More Than You Know (23 page)

"It
might
be,” Rand cautioned. “There's nothing to be gained by pressing her on that point. Cutch is right. If it
is
tapu, then she can't speak of it."

"Then what's to be done? I'm out of my depth again, Captain Hamilton. As you so eloquently stated earlier, as useful as teats on a bull."

Rand didn't remember saying it in quite that fashion, but the doctor had, and it raised his own smile. “I suspect we have to find Tiare,” he said quietly. “That would be the place to start."

Claire did not know what would happen when she saw Rand again. She was tense at first, wary of the panic that had seized her the day before, but as he strolled with her on deck, it seemed the only thing she had to fear was the memory itself.

Rand noticed her guarded responses and hesitation, but he wisely chose to ignore them. He directed the conversation to inconsequential matters, sharing stories about David and Shelby until Claire was laughing easily. It was only when he mentioned Bria that she sobered.

Claire turned at the rail and touched Rand's forearm. She lifted her face toward him, a question in her expression. “What happened to Bria?” she asked. “Please don't ask me what I mean or pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about. I know that something happened to Bria during the war, something terrible, I think, and that no one ever talks about it now."

"There's a reason for that,” he said tersely, some of the pleasure of the evening sinking with the sun. “It's no one's business."

Claire did not take offense. She was not no one in his life. He might have never said in so many words that he loved her, but she knew she was not no one. “You rarely mention Bria when you tell stories about growing up."

"That's because she was so much younger. A year is about all that separated David, Shelby, and me. Bree came along much later. She was more like a pet than a sister."

Claire smiled. “Does she know you felt that way?"

"Probably. We didn't exactly keep it a secret.” Rand rested one hip on the rail. He braced an arm behind his back to steady him. “It didn't stop her from dogging our steps. She would do most anything to spend time outdoors with us instead of in the house. About the only thing she liked to do there was play the piano."

"Did she?” asked Claire. “I had no idea. I never heard her play once at Henley. I even asked her about the music room. She said it was for show."

Rand winced. He could imagine Bria saying that very thing. “That's true now. At one time she and Father played almost every evening after dinner. It was his talent she inherited for music, not my mother's. She loved it, though. Considered it Bria's one true feminine accomplishment."

"Yes, that would seem important to Elizabeth."

"It was.” He paused. A strand of hair had tumbled free of Claire's combs. He watched it flutter against the corner of her mouth. When she lifted her hand to move it aside, he stopped her and did the thing himself. “Bree was eleven when the war started ... fifteen by the time the fighting ended. She died sometime in between."

"Oh, Rand ... surely not."

"You wanted to know.” He changed his position and crossed his legs.
Cerberus
rode high in the water, her speed steady. The onset of nightfall was changing the color of the sea as fast as the sky. “Yankee raiders moved south in small bands separate from the large forces. It wasn't easy to get out of their way. Henley fell directly in their path. Until that time, the plantation had largely been untouched. Some slaves had run off early, others left at the time of Lincoln's Proclamation, but there were still enough laborers for David to keep Henley going. England was the only market left, and moving the rice past the blockade was difficult, though not impossible. Shelby was dead by then, killed at Manassas. I was in prison in the North and our father, though we didn't know it yet, had fallen at Vicksburg.

"The Yankee raiders, when they finally came, were like locusts, stripping Henley of everything they could carry. They took supplies they could never hope to use and destroyed family treasures for the pleasure it gave them. I suppose they thought they were doing something to further the end of the war, but it's hard for me to say what it might have been.

"Two of them found my mother in her room. David shot one and was killed by the other. Perhaps that's what made the soldier lose his taste for rape. He left Mother alone with her dead son and went on foraging. I don't know if he stumbled on Bree in the fruit cellar or if it was another of the band. Or several others. Mother says there were five that rode away. Bree never talks about it at all."

Rand's voice was almost inaudible now. “After she was raped once, I don't know if it mattered about the others."

Tears stung Claire's eyes. “I'm so sorry, Rand. For Bria ... for you."

He looked at her oddly. “It didn't happen to me."

"Yes, it did.” Claire turned toward the rail and raised her face. The wind pressed back her tears. “Does a day go by that you don't blame yourself?"

"A day,” he said finally, reluctantly. “Now and again."

"Brie doesn't hold you responsible."

"It doesn't matter."

"No,” she said. “You're right, it doesn't. You have to forgive yourself.” Rand was quiet for so long that Claire began to think he had left her alone. When he spoke, she realized that he had moved from the rail. He was standing behind her. His hands came to rest on her shoulders and then he leaned forward a fraction so his mouth was near her ear. His voice carried nowhere but to her.

"I want to come to your cabin tonight, Claire."

His request, coming on the heels of being told to forgive himself, did not seem entirely odd to Claire. She wondered what part of lying with her was punishment for him and what part was peace. “Yes,” she said simply.

His fingers squeezed her shoulders gently, and when she shivered he knew better than to suppose it was the cold.

They stood that way at the rail for a long time, undisturbed by the crew and unaware of their interest. For a while it was not so difficult to believe they were alone.

Claire was sitting on her trunk, brushing out her hair with the door open. She smiled, her head cocked to one side. “I didn't expect you so early."

Macauley Stuart stepped into her cabin and shut the door behind him. His usually pleasant countenance was drawn with concern. “I didn't know you expected me at all."

Claire gave a small start. Her fingers felt nerveless around the handle of her brush. She lowered it to her lap before she dropped it. Feeling off-center and thick-witted by the doctor's unexpected arrival, Claire was slow to recover. “You mentioned something at dinner about reading to me again,” she said after a moment. “I've been looking forward to it."

Macauley's fiery brows remained drawn. He regarded Claire consideringly. It was clear that she was preparing for bed. The blankets were already turned down, and although she was still modestly dressed in her chemise and shift, her gown hung on a hook outside the armoire and her shoes were under the bed. In all the time he had been reading to her, she had never greeted him like this. “I haven't come to read to you,” he said.

"Oh?” Claire laid down her brush and reached behind her to find her robe at the foot of the bed. She picked it up and pulled it on, belting it loosely about her waist. Tugging her hair free from beneath the collar, she began to plait it. “Then what is it you want? I don't require further examination. If that's why you're here, you may want to simply preserve me in one of the captain's jars so I can be studied at your leisure."

Stuart did not smile. “May I sit down?” he asked.

Claire nodded. “You sound perfectly serious, Macauley. Has something happened?"

"I think it has. I had hoped not, but I think it has."

"You're speaking in riddles."

Stuart pulled the chair out from under the desk and sat down. “I came to talk to you about the captain, but I fear I may be too late."

"Would it help if I gave you permission to speak plainly?” asked Claire. “Though why such a thing should be necessary, I don't know."

Macauley gave her full marks for composure. “It helps,” he said. “I don't think that I need to tell you that the duke had a number of expectations when he hired me to be your companion. I was to see to your physical well-being, naturally, and continue your education as Mrs. Webster would have. Your godfather confided that he hoped you would come to rely on me after a time, that we would become more than teacher and student, or doctor and patient, but friends after a fashion."

"Then I would say Stickle will be pleased with you,” Claire told him lightly.

Macauley went on as if she hadn't spoken. “The duke's greatest concern was that Captain Hamilton would set his sights on you, and that you would be too—"

"Blind?” Claire injected, her tone caustic. “Too blind to see?"

"Too naive,” Macauley corrected. “I believe your godfather thought you would forget that the captain had his own reasons for agreeing to bring you along. Hamilton has little or no interest in finding your father and brother. It's the treasure he wants, Claire. The duke said that if the time came when it seemed as if you'd forgotten that, then I was supposed to remind you."

"And you think that time has come,” she said flatly.

"I think perhaps it's come and gone.” Macauley looked around the cabin, then back at Claire. “You were waiting for him, weren't you? That's who you were expecting when I came in."

Claire did not answer. She finished braiding her hair, then let the tail fall down her back.

"It gives me no pleasure,” he told her. “I'd hoped I wouldn't have to confront this. For a while it seemed that you and I...” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged almost helplessly.

"You and I?” she asked. “There never was such a thing. Now you've given me reason to doubt I could ever properly call you my friend."

"You're mistaken. I will always be that."

"Please. Get out.” She heard the chair scrape against the floor as Macauley stood. Claire held herself stiffly when he crossed the room to her side.

"Listen to me,” he said almost pleadingly. “I'm speaking for your godfather now. He begs you to exercise some caution with the captain. Hamilton thinks you know something about the treasure and that's where his real interest lies. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for that."

Claire shook her head. “You have it wrong. It's the duke who thinks I know something. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he believed I would reveal it to you.” Claire raised her face in the direction of the doctor. “I wish I could see you now. I'd know if it were true. I'm not as naive as my godfather would have you believe. I'm fully aware of how much he'd like to have the Hamilton-Waterstone treasure himself, and I don't think for a moment that he is above playing God to get it."

Claire stood and carefully moved around Macauley on her way to the door. Her fingers curled around the handle and she twisted it. “I know the duke argues his points persuasively and his expectations are high. You shouldn't take it to heart that you've failed him in one area, when you've been so ... so
adequate
in others.” In her mind's eye Claire saw the doctor flushing deeply. She opened the door and gestured for him to leave. “Good evening."

Macauley Stuart stopped just before he would have stepped out. He touched the back of Claire's hand. Her skin was cool, and there was a faint tremor running under it. “I think you are not so confident of the captain's attentions as you would have me believe,” he said. “And don't confuse the duke's interests with my own. I don't."

Claire shut the door slowly. Her fingers twisted the lock. Later she lay in bed turned on her side and stared sightlessly at the wall, the blankets pulled to her neck. When Rand came she pretended she didn't hear him.

"You've been avoiding me,” Rand told her as he walked into his workroom. “It's been three days since we talked. I can only imagine it's some miscalculation on your part that enabled me to find you here alone."

Claire was sitting at Rand's worktable. The books that cluttered the top were all closed. She stopped fiddling with the microscope and let her hand drift away. She hated that he had come upon her here, in the one place she felt the loss of her sight most keenly. “Mr. Cutch told me you were below checking the pumps,” she said quietly. “I thought you would be there for some time."

Rand wondered at her almost painful honesty. She didn't even attempt to deny his assertion. “The first night I thought perhaps I had arrived too late. The next day, when you wouldn't pause long enough to speak to me alone, I realized I'd been wrong. You weren't asleep at all; you simply didn't want me there. Your door was locked that night also, and again last night.” He mocked himself with his short, humorless laugh. “Even when I understood what you were doing, I refused to believe it."

Rand pulled out a stool from under the table and sat opposite Claire. He shoved a few books aside and rested his elbows on the edge of the table. “Have I offended you?"

Claire didn't raise her head. “No."

"I want to be with you again, Claire."

She nodded. “I know that."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No."

Rand let out a long breath. “Then I don't understand. Why are you doing this?"

"I've been thinking about the treasure,” she said, lifting her face in his direction for the first time.

"The treasure? Why in the world...” He raked back his hair, genuinely perplexed. “What has it to do with—"

"With anything?” she interrupted. “Everything.” Claire started to lean forward and found the microscope in her way. She loosened the vise that kept it in place and pushed it farther down the table. She set her forearms on the surface and imagined that across from her Rand was similarly postured. They could have been negotiating a peace treaty for all the gravity of the occasion. “I know what the treasure means to you,” Claire told him. “I needed to understand what it could mean to me."

"You're going to have to explain yourself better than that."

She nodded, prepared. “For me it's a matter of acceptance. Do I accept that you're using me to further your own ends? Do I accept you unconditionally or with terms?"

Rand's eyes widened fractionally. It was almost perverse, how calmly she was talking about what amounted to a betrayal of her trust. Did she really believe he had done that? “Claire, I haven't deceived you. You're on this voyage because your godfather paid me a great deal of money. He wants your sight returned. You want to find your brother and know what's happened to your father. I want a treasure. It seems to me we're all working to the same end."

"No, not the same end. The same destination, perhaps, but definitely not the same end. What we all want may overlap on some points, but our priorities are ordered differently. That's what I was in danger of forgetting. And now I have to ask myself whether or not I can accept it."

Rand did not tell her she was wrong. He wasn't at all certain anymore that she was. “Unconditionally or with terms, I believe you said."

She nodded.

"What terms are you considering?” he asked.

"Only one, really.” She paused a beat, then said matter-of-factly, “Marriage."

"I see."

She smiled a little at that. “No, you probably don't.” Claire pushed away from the table and stood. “If you come to my cabin tonight, the door won't be locked. I'll let you know then what I've decided."

Watching her go, Rand realized his opinion of her remained unchanged. Claire Bancroft was a piece of work.