Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (23 page)

“Any of them I know?” Tom asked, leading the way through the yards.

“The first mate, Simeon Larkin, that big feller with the red hair,” Maurice said. “Barton says he's a good man, one of the best, and I believe him. Couple others you've met. Blaine, little bitty guy built like a marlines-pike, was in charge of the rigging. Engle, the one with that big birthmark on his face, is the sail maker. The rest'll be checkin' in for the first time this morning. Barton vouches for 'em all.”

Tom crossed the gangplank with Maurice and Slurry behind him. As promised, the crew waited midships. “Here he is, boys,” Maurice called as Tom hopped up on a keg to address them. “Gather 'round.”

“Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Paxton,” one of the men said, stepping to the fore. “We can cut this short, if I can have a word.”

“Certainly,” Tom replied. “What is it, Larkin?”

Simeon Larkin was a thick-bodied, bandy-legged man whose feet were more at home on the heaving deck of a ship than they were on land. Red hair curled around his ears and hung long in the back, but the top of his head was completely bald. His once-fair skin had been burned to a deep-brown and was wrinkled from years of being battered by the elements. He twisted his cap with gnarled, work-scarred fingers as he cleared his throat for the speech he'd prepared for the man whose family owned the ship he'd called his home since the day she had first slipped down the ways.

“Mr. Barton told us last night what you was up to, sir, and Jamie and Leakey here both explained the details. We just wanted you to know that we're with you every cable length of the way, an' come hurricane or calm, we'll do everything a crew can do to get them boys of yours back.” He cleared his throat again and looked around for support at the men behind him. “Which is what I had to say.”

“Those are fine words, Mr. Larkin, and I appreciate them.” Tom's gaze swept the crew, then lingered for a moment of eye contact with each man. “You understand,” he said, “that I'll be the captain.”

“Yes, sir,” said Larkin. “It was explained to us why Captain Pease don't want to go.”

“And were your wages explained to you?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, adding, “and every man here agrees the terms is generous.”

“Good.” Tom made a show of counting, then glanced around the rigging. “Fourteen men can handle her?”

“Beggin' the captain's pardon, sir, but there'll be seventeen, countin' you, Leakey, and Slurry here.” His look was determined and there wasn't a trace of doubt in his voice. “We can handle her, sir. Easy as a mother with a babe in her arms.”

Maurice caught Tom's attention, mouthed the single word, “Barataria.”

“Oh, yes,” Tom said. “There's a new development you don't know about. After you hear about it, I'll hold no ill will toward any man who changes his mind about sailing with us. This isn't company business, and those who stay behind are assured a berth on any other Paxton ship.”

Much to his surprise, not a man faltered when told of the side trip to Barataria, despite all that carrying cannon implied. “It looks to me,” Tom said as he and Maurice headed for the ship's chandler's to make sure that the last of their provisions would be aboard by nightfall, “that we have a damned fine crew.”

“Far as it goes, I suppose so,” Maurice agreed.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Tom asked.

“First, seventeen's cuttin' it thin, given the cannon. Second, them boys're merchant men. How many of 'em know how to aim and fire a cannon? An' third, how many of 'em can fight—an' I mean down an' dirty, banshee an' she grizzly bear fight—if an' when the time comes?”

Tom stopped, stared into the distance as if picturing San Sebastian and all that could befall them there. “Done,” he finally said. “How many do you want?”

“Four,” Maurice said without pause. “One for each cannon. I seen two of 'em already, and heard of two more who sound like they'd be right.”

The decision made, there was no hesitation in Tom's next words. “We sail at sunup,” he said curtly, and turned to enter the chandler's. “Get 'em.”

Tom returned from the yards to find Adriana waiting for him by the hotel fountain. Her shoulders, bare and inviting kisses, were dappled with sunlight. Her breasts pressed enticingly against the cotton overlayers of lace on her blouse. “Be careful, my dear Thomas,” she warned as he embraced her. “They are watching us from the terrace.”

Tom glanced toward the terrace crowded with diners enjoying a late breakfast. “This will give them a good reason to arch their eyebrows,” he said, kissing her anyway. “Don't worry about them. They're just jealous; the men because I'm with you, the women because you're more beautiful than they are.” He took her arm and led her along the cobblestone walkway. “Have you eaten?”

“I was going to wait, but I was ravenous. Last night …
mon Dieu
!” She squeezed his arm, reached up to kiss his cheek. “You will wear me away to nothing, Thomas.”

“No chance of that,” Tom retorted unhappily, his mind leaping ahead. They rounded the corner of the hotel, skirted a stone-rimmed pond with lily pads resembling emerald islands afloat in an inland sea, ducked under the sheltering branches of a weeping willow, and seated themselves on a crescent marble bench set close to the trunk where they were free from the prying eyes of the other guests.

Adriana sighed, leaned back against the tree trunk, and looked upward to the dappled sunlight filtering through the thick foliage. “You have news?” she asked, sensing that Tom was having trouble telling her something.

Tom sat next to her, took her hand, and stared at it as if he wished he could read the lines. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice as soft as the rustling leaves.

“A woman.”

“No, more than a woman. You've placed a spell on me.”

Adriana laughed. “Foolish one. You have placed a spell on yourself. Why blame me? I'm a woman. Nothing more.” She fixed him with eyes of green fire. “Nothing less,” she added pointedly.

“I'm confused,” Tom said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “Ah, hell! I guess the only way is straight out. With a rapier I admit no master. I've fallen off a horse but once in my life, and that when I was twelve. Maurice is the only man I know who can out-shoot me, and I can sail a ship through wind and storm. But words—such simple things—words fail me.” He took a deep breath and looked her directly in the eye. “The
Cassandra
is ready,” he said bluntly. “We sail in the morning.”

“Dear Thomas, was that so hard to say?” Adriana brought his hands to her lips and kissed his fingertips. “We both knew you'd be leaving.”

“That isn't it,” Tom said, and then blurted, “It's the Cottonmouth. I don't want you to go back to dance there.”

“Oh?” Adriana asked, thinking that she had never intended to anyway. “Why not?”

“Because it's … dangerous.”

“For others, perhaps. Not for me.”

Tom's cheeks reddened and he was unable to look at her. “Still and all, I don't want you to go back.”

“But why?” she asked again.

“Because …” Tom's voice faded, and he coughed nervously. “I don't want you to.”

“Oh?”

“What's ‘Oh' supposed to mean?” Tom retorted, trying to remove himself from the defensive. “It's wrong, is why. A woman shouldn't—”

“Dance? A Gypsy is
born
to dance. I earn my bread and board by dancing.”

“I don't want you back there,” Tom repeated doggedly.

Adriana stood and moved away from him. “You would have me starve then,
n'est-ce pas
?” she asked, gesticulating angrily. He had no idea she was going to sail with him, but before she told him, he would pay for his assumption that he could determine what she might or might not do. “Or,” she hissed, “sell myself the way other women do?”

“Of course not,” Tom protested, cursing himself for being such a bumbler. “I'd see that you had enough to live on comfortably, and—”

“You'd
keep
me?” Adriana's eyes flashed with anger. “You dishonor me, monsieur! What is this? You take me for some harlot on the streets? I gave myself to you, Thomas Gunn Paxton, not sold myself. And as for your gold, you may keep it instead of me, for every shiny coin you own could not buy me.”

“I didn't say—”

“You said more than enough,” Adriana spat, turning to leave. “So good day, monsieur!”

Tom sprang after her, caught her by the arm, and dragged her back to the bench. “That isn't what I meant to say, damn it.” Angry himself, he seated her on the bench and made sure she stayed. “I hate to think of you dancing on that tabletop for all those men. I hate to think of the way they look at you,” he explained, striving to find the right words to salvage the situation.

To his surprise, the outrage and indignation left her face. “Tell me how those men look at me, Thomas. Tell me how, and I will tell you that I have seen that same look on your face.”

“I know,” Tom agreed glumly. “I know all too well. I don't want you to dance, but I do want to leave you with enough to live on because …” His mouth felt dry and he had to wet his lips and take a deep breath before he went on. “… because, after I get the twins back to Solitary, I'd like to see you again.”

“Oh, Thomas, Thomas.” Adriana stood and went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his chest.

“Well?” he asked hoarsely. “Will you?”

A tiny inner voice told her the time was not right to tell him of her plans. “You were right about spells,” she said gently. “We've both been under one. But a week isn't long enough, dear Thomas, to ask me to deny what I am.” She looked up at him, and her eyes softened as she spoke. “Go to your sons, my friend, and after you have taken them safely home, we will speak again. In the meantime”—she was careful not to lie—“I will live as I must, do as I must.”

“But—”

“You know I'm right,” she insisted. “But as a token, I make this pledge. No man at the Cottonmouth will touch me until then.”

“That's a promise?” Tom asked.

“I say so.”

Tom paused. She was right, of course. The week had been a whirlwind of lovemaking, of passionate excesses, and after his long celibacy following Jenny's death, even he had to wonder whether his heart might have been moved more than he liked to admit by his loins.

“Well, Thomas?” Adriana prompted.

“What?”

“Will you kiss me? To seal our pact?”

She smelled of spiced tea, Tom thought, and cinnamon. And though a kiss wasn't the resolution he'd had in mind, it was a beginning.

They planned the rest of their last day together carefully. In the afternoon, they hired a carriage and rode into the country. The day was suffused with an afterglow of autumn, and the air lay warm and lazy on fields of unpicked cotton and tassel-topped stalks of ripened sorghum. At peace with each other and the world, they picnicked on cheese and apples and white wine, and fell asleep in each other's arms beneath the shading branches of a solitary magnolia.

Not mentioning their imminent separation, they made love slowly after their return to the hotel. Afterward, while Adriana dozed, Tom shaved and dressed, then slipped quietly out to summon the maid he'd requested earlier. Adriana was awake when he returned. “Where were you?” she asked with a yawn.

Tom sat at her side, pulled the covers down, and kissed her breast. “An errand. You slept?”

Adriana stretched luxuriously. “You've spoiled me, Thomas. All I've done for the past four days is eat, sleep, and make love with you.”

Her skin looked as warm as sun on autumn leaves. Her hair lay in auburn tangles against the pillowcase. In the lantern light, her eyes glowed with a mysterious deep-green fire. He would sail away from her in the morning … “I have to run by the yards,” he said, his voice harsh with self-discipline. “There's a little present waiting in the hall for you. It's seven now. I'll meet you downstairs at nine, all right?”

“I'll be there,” Adriana promised, adding as he strode toward the door, “Thomas?”

His shoulders and neck were tense, and he answered without turning. “Yes?”

“No other man ever touched me at the Cotton-mouth.” She wanted desperately to tell him then the whole truth, about Giuseppe and Bliss and San Sebastian, but, as afraid of his response as she had been that afternoon, and not wanting to ruin their evening, she held her tongue. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Tom said curtly, opening the door and motioning in the maid. “Remember, nine o'clock.”

All was quiet at the yards. The extra gold Tom had ordered from the bank that morning had arrived and was safely stowed. Maurice was off finding the additional men. The crew was putting the final touches on the quarters and making everything else shipshape. Larkin had overseen the loading of provisions and fresh water; he gave Tom the bills of lading for signing.

It was eight-thirty by the time Tom returned to the hotel. After a quick drink at the bar he checked in with the maître d'. All was in readiness: a secluded table, the flowers he'd ordered, the wine opened and breathing. Ignoring the stares of the other patrons—their curiosity would be rewarded soon enough—he retired to the lobby to wait for Adriana.

No queen ever made a more stately entrance. Precisely on the stroke of nine, Adriana appeared at the top of the main stairs to the lobby and began her descent. Tom's breath caught in his throat. All activity in the lobby came to a standstill. Resplendent in a gown of white satin and crinoline, with a bodice adorned with a myriad of tiny white bows, she seemed to float as lightly and gracefully as a cloud. Her hair was piled high atop her head in an elaborate coiffure, and the tawny luster of her skin contrasted sharply with the shining purity of her gown.