."

"Indeed, you had better be. I have been at sea for weeks and I am in no mood to be—"

"Brutus?" The voice coming from behind the butler was soft and feminine and delicately English. "What is the problem?"

"There is no problem, Miss. It's just this... this gentleman wants to see your father, and I've explained to him that—"

"He has explained," Matthew said, pushing the door open and stepping inside the marble-floored entry foyer, "that American upstarts are, perhaps, not quite good enough to mingle in genteel English society. And I, in turn, was explaining to him that—that..."

His words trailed away. The girl was standing at the foot of a wide staircase. Her hair was the color of night, drawn back from her face and piled atop her head, though soft ringlets of it lay alluringly against her delicate cheeks and brow. Her eyes were as blue as the sky on a summer morning, her mouth was small and full and looked as if it had been stained with wild cherries. She was wearing a white gown that looked as if it were made of gossamer, and cut so that the neckline framed her perfect white shoulders and creamy bosom.

Matthew's heart turned over. He had heard Catherine Russell was beautiful but no one had prepared him for this. By God, she was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.

"Lady Russell?" he said, when he could trust himself to speak. "Catherine Russell?"

"Sir." The butler's voice was chill with disapproval. "I ask you again to please wait until—"

The girl waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. "That will be all, Brutus."

The butler's eyes narrowed but he bowed respectfully. "As you wish."

Catherine Russell waited until Brutus had disappeared. Then she came slowly forward, smiling as she advanced.

"You have the better of me, sir. You know my name, but I fear I do not know yours."

Matthew plucked off his tricorn hat and made her a low, sweeping bow.

"I am Matthew McDowell, ma'am, captain of the
Atropos,
and I am your servant."

"Indeed," she said softly. Matthew looked up. She was smiling at him in a way that made his head spin. There was an ivory fan in her right hand; she raised it and fluttered it lightly before her face. "My father has spoken of you, Captain. He said you were brave and courageous." Her eyes met his. "But he never mentioned that you were also handsome."

A slow smile angled across Matthew's mouth. "Then it is I who have the better of you," he said softly, as he covered the distance between them. He stopped inches away, so that Catherine had to tilt her head back to see his face. "For I knew, even before I laid eyes on you, that you were the most beautiful woman in all this hemisphere."

Catherine gave a low, breathless laugh. Life at Charon's Crossing and on this dreary bit of England in the New World was almost painfully dull. She had found the eligible males wanting in looks, the ineligible ones wanting in charm, and all of them wanting in wit. Her father, who had spoiled and coddled her all her life, urged her to maintain social relationships with the daughters of the bankers and rich merchants who populated Elizabeth Island, but Catherine had long ago found time spent with ambitionless members of her own sex boring.

"I wish I could do something to make you happier," her father had said, just this evening, as she had lamented the awful sameness of another dinner party at which she had no wish to pretend to be the gracious hostess.

Now, it looked as if her father had fulfilled his own wish, albeit unknowingly, for she knew instantly that Matthew McDowell was going to make her happier. She knew of him, of course. He had come to sail these waters at the behest of her father and men like him, though she knew her father spoke of him with disdain.

"We need this man," she'd heard her father say, when she'd lingered outside his study as he'd discussed the war with the French with influential friends, "but we must not forget he is little more than a pirate, a hired ruffian to do our bidding."

Ruffian Matthew McDowell might be, but he was also stunningly handsome. Those shoulders. That chest, and those narrow hips and long, long legs. And oh, that hard, gorgeous face...

Oh yes. Clearly, things at Charon's Crossing were going to be much more interesting from now on.

"Ah, dear sir," Catherine said, fluttering her ivory fan with a practiced gesture, "I am disappointed, being told I am the most beautiful woman only in this hemisphere. I had hoped for more."