Camellia (16 page)

Camellia shook her head and lowered the handkerchief, careful to take shallow breaths. A lady would never be so gauche as to agree that her escort was less than exemplary. “I’m enjoying the sunshine.”

“Back home it’s rarely this warm so early in the year.” Jane, seated between Camellia and the captain, added her opinion. “We would have missed this wondrous weather inside a closed vehicle.”

Traffic had slowed as they neared Jackson Square. Apparently most of the townspeople would be present to show their support for the Confederate forces. Ladies in large bonnets and larger skirts were escorted by men in long frock coats and followed by one or more slaves. Tradesmen and street vendors hawked everything from sweet pralines to meat pies to ready-made boots. With all the activity continuing unchecked, it was hard to believe the Union blockade had affected the flow of goods at all.

As they inched forward, Camellia realized their carriage was garnering some attention. The occupants of other carriages fluttered handkerchiefs in greeting even though they were strangers. Perhaps because of the gray uniform Captain Watkins wore.

As they neared Jackson Square, beggars crowded around them, asking for a few cents for food. Thinking of David Foster and how narrowly he had avoided becoming one of them, Camellia reached into her reticule and pulled out two folded bills.

Jane put a hand on her arm. “What are you doing?”

“We have so much. I cannot see their young, gaunt faces but that my heart is not touched.”

Captain Watkins leaned forward and met her gaze. “That is laudable, Miss Anderson, but you have to be careful or one beggar will grab your purse whilst you are giving money to another.”

A tiny little bubble of irritation disrupted her pleasure in the outing. Did Captain Watkins think she was an empty-headed idiot? She handed over the money to the grubby hand reaching toward the carriage seat without comment. The bubble popped after a moment. Thad was probably only being careful. She ought to be pleased with his warning instead of finding fault. Camellia summoned a smile that she turned on both of the Watkins siblings. “Thank you. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

The captain expertly guided their carriage to the St. Charles Hotel and handed the reins to a hostler before jumping to the ground. He came around to Camellia’s side of the carriage and reached a hand up to help her.

She stepped down, coming within an inch of touching his chest.

“Steady now.” His face, close enough to touch the brim of her bonnet, made Camellia’s heart thump. His sideburns were neatly trimmed, not bushy like some she had seen. A shadow of stubble outlined his upper lip and the square shape of his chin.

Hot blood rushed up to her cheeks as his warm, appreciative gaze met hers. Her feet touched the ground, and he gave her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. Needing the distraction of her fan, Camellia untied the ribbon holding her fan around her wrist and opened it. The air pushing against her face cooled it as the captain turned his attention to Jane.

She glanced around at the crowd, soaking in the festive air. A familiar voice called out her name, and Camellia turned. “Look, it’s Mrs. Thornton and her daughter, Mrs. Cartier.” She smiled and waved, forgetting that she still had her fan open. An errant breeze snagged the fabric and jerked it from her hand. Without thinking, she stepped forward to catch it before it landed on the dusty street.

“Camellia, watch out!”

Jane’s scream brought her head up in time to see a pair of horses galloping toward her. The men on their backs were glaring at each other instead of watching the road ahead of them. Camellia stumbled, her hands lifted above her head in an instinctive gesture, her skirts not allowing her the freedom of running to safety.

Hands circled her waist and jerked her sideways. Dizziness assailed her as she was swung in an arc. Strong arms twirled her about as though she were a child.

An unladylike
oomph
escaped her lips as she was crushed against a hard, masculine chest. Camellia’s first thought was that the captain had saved her from certain death. The second was how safe she felt with his arms encircling her.

“Are you hurt?” The voice that tickled her ear was not right. It wasn’t the captain’s deep drawl.

Camellia bent her head back and met the bright green gaze of the wrong man. “Jonah.” She struggled in his embrace. What on earth was he doing here? And how had he come to save her when it should have been Captain Watkins?

Before he could say anything more, everyone was crowding around them. Someone pulled Camellia from Jonah’s arms, and he moved back a few feet. But she could still feel the weight of his gaze. And his cologne clung to her, reminding her of their closeness.

“Thank You, Lord, for protecting Camellia.” Mrs. Thornton looked as though she had aged a year in the past few minutes.

Mrs. Cartier nodded her agreement. “He sent you over here, Jonah, so you could save her.”

“And I thought I came to search out seats for the exhibition.” His voice was full of its usual sarcasm, but Camellia had seen the concern in his eyes. Did he use sarcasm as a shield?

Before she could consider that question, Jane wrapped her in a hug. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d been hurt.”

“It was my own fault.” Camellia returned her hug, her mind occupied with the sight she must be. Her hat hung crookedly over her forehead, one flower dangling in front of her nose. Her flounce was dirty and possibly torn. Her fan was gone, probably smashed into tiny pieces by the very hooves that nearly got her … would have gotten her if not for Jonah.

Captain Watkins shook his head, a fierce frown darkening his brow. “No, I’m the one to blame. I should have been paying more attention.”

Camellia heard the disgusted sound Jonah made. She might agree with Jonah, but Captain Watkins knew enough about etiquette to assume responsibility. If she disagreed with him, would she be usurping his position as the person in charge? He was obviously distraught.

“It doesn’t matter who is at fault.” Jane stepped between them, her voice calm. “What matters is that disaster was averted. And for that, I wish to thank you, Mr. Thornton.”

“Yes.” Captain Watkins turned to Jonah. “Thank you for doing what I should have done.”

Jonah bowed. “I was happy to be of service, and now if you will excuse us, I need to return to my errand.”

“Wait a moment, please.” Jane’s gaze raked Camellia’s face, reminding her of her bedraggled appearance. “I don’t believe I feel like observing the soldiers any longer. Perhaps you and your family can use the seats my brother arranged.”

Everyone tried to argue, but Jane was adamant.

To tell the truth, Camellia felt relief. Her head ached, and she wished for nothing more than a quiet place to rest it. When Captain Watkins added his voice to Jane’s, she acquiesced.

Seeing that their seats would not be used, Jonah and the two ladies agreed to take them. Mrs. Thornton promised to check on her the following day, and Mrs. Cartier invited her to visit her husband’s clinic if she was not improved.

The drive back was quiet. Jane patted her hand several times but said nothing. Captain Watkins kept leaning forward to glance at her. After the fourth time, Camellia wanted to ask him if she had grown an extra head. She bit her lip instead and stared forward. He was probably upset because he’d not been the one to save her.

Camellia understood. She was disappointed, too. If he had been the one to rescue her, she might not have minded the destruction of her hat, her fan … and her self-esteem.

“May I help you, Mr …?” The young woman came around the end of the counter, tilting her head and eyeing him with ill-concealed curiosity.

“John—” He barely stopped himself from sweeping a bow, a gesture the clerk at Devore’s General Store would find odd. At least he’d managed to give her his name without stuttering. An accomplishment given the circumstances. Since landing a job on the
Catfish
, he had not spoken to many females, certainly not marriageable ones. He had stayed away from society as much as possible to hide his disfigurement … and to avoid temptation. “My name is John Champion.” By now he should be less self-conscious, but the lie tasted sour on his tongue.

On long, dark nights when the scars on his face wouldn’t let him sleep, doubts haunted John. He had been given a second chance. He wanted to do the right thing. To be worthy of the opportunity. He was determined not to make the same mistakes this time.

Mrs. Naomi was not helping, though. His boss’s wife must consider herself a matchmaker. He did not doubt she had sent him to town for one purpose … to meet the girl standing in front of him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Champion.” Her mouth shifted, slowly blooming into a smile that transformed her face.

Amazing how pretty she was…. But … her face seemed somehow familiar. Had they met before? Impossible. John searched his memory but came up empty.

Shifting his weight onto his right foot, he turned his body so she couldn’t see the scar. It was a tactic he’d learned to spare others when they took on passengers. He wished he could grow side-whiskers on his right cheek to keep from frightening women and children, but the thick scar tissue made that an impossibility.

A curtain over an alcove in the back of the store moved, and a man wearing a white apron appeared. His brown eyes combed the store, settling on the two of them. His mustache twitched over his smile. “Anna, are you helping our customer?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Devore,” Anna answered the man before turning her azure gaze back to John, her smile widening even further. “What can we do for you?”

He shouldn’t return her smile. She might take his gesture as encouragement. But then again, he would probably never see her after today. They would be heading south soon, and by the time they stopped at Cape Girardeau again, she’d probably be married. So he smiled. And it felt good. As good as the first glint of sunshine on frost-covered ground.

The twinkle in her eyes made his heart turn over.

John wished he’d taken extra care with his appearance. He was clean. He bathed more often than most of the rest of the crew—a holdover from his earlier life. And he’d combed his hair. But his clothing was worn and faded, and his shoes were free of polish. He found himself hoping she would overlook his shortcomings as he fumbled for the list Mrs. Naomi had given him. “Here.” He held out the folded sheet to her, noticing the creamy texture of her hand in comparison to his sun-darkened skin.

She nodded.

As she took the paper from him, his fingers grazed her palm. A tingle spread from the contact, racing up his arm and burrowing into his chest.

Her eyes widened for a brief moment, and their color went from sky-blue to the darker hues of a wave out in the open ocean. Had she felt it, too?

A bell above the door tinkled as another customer entered the store.

Anna turned to smile at the thin, sour-faced lady who had come in. The same sweet welcome she’d offered him was now expended on the new customer, and John’s heartbeat returned to its normal, steady rhythm as he realized the clerk’s nature had misled him. She didn’t feel any more attraction to him than anyone else. She was just doing her job, greeting the customers and taking care of their needs.

The manager stepped from behind the counter and offered to help the female customer.

As John waited for Anna to fill his order, he let his gaze wander around the store. Two other customers arrived, their syrupy drawls reminding him of the Deep South … home. He ducked behind a display of shaving cream, not wanting to hear their gasps if they caught sight of his face.

“Mr. Champion?”

John spun around at the sound.

She stood only a foot away, her gaze caught on his face, his right cheek.

John wanted to sink through the floor. How had he missed her approach? Feeling exposed, he tried to turn away, to hide his ugliness from her.

“You poor dear.” Her voice stopped him.

John looked down at her and found no revulsion, no horror. Only sympathy filled her face.

He was unmanned by the kindness of it. Most females turned away if they caught sight of his cheek—one had even fainted dead away. Children gave him a wide berth, their frightened faces turned into their mothers’ skirts. Men were easier. They ignored the scars as though they did not exist.

Anna’s hand reached up and softly grazed the mottled skin. “Does it hurt?”

His mouth was so dry John wasn’t sure he could say anything. He shook his head, unable to admit pain that might make him seem weak to her. He looked into her eyes, lost himself in the tenderness he saw. His walls, the protection that he had slowly built over the past months, tumbled down like Jericho.

As though she realized the impropriety of touching him, Anna jerked her hand away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He poured all his gratitude into the two words. How could he explain to her that he no longer felt so beastly? He might still wear the mark of Cain, but her acceptance and sympathy made his lot more bearable. He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss on her soft skin. “Thank you.”