Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (24 page)

Afterward, they held each other, staring into the lamp’s glow with wide, unseeing eyes. Disaster or stupendous success, they did not know which they had found.

Of one thing only were they certain.

They had barely survived it.

Chapter Thirteen

“Voilà, le café!”

The cheerful greeting woke Angelica from a sleep so deep it was like swimming upward through heavy darkness. Opening her eyes required a considerable effort.

It was Estelle who stood holding the tray with its silver coffeepot and basket of napkin-wrapped rolls. There was a wide smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. Placing the tray within reach on the bedside table, the woman bustled around, throwing back the lid of a trunk, drawing out a dressing sacque. She brought the wrap to the bed and leaned to help Angelica slip it around her shoulders as she sat up. And if the maid found it in the least unusual to tend a mistress who was naked under the twisted and rumpled covers, she gave no sign.

Angelica was alone. Renold had gone. She reached out to touch the place where he had lain, but there was no trace of his body heat remaining there.

Estelle looked up from where she stood pouring out a steaming cup of coffee. “The maître has been out and about for some hours. It was he who sent me with your breakfast.”

Angelica removed her hand without undue haste. “Is it so late then?”

“Near noon, Mamzelle. But it’s a gray day out with drizzling rain, and he would not allow you to be awakened earlier.” The maid’s lips curved in a faint smile. “He said you had need of rest.”

Angelica could feel the flush that worked its way up to her hairline. She said with as much composure as she could manage, “That was considerate.”

The maid tilted her head, her round face bland. “Everyone knows you were much upset earlier. They were not surprised.”

The purpose of the comment was to prevent embarrassment when she emerged from the stateroom. It was a thoughtful gesture, even if it added to Angelica’s discomfort now. With an inarticulate murmur, she took the cup the maid offered and buried her face in it

The maid moved away back toward the trunk where she fell on her knees and began searching out a gown for Angelica to wear for the day. Over her shoulder, she said, “It is a fine thing you have done. The maître has need of a woman who will be a real wife to him, who will give him children, a family, all the things that make living good.”

It had been hopeless, of course, to think that Estelle, and probably Tit Jean also, would not know just how things were between Renold and herself. She said with resignation in her voice, “I can’t think why you would say so. He has given no sign of it.”

“Men don’t always know what they need. The maître has been too much alone in his life. He is like a boat floating empty on the river. He requires an anchor, needs to be tied to someone, to be useful to them, before he can be happy.”

Angelica sent a wry smile in Estelle’s direction as she leaned her head back on the pillow. “I wish that might be true.”

“Only wait, you will see,” the maid said comfortably. “So. You are all right about being on board now? You feel well enough to get up?”

Amazingly enough, the constant rumbling and thumping of the engines gave Angelica not a qualm. She was tired, her wrists and ankles were still bruised and sore, and she was aware of some internal tenderness, but she had seldom felt physically better in her life.

“Yes?” Estelle said at her assent “Excellent! Then which will you wear, the blue twill, or the tan d’or velvet?”

The rain still fell when Angelica emerged from her stateroom. She was attired in blue twill, with a small shoulder cape against the dampness and her hair braided and looped and fastened to the crown of her head to defeat the wind on deck. It was her intention to walk on the boiler deck, under the shelter of the Texas deck above, to blow the cobwebs from her brain. If she also wanted to test her courage and new sense of invulnerability to steamboat accidents, it was no one’s business except her own.

The boat was buffeted by a light wind that made its course less than arrow-straight and blew the fogging drizzle under the overhang to wet the decks on the windward side. On the lee, it was possible to stand and watch the misty green shoreline ease past. Smoke from the stacks overhead whipped around the deck, tainting the air with its smell. The rain had increased, slanting down to dent the gliding, metallic gray surface of the river like silver arrows striking a great iron battle shield.

“So here’s where you are hiding? Are you contemplating jumping, or have you developed a sudden passion for what once repelled you?”

Angelica swung at the soft yet caustic tone. She had intended to be serene and self-possessed when she saw Renold again, giving not the least indication that she remembered the night before and the things they had done. It was impossible.

More, the hidden meaning in what he had just said was enough in itself to discompose her. As with steamboats, she had once been afraid of the physical consequences of marriage. She had also once considered that she might have a cool nature. How very foolish she had been.

She laughed, a throaty, knowing sound she hardly recognized. “No,” she said. “And yes, perhaps.”

His smile was brief. “I take it you are as well as you look?”

“Shouldn’t I be?” The glance from under her lashes was not meant to be provocative. Quite.

“I thought I might have taxed you unduly. It isn’t so long since you were injured.”

There was a grim, satirical tone in his voice that troubled her. With heightened color, she answered his suggestion rather than his words. “I seem to have taken no harm.”

“Then possibly it will be as well if you come and convince the others. They seem to think I am an ogre for carrying you aboard. And they aren’t too certain you haven’t been confined to your cabin to conceal bodily damage suffered at my hands.”

Her eyes widened. “You can’t mean it!”

“Can’t I?” he said with a twist of his lips. “Those who know a man best are apt to believe the worst calumny of him.”

He had exaggerated, perhaps, and yet she was greeted with such cries of relief and gladness that she had to wonder. She was also warmed by them, finding it pleasant to think that she had been missed. It seemed that she might one day gain a sense of belonging again. Renold was not the only one in need of a family.

Yet it was Renold who gave her the least confidence in her prospects for the future. Withdrawn, pensive, he took no part in the exclamations and sympathetic comments that made her welcome. His glance, when it happened to turn in her direction, was as impenetrable as a window glass with darkness behind it; it reflected everything but gave no indication of what lay beyond.

The steamboat
General Quitman
was not the equal of the
Queen Kathleen
. Even if Angelica had not been able to guess as much from the Spartan nature of her stateroom, a brief sojourn in the main cabin would have made it plain. The open room was utilitarian, with simple oak tables and chairs. The overhead lamps had no embellishments of brass or crystal, but were simple globes shielded by red-painted tin. There were no rugs on the unpolished wooden floors, no draperies at the windows. The posts that supported the ceiling down the long length were plain wood cylinders unburdened with ornamentation or even paint.

Among their fellow passengers, the preference for calico and challis for the ladies and short coats, flat-crowned hats, and shapeless trousers of linsey-woolsey for the men marked them as country farmers or small town tradespeople. These travelers kept to themselves, the men lounging in knots of three or four near the well-used spittoons, and the women gathered in family groups where they talked with their heads close together. Their interest in the elegantly turned out members of Renold’s party was high, judging from their stares, but it was difficult to make direct eye contact.

The noon meal was heralded by the invasive smell of hot oil and overcooked food. The menu recited by the waiters was simple to remember as it was made up of fried items, from fried chicken and fried ham to fried apple pies for dessert. The beverage served was not wine but whiskey that was brought out without ceremony and slammed down in front of the diners in earthenware jugs. That the fare exactly suited the tastes of the majority of the passengers was evident, for they dug in with flying elbows and clashing forks, scarcely waiting to tuck their napkins under their chins.

The steamboat’s captain presided at the head table where Angelica and the others sat. A jovial man of corpulent shape and high color, which suggested he found no fault with the food and drink, his uniform made up for any deficiencies in his boat. Of the finest black broadcloth, it was bedecked with a ludicrous excess of epaulettes, bouillon, stripes, and braiding.

“I see, Madam Harden,” the official said, leaning toward her and putting his hand over hers where it lay on the table, “that you do not partake of the fine beverage there before you. Understandable, perhaps, I’ll warrant you are not used to spirits. If you would care for it, I can supply you with wine from my private stock.”

“You are very kind,” Angelica replied, removing her hand from under his grasp before he could quite close it, “but I couldn’t put you to that trouble.”

“No trouble at all for a lady of your quality. I can’t remember when I’ve had the pleasure of transporting such a fair flower. You must allow me this one gesture.”

“Some gestures have unforeseen consequences,” Renold said. He did not raise his voice from where he sat at the foot of the table, studying the glass of whiskey in his hand. “I have ordered wine for my wife. My manservant will arrive with it shortly.”

The captain reared back in his chair, his face taking on an alarming purple color. “My good man! I intended no impropriety.”

“You intended to create an obligation, and therefore a reason for encroaching,” came the answer in tones of stinging censure. “You have been prevented. My advice is to let it pass.”

“You’re a damned unpleasant fellow!” The captain clearly resented the affront to his dignity, but was as yet uncertain what to do about it

Renold lifted a dangerous gaze. “You have no idea.”

“Please,” Angelica said, looking from one man to the other. “There is no need for this.”

She was given scant attention. The captain’s nostrils flared. Scowling heavily at Renold, he said, “I’ve a good mind to put you off my boat.”

“Try,” Renold recommended succinctly.

Here and there other diners had raised their heads to listen to the exchange. Anxious to avoid anything that might interest them further, Angelica said, “I’m sure the captain meant no disrespect, nor is he likely to address his gallantries to me under your very eyes.”

“Ah, but keeping you under my eyes,” Renold said, turning his acerbic gaze in her direction, “is not always easy.”

“If you are referring to last night, I am at a loss to see how I could have prevented my absence!”

His gaze rested a moment on her breasts, which rose and fell noticeably with her indignation. He clenched his jaws so that a muscle stood out before he said with biting irony, “Permit me to suggest intelligence and attention to unlocked doors.”

Deborah made a small gasping sound. A frown gathered between her fair brows as she stared from Angelica to her half-brother. On her far side, Michel tilted his head. “Here, now!” he said. “That’s hardly fair, and you know it.”

Renold turned his head slowly to meet this new defense. “I know, my friend, that your interest in my darling wife’s welfare is only a cut above the captain’s. I am giving you the advantage of supposing that at least a small portion of your interference is motivated by sympathy.”