At the gangway, Considérant turned his back on the dark-haired man, whose blue eyes blazed at the insult. Madeline watched the Texan as another couple gave their name to be checked against the manifest.
His jaw hardened as his gaze trailed the boarding passengers. He appeared completely out of place in his surroundings and totally at ease with himself in spite of it. Standing straight as a mainmast and seemingly as tall, he towered over Considérant. He wore no hat; his hair was unfashionably long, a slight curl of black past his collar. He lacked but guns at his hips to fit her image of a Texan, what with his sun-darkened skin, a face set in rugged, though attractive angles, and broad shoulders that stretched the seams of his wool jacket.
He conformed to her picture of a Texan until he turned and caught her staring. Then he looked like any other man whose thoughts more often originated beneath his belt buckle than in his mind.
One corner of his mouth lifted in an appreciative grin as he very deliberately scrutinized every facet of her appearance. Madeline resisted the urge to pat her windblown hair back into place and ignored the sudden desire to study him as thoroughly as he did her.
Disgusted with both herself and the stranger, she lifted her chin and looked past him, focusing on a crate marked “Farm Implements and Musical Instruments.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him stick his hands in his back pockets and rock on his heels. Tall and broad, he blocked a good portion of the gangway.
“Mr. Sinclair if you would please move away?” Considérant asked. “Boarding procedure cannot take place with you obstructing our path.”
“But we’ve not finished,” the Texan said.
“Wait in line, please.”
Madeline groaned as the man called Sinclair sauntered toward her.
This is all I need
, she thought.
He stopped beside her and dipped into a perfect imitation of a gentleman’s bow. Eyes shining, he looked up and said in his deplorable French, “Madam, do you by chance speak English? Apparently, we’ll be sharing a spot in line. I beg to make your acquaintance.”
She didn’t answer.
He sighed and straightened. Then a wicked grin creased his face, and in English he drawled, “Brazos Sinclair’s my name, Texas born and bred. Most of my friends call me Sin, especially my lady friends. Nobody calls me Claire but once. I’ll be sailing with you on the
Uriel
.”
Madeline ignored him.
Evidently, that bothered him not at all. “Cute baby,” he said, peeking past the blanket. “Best keep him covered good though. This weather’ll chill him.”
Madeline bristled at the implied criticism. She glared at the man named Sin.
His grin faded. “Sure you don’t speak English?”
She held her silence.
“Guess not, huh. That’s all right. I’ll enjoy conversing with you anyway.” He shot a piercing glare toward Victor Considérant and added, “I need a diversion, you see. Otherwise I’m liable to do something I shouldn’t.” Angling his head, he gave her another sweeping gaze. “You’re a right fine-looking woman, ma’am, a real beauty. Don’t know that I think much of your husband, though, leaving you here on the docks by your lonesome.”
He paused and looked around, his stare snagging on a pair of scruffy sailors. “It’s a dangerous thing for women to be alone in such a place, and for a beautiful one like you, well, I hesitate to think.”
Obviously
, Madeline said to herself.
The Texan continued, glancing around at the people milling around the wharf. “Course, I can’t say I understand you Europeans. I’ve been here going on two years, and I’m no closer to figuring y’all out now than I was the day I rolled off the boat.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of peppermint sticks.
Madeline declined the offer by shaking her head, and he returned one to his pocket before taking a slow lick of the second. “One thing, there’s all those kings and royals. I think it’s nothing short of silly to climb on a high horse simply because blood family’s been plowing the same dirt for hundreds of years. I tell you what, ma’am, Texans aren’t built for bowing. It’s been bred right out of us.”
Brazos leveled a hard stare on Victor Considérant and shook his peppermint in the Frenchman’s direction. “And aristocrats are just as bad as royalty. That fellow’s one of the worst. Although I’ll admit that his head’s on right about kings and all, his whole notion to create a socialistic city in the heart of Texas is just plain stupid.”
Gesturing toward those who waited ahead of them in line, he said, “Look around you, lady. I’d lay odds not more than a dozen of these folks know the first little bit about farming, much less what it takes for surviving on the frontier. Take that crate, for instance.” He shook his head incredulously. “They’ve stored work tools with violins for an ocean crossing, for goodness sake. These folks don’t have the sense to pour rainwater from a boot!” He popped the candy into his mouth, folded his arms across his chest, and studied the ship, chewing in a pensive silence.
The nerve of the man
, Madeline thought, gritting her teeth against the words she’d love to speak. Really, to comment on another’s intelligence when his own is so obviously lacking.
Listen to his French. And his powers of observation
!
Why, she knew how she looked. Beautiful wasn’t the appropriate word.
Brazos swallowed his candy and said, “Hmm. You’ve given me an idea.” Before Madeline gathered her wits to stop him, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Beauty. And listen, you take care out here without a man to protect you. If I see your husband on this boat, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind about leaving you alone.” He winked and left her walking toward the gangway.
Madeline touched the sticky spot on her cheek, damp from his peppermint kiss, and watched, fascinated, despite herself, as the overbold Texan tapped Considérant on the shoulder. In French that grated on her ears, he said, “Listen, Frenchman, I’ll make a deal with you. If you find a place for me on your ship, I’ll be happy to share my extensive knowledge of Texas with any of your folks who’d be interested in learning. This land you bought on the Trinity River—it’s not more than half a day’s ride from my cousin’s spread. I’ve spent a good deal of time in that area over the past few years. I can tell you all about it.”
“Mr. Sinclair” Considérant said in English, “Please do not further abuse my language. I chose that land myself. Personally. I can answer any questions my peers may have about our new home. Now, as I have told you, this packet has been chartered to sail La Réunion colonists exclusively. Every space is assigned. I sympathize with your need to return to your home, but unfortunately the
Uriel
cannot accommodate you. Please excuse me, Monsieur Sinclair, I have much to see to before we sail. Good day.”
“Good day my—“ Brazos bit off his words. He turned abruptly and stomped away from the ship. Halting before Madeline, he declared, “This boat ain’t leaving until morning. It’s not over yet. By General Taylor’s tailor, when it sails, I’m gonna be on it.”
He flashed a victorious grin and drawled, “Honey, you’ve captured my heart and about three other parts. I’ll look forward to seeing you aboard ship.”
As he walked away, she dropped a handsome gold pocket watch into her reticule, then called out to him in crisp, King’s English. “Better you had offered your brain for ballast, Mr. Sinclair. Perhaps then you’d have been allowed aboard the
Uriel
.”
BRAZOS SINCLAIR patted his empty pocket and scowled. What else could go wrong this afternoon? Some little urchin had up and stolen his watch, the one his father had given him the last time he’d stopped by home, the family cotton plantation, Magnolia Bend, for a visit.
Hell and Texas
, he silently cursed,
I’ve gone as soft as a queen’s feather pillow not to have noticed.
Many a time during his trek around Europe had a light-fingered thief attempted to divest him of his valuables, but this was the first time anyone had succeeded. Of course, as distracted as he’d been by the circumstances, a cutpurse could have purloined his pants, and he’d probably not have noticed.
It was time to go home.
Brazos lifted a half-empty glass of brandy from the table in front of him. Staring into the shimmering amber liquid, he wished the tumbler were half full, but life had managed to knock the optimism right out of him. Right about now he needed every scrap of confidence he could muster to force himself to climb aboard that boat.
After his row with the Frenchman he had come directly to the alehouse across the pier from the
Uriel
. Choosing a table by the window, he’d ordered a drink and bent his mind toward figuring a way aboard that boat. Time, seldom a concern in this vagabond existence of his, had become his greatest enemy.
On this side of the Atlantic, that is.
The letter from Juanita lay like a hot brand against his chest. “Salezan,” he cursed. Hatred electrified his nerves, and his muscles tensed reflexively at the name. Damasso Salezan, prison governor extraordinaire—thief, sadist, butcher. Brazos felt the black tide rise within him, and he quickly slammed back his drink.
He must get on that ship. Juanita’s life was at stake, the children’s happiness and safety at risk. He’d put it off a long time—almost two years—but now it was time to go home. Salezan’s men had stumbled across Juanita’s trail.
Absently, Brazos pressed his jacket’s sleeve, feeling for the silver armband he wore above his elbow. Embossed and engraved, the band had originally belonged to a Franciscan priest, his dear friend Miguel Alcortez, before Damasso Salezan had claimed it for his own. Brazos wore it not as jewelry, but as a symbol of his escape from Perote Prison, a reminder of the night when he’d stripped the band from the governor’s arm and made a grievous mistake.
He should have killed the bastard then. Now Juanita was suffering as a result of his cowardice.
Why had he allowed the man to live? Brazos didn’t know, and Juanita had been unable to tell him. He couldn’t remember anything about the months he’d spent in The Hole. Even his memories of the escape and subsequent return to Texas were sketchy. One particular moment stood out in his mind, however. He could clearly picture himself standing over Damasso Salezan, his fingers itching to wrap themselves around the governor’s neck, instead wrenching the silver band from the cowering man’s arm and leaving a long, deep gash in the skin.
Brazos remembered the blood and how it had frightened him. The sight of blood bothered him to this very day.
Salezan was the only man alive who could tell him why.
Had that been the reason he’d spared the governor’s life? Brazos twirled his glass on the tabletop.
Fool
, he told himself,
you put Juanita at risk for something you’ve no intention of pursuing
.
Going on four years following his escape from Mexico, Brazos was certain of one fact. Whatever evil had occurred in the dungeons of Perote Prison, he was better off not knowing about it. Something told him that the truth might just kill him.
Ordering another drink, he considered his present predicament. For months now, he’d wandered around Europe, wanting to go home, but too damned scared to do it. Climbing a ship’s gangway was like crossing a bridge into hell, to his way of thinking. Sailing brought on the terror—a hard lesson learned on the trip over.
He held up his glass, admiring the warm glow of light shining through the liquid. “And now,” he murmured, “when the price of staying here is more than the cost of hauling my tail aboard a boat for an ocean voyage, I have to run up against the Napoleon of Utopia, Victor Considérant. Grand, simply grand.”
Lifting his glass to his lips, he sipped. The drink scorched a delicious fire down his throat. “Mmm,” he said, savoring the taste. That’s about the only thing he’d miss when he left this godforsaken continent. French brandy was not easy to come by at home. “Maybe I’ll take a case with me.”
Because he would make it home—somehow. He looked out the window toward the vessels lining the wharf and grimaced. “I’ll be on a ship in the morning if I have to steal one and sail it myself.”
For some time now, Brazos had absently watched the people go about their business along the quay. Except for the woman, that is. Her he had watched with considerably more interest. Glancing toward the docks, he noticed that the flaxen-haired beauty hadn’t moved since the last time he’d looked, all of three minutes before.
Seems he wasn’t the only one having trouble getting on board that boat.
She’d tweaked his curiosity when she’d had her own confrontation with Considérant. She’d been the last in line, all alone—her husband never put in an appearance. Brazos had lifted his glass in salute when she’d reached the gangway. He’d almost dropped it when he saw Considérant shake his head forcefully and deny the woman access to the ship. She’d argued; from where he sat, he’d seen her brown eyes flashing. Watching her arms flailing about, he’d worried she’d drop the baby.
She’d talked for the best part of fifteen minutes, her agitated movements sending her full pink skirt to swaying. He’d gotten a good peek at a pair of trim ankles, and her stiff spine showed off a right fine bosom. Nursing women did have a certain advantage in some areas.
The fussing hadn’t done her any good, apparently. After dragging herself and her child away from the ship, she’d sat atop a short stone fence and had been staring out at the water ever since.
Maybe I ought to go check on her
, he thought. Nah, she didn’t need him. He shrugged and ran a finger along the rim of his glass. Half a dozen times he’d seen scurvy-looking sailors or rough-cut men approach her. Half a dozen times he’d risen to go save her, but by the time he’d made the street, the men were gone. “I wonder what she says to them,” he muttered into his drink.
“Ah, never mind the woman.” He slammed his glass on the table. This was no time to worry about a petticoat. He had to get on that ship. The lives of his loved ones depended on it.
Sighing, Brazos took another sip of his brandy. Perhaps he could stow away and count on the captain’s mercy. The hand holding the glass trembled a bit at the thought. But the
Uriel
was the only ship bound for the United States scheduled to sail from Antwerp in the coming week, and he dare not waste any time.