Jo Goodman (47 page)

She hadn't yet determined what she would say to that. If she told him she had come upon them in a common room, like the library or one of the parlors, it might not be so readily apparent who was interested in them. Her hesitation cost her. Grant's free hand snaked out and caught her by the throat. He applied no pressure, merely held her captive, but the threat was there. The pad of his thumb moved lightly across her windpipe.

"I found them in Captain Thorne's room," she said.

Grant studied her. Her eyes were as wide and dark as a fawn's. Her delicate features were set in stillness. "Tell me, is it fear that makes your voice so appealingly husky?" he asked. "Or the fact that it gets so little use at Jonna's."

Was she supposed to answer? she wondered. Did he expect her to say she feared him?

Grant's hand slipped away. "Never mind." He sifted through the papers again. "How did you know to bring these here?"

Had she made a mistake? "Aren't they yours?" she asked.

"They are. But that begs the question. How did you know they were mine?"

She pointed to the letterhead on the uppermost paper he held. "It says Sheridan Shipping. Some of the others are marked the same way."

"It does indeed," Grant said softly. His regard was frank, curious. "When did you learn to read?"

Until now she had kept it from him. Even on his visits to Mrs. Davis in Jonna's absence, she hadn't told him about the housekeeper's lessons. It had been easy to keep that secret then. There had been so little time for him to talk to her on those occasions. Her situation forced them to keep any exchange to a few words. It had been his idea that she shouldn't speak. He told her more confidences would be shared with someone who couldn't give them up.

There were times when he came to the house that he didn't see her at all. He may have suspected that she busied herself elsewhere in the mansion when she knew he was about, but he couldn't prove it. And he couldn't ask after her. Knowing that she could frustrate him was one of her guilty pleasures.

"I've been learning at Miss Remington's," she said. Intuitively she understood that she should not refer to Jonna as Mrs. Thorne. "I have been since I arrived."

"Jonna's teaching you?" His tone was harsh, incredulous.

She shook her head quickly. "No, Mrs. Davis. She teaches all the girls."

"But it's Jonna's idea."

"I suppose." She almost recoiled from his black look. "Yes, she approves of it. She makes certain Mrs. Davis has time in the evening for the lessons. She asks for nothing while we're engaged. Anything she needs, she gets for herself. Anything that needs to be done, waits, or Miss Remington does it alone."

"How very accommodating."

She pretended she hadn't heard the sneer in his voice. "Yes," Rachel said. "She is."

Grant's eyes narrowed. Was he imagining her quiet defiance, or was it really there? There was nothing about her posture that was challenging, quite the opposite. Her eyes were turned away from him; her arms hung loosely at her sides. Even her fingers were extended. No clenched fists here.

He put the papers on the mantel and reached for her crippled hand. She didn't recoil from his touch, but he felt her tremble. He held her hand in his larger one and raised it. Firelight burnished her dark skin. "It seems there should have been another way," he said.

Rachael said nothing. There was no real regret in his voice, no sorrow, just the quiet conviction that he had acted as he had because it was the only recourse open to him.

Grant stroked her hand gently, not at all repelled by the disfigurement. It was proof of her sacrifice, proof that she would surrender herself to him. He led her toward the bed. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, he released her. He watched her as she began to disrobe.

"What do you think of your new master?" he asked. His eyes followed her fingers as she removed her apron and began to unfasten her bodice. "Have you been of service to him?"

His question provoked a pause in her fingers, but she didn't answer it.

"Perhaps he finds himself satisfied with Jonna," Grant went on. It was hard to imagine that being the case. Jonna Remington had never revealed herself to be a particularly responsive woman. "Do they share a bed?"

"They have separate bedchambers." She pushed her gown over her hips and let it fall to the floor. Grant touched her wrists, and she came to stand between his outstretched legs. "They're joined by a dressing room. I can't say if they share a bed." It was a lie. She had changed the sheets. She
knew.

Grant's eyes were almost as black at the outer edges as they were at the center. They roamed over Rachael's slim neck and narrow shoulders. He pushed the neckline of her chemise over her arms. For a moment the high curve of her small breasts kept it in place, then it fell. She withdrew her arms. Grant stared at her breasts. He let his hands slide over them, rubbing her sensitive nipples with his thumbs. They were already hard. His right palm moved to rest just above her heart. He captured the frantic beat under his large hand.

"Why did you come here tonight?" he asked. "Was it to bring me those papers?"

She nodded, and leaned into him. She was a slight weight against him, and he supported her easily.

"Was it
only
to bring them here?"

There had been another reason. She thought about the man sleeping in the guest wing of the Remington house and about the man sleeping with Jonna Remington. But she knew what Grant wanted her to say. He actually made it simple for her to tell him what he wanted to hear and to delay the betrayal. "No," she said, as he took her breast in his mouth. "Not the only reason."

* * *

"Falconer?" Decker repeated. Nothing that he knew about

her involvement with the Underground Railroad had prepared him for this. "You actually built
Huntress
for him?" He pulled his hand away from hers and sat up. "I think you'd better explain yourself."

Jonna sat up as well. She crossed her legs in front of her, tailor-fashion, and drew a pillow to her chest. Her position blocked Decker from reaching the oil lamp. She had no wish to bear his scrutiny and no desire to witness his amusement. "I
will
explain," she said, "but you mustn't rush me. It's not so simple a thing as you might think."

He chuckled softly. "Jonna, the very last thing I expect is that it will be simple. Just find a place to start and go from there."

"Do you remember our conversation about the abolitionists?" she asked him. "It was months ago. It's all right if you—"

Decker held up a hand and stopped her. "I remember," he said. "We were in your dining room. You were of the opinion that the publisher of
The Liberator
was a lunatic."

"A fanatic," she corrected. "I'm still of that opinion. But most of what I told you then was something less than I believe. I've never attended meetings at Faneuil Hall. Grant's fervor on the subject always unsettled me. I took a different tack and acted on my principles in a quieter manner. Or perhaps it's that I'm really just a coward, Decker. I know how Remington Shipping would suffer if I spoke out. I watched it happen to Grant. His Charleston and Baltimore trade is only a fraction of what it was five years ago. No matter what I've been able to accomplish, my actions may reflect more selfishness than nobility."

She is so very earnest, he thought. He caught a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and tamped it down.

"I'm not such a good person, Decker. You shouldn't think that I am."

"All right," he said solemnly. "But what is it that you've done?"

"These past three years I've been a conductor on the Railroad," she said in a rush. "I know you have no strong opinion about abolition. I used to be critical that you took no position on it, or for that matter about anything much at all. Now I think you're simply more honest than I've been. There's no pretense about you."

Decker shifted slightly, made more than a little uncomfortable by this observation. "I'm not certain that's entirely true," he said carefully. "You could—"

Jonna didn't let him finish. "You've never tried to change my opinion of you," she said. "You've simply been here, haven't you? Day after day... for years now. In and out of my life, knowing there were times I didn't notice at all, and knowing there were times you came to my attention for all the wrong reasons. I never fully considered the kind of man who could do that, but now I realize it's one who's so comfortable with himself that he doesn't require the good opinion of others to define him."

Decker tried to shift the subject from himself. "I thought you were going to tell me about Falconer," he said.

"I was... I am." Jonna pushed the pillow away from her. She reached forward and laid her hand on Decker's thigh. "It's just that it doesn't matter very much anymore. I built
Huntress
to carry men and women from slavery to freedom. I designed her with that single purpose in mind and named her to fit the purpose. I thought that only Falconer could take her helm, or perhaps that only he would want to, but I think you're a man of similar compassion and conscience."

Decker shook his head. "Jonna, you said yourself that I have no strong opinion about abolition."

She leaned forward. Her voice was quiet with intensity. "But you have a passion for freedom. You risked your own once for Mercedes. I asked if it meant so little to you. You told me you did it because it meant so much."

"So I did," he said. He had forgotten it until now. "Perhaps you're wrong about me. I might only have been trying to impress you."

Jonna shook her head. "I won't believe it. I think it was as honest an answer as any other of yours. And I don't think you feel any differently about freedom when we're talking Tess or Amanda or Delores or Rachael or—"

"I take your point," he said gently, before she went through an entire litany of names. "And no, I don't."

"Huntress
is your ship now, Decker. I would never take it back. But I'm wondering if you might use her from time to time for the purpose for which she was built?"

He was a quiet a moment; then he nodded.

Jonna threw her arms around him. "I'm not wrong, am I?" she demanded. She planted kisses on his cheeks, his mouth, his jaw. "You
are
the right man."

"I don't know if I'm the right man," he said. His arms circled her waist. "But I
am
Falconer."

Chapter 14

It was still dark outside when Jonna woke. She raised herself on one elbow and studied Decker's sleeping profile. His features were relaxed. The lines at the corners of his eyes had softened. His breathing was steady. His thick, dark hair was tousled, and a lock of it fell forward over his smooth brow. Gently, so as not to disturb him, she pushed it back. Then her hand lingered a moment, her fingers trailing lightly over his temple, his cheek, and finally his jaw.

He was really quite a beautiful man. Had she told him that? Or was it only one of the things she had meant to say as he was making love to her? So many thoughts had remained half-formed and unspoken as his body covered hers. Jonna felt a measure of heat surface and spread upward from her breasts to her face as she remembered the things she
had
been able to tell him. Darkness had made her bold.

Love made her reckless.

Smiling, Jonna sat up carefully and moved to the edge of the bed. There was no reason that both of them should be up so early. She padded quietly into the dressing room and rang for help. Half an hour later, when sunlight was just beginning to break through the drapes, Jonna was sitting shoulder deep in a steaming hip bath.

She leaned back against the rim. The nape of her neck was cushioned by a folded towel. Her arms rested lightly on the curve of the tub and her fingertips dabbled in the water. She thought about picking up the soap and the cloth lying on the chair at her side. It seemed a monumental task. Instead she closed her eyes.

The water lapped at her sensitive skin. Heat seeped into her flesh. It was not difficult to imagine that she was still joined to him. There was a lingering sense of fullness between her thighs and a warm, pleasant ache in her breasts. Jonna pressed the faintly swollen line of her lips together. She could still feel his mouth on hers, taste him on the edge of her tongue.