Gallant Match (11 page)

I
t might have been an hour later, but seemed mere minutes, when a clatter jerked Kerr awake. His neck was stiff and one arm hung down beside his chair with the knuckles of his hand trailing on the deck. More than that, the deck chair where Sonia had lain was vacant.

He came erect with an oath, swung his head to peer up and down. There she was, only a few paces away, strolling on the arm of Alexander Tremont. She seemed oblivious to everything except that gentleman as she chatted, smiling as if she had not a care in the world. Behind her on the planking, not two yards from Kerr's resting place, lay a fan of painted silk with ivory sticks.

It was the sound as she dropped it that had awakened him. Kerr climbed to his feet, stretched, then bent to scoop up the feminine trifle. Closing the distance between the couple and himself with a few long strides, he cleared his throat.

“Your pardon,
mademoiselle.
”

She paused, turned with the most innocent of faces.
“Monsieur?”

“I believe you lost this.”

“Oh, yes,” she said as she took the fan from him. She spread the carved sticks, inspecting the silk for damage, before sending him a quick glance from under her lashes. “How kind of you to retrieve it. I am sorry if my letting it fall disturbed your rest.”

She was nothing of the kind. The bit of silk and ivory had been dropped on purpose. It was, he thought, something in the nature of a thrown gauntlet, a declaration of war between them. He would not give her the satisfaction of knowing he understood it, however.

“Not at all,” he answered with a brief nod of greeting for Tremont at the same time. “I was merely enjoying the air.”

“As are we all, though this passage downriver to the gulf is a tedious business. Or don't you find it so?”

Kerr glanced at the glittering silver stretch of the river ahead of them. Great blue and white herons waded in the shallows, making the water ripple as shoals of minnows fled before them. Egrets festooned the moss-hung trees like great white flowers. A raccoon scurried out of sight as the ship neared, and an alligator or snake stirred a nearby eddy. Shrubbery feathered with rich green growth skirted the verge of the waterway, leaning out as if to see their reflections.

“I'm not sure I do.” He turned back to smile into her periwinkle eyes. “There's much to be said for a slow and quiet journey.”

“I might have known you would say so. A quiet life for you, at all costs.” She glanced up at the gentleman next to her. “Monsieur Wallace is my escort, you perceive, hired by my father to make certain I arrive safely at Vera Cruz.”

Tremont nodded. “Your aunt explained it to me. An enviable position.”

“I'm not sure he would agree with you. I suspect it's been a trial for him to this point.”

“It's had its rewards.” Kerr kept his voice carefully neutral.

A flush bloomed on her cheekbones and her lips compressed in a flat line. He was gratified to see that she understood his reference, that she recalled the evening before even if her remembrance could not be as vivid as the one that seared his mind.

It was also satisfying, in some strange fashion, that she seemed to be playing fair with Tremont by frequent reminders that she was not free. He would not have put it past her to add the gentleman to her train in hope he might prove useful in effecting an escape.

That, he couldn't allow.

The gentleman's intentions toward Sonia were not likely to be serious or to extend beyond the length of the voyage, Kerr thought. A brief flirtation, a midnight tryst or two; he would look for nothing more. No doubt his handsome face and polished address had gained him many a similar conquest in the past, so he naturally expected another.

His next would not be Sonia Bonneval. Kerr felt no
particular ill will toward the man, but he would carve him up like a Christmas goose at the first hint that he meant to take advantage of her.

“I'll just amble along with you, if I may,” he said casually, even as these swift conjugations ran through his head. “Nothing like a nice walk around the deck for warding off the fidgets.”

Sonia made no objection. Primed as he was for another clash, Kerr was instantly uneasy. He leaned a little to see under her bonnet brim as he fell into step beside her, across from Tremont. The flash of burning lavender blue he caught did nothing to reassure him.

Moments later, while she discussed the passengers she had met thus far and the cargo they were carrying, one end of the shawl she wore looped through her elbows slipped to the deck. In reeling it in again while keeping her hold on the book she'd been reading, she somehow managed to entangle its fringes with Kerr's boot. He stumbled, trying to keep from ripping away the trailing silk threads, as she pulled them from under his foot. Only the most desperate of hornpipes prevented him from landing on his backside.

She smothered a laugh. He was sure of it. He apologized, anyway, while avoiding the grin of sympathetic understanding Tremont threw him. Let her treat him like a lackey and buffoon, he thought in wan acceptance. His shoulders were broad enough to take it, and they both knew where the authority lay. If the exercise roused her spirits, he didn't mind.

“Curious thing,” the sugar planter said, manfully filling
the conversational breach as they began to walk again, “I came up on deck in the wee hours this morning for a smoke and look around. The ship's crew was loading, doing the work of stevedores. What they carried on board appeared to be crates and boxes of a special size.”

Kerr inclined his head in agreement. “I noticed the same myself.”

“I figured you might have, since I saw you at the stern. What did you think?”

“What was it?” Sonia asked. “What were they loading?”

She glanced from him to Tremont and back again as she put the question, Kerr saw. Since the other man had brought up the matter in front of her, there seemed no point in beating around the bush, even if it was not a subject usually discussed before the ladies.

“Arms,” he answered, “or so it looked to me, rifles and ammunition.”

“But that would mean—” Sonia stopped, frowning.

“Someone is either planning a large hunting party or sending a shipment of weapons to Mexico.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

Her voice was thin and she stared straight ahead so it was impossible to see her face. Kerr wondered what she was thinking, wondered if, just possibly, she suspected the involvement of someone she knew. Rouillard, for instance.

“Some scoundrel who values gold over scruples, I'd say.” He twitched a shoulder. “Not that there's any law against it. We aren't at war.”

“A technicality,” Tremont said. “There will be a law the instant war is declared.”

“Agreed.”

The planter tipped his head. “I suppose the captain could have a hand in it.”

“Making a bit of extra cash on the voyage, you mean? It's possible.” The vessel's master, Captain Frazier, had the look of an upright New England Quaker to Kerr, plain of dress, with a permanent frown between his eyes and side-whiskers like cotton bales on his jaws, untrimmed because it might appear vain to keep them neat. Not that it meant anything. The look of a man had fooled people before, and would again. “Might just as easily be in the charge of the American commissioner we have on board.”

“As a peace offering from our government, you mean, or a bribe for the good behavior of whoever is president of the country by the time we get there.”

Kerr nodded, understanding the last as a reference to the frequent changes in that high office. The most disturbing of these involved General Santa Ana, the man behind the decimation of the prisoners from the Mier Expedition, as well as the infamous massacre at the Alamo ten years before. He'd been in and out of the position at least twice, and looked to be back again any day.

“Might they not be for their protection?” Sonia suggested.

“You haven't seen the number of boxes,
mademoiselle,
” he answered.

“Unfortunately not,” she said in acid tones, “being otherwise occupied.”

She meant that she had been confined to her cabin for all rights and purposes. “Just so,” Kerr said in grave approval.

The exclamation she made was soft but virulent. At the same instant, the book she held slid from her grasp. Careening down the sloped bell of her skirts, it skidded across the deck where it lay with pages flapping in the breeze.

Tremont reached it first. As he leaned to pick it up, his frock coat fell open, revealing the shape of a pocket pistol against the lining. Gentlemen often kept such a weapon about them, but it was usually for a particular purpose, such as protection late at night or when carrying large sums of money. It was possible this voyage was excuse enough. Still, Kerr took note of it.

He wanted to snatch Sonia's book from the planter's hand. Perverse though it might be, given his suspicion it had been let fall on purpose, he resented Tremont's retrieval of it. The game was between him and the lady, after all.

Deliberately, he reached out and took possession of the volume. It was
The Legend of Montrose,
a historical romance by that purveyor of ancient Highland dramas Sir Walter Scott. The feudal settings and grand notions of honor had made his work wildly popular in New Orleans in recent years. This one was an elegant edition in bound leather stamped with gold and with its pages edged in gold leaf. “A fine tale,” he said in judicious comment, “but not the equal of
Ivanhoe.
”

“You've read it?” Sonia lifted a brow as she held out her hand for the return of her property.

“We do read in Kentucky,” Kerr answered, his voice dry.

“I didn't mean it that way,” she said, her voice stiff.

Maybe she hadn't, maybe he was too ready to see insult where there was none. “You feel such high romance is not my style? My ancestors were from Scotland, you know. I'm reminded of the stories told by my grandpa, fine tales of cattle stealing and brawling in the heather for the glory of the clan. Well, and for the fun of it.”

“Fascinating, I'm sure.”

“So they were,” he agreed, all affability as he handed over the book with a bow. “Being I'm the type, it could help if you picture me in the part of Scott's Robert McGregor. You might gain a clearer understanding of events.”

“I understand well enough.”

“Now, I'm pleased as punch to know that as it makes everything so much easier,” he answered at his most obtuse, though he knew very well what the snap in her voice meant.

She gave him a fulminating glance then whisked around in a swirl of skirts and began to walk again. Tremont paused long enough to offer a quick shrug before hastening after her.

Kerr, his face set in grim lines, stared after them for long moments. He should give up, go below, have a shave and a wash.

He wasn't so inclined.

It occurred to him that he was far too intrigued by the
battle of wills between himself and the lady under his protection. Something in it made him feel alive, almost hopeful in a way he had not since—well, since before Andrew had died. Might just be that the long quest was nearing an end, that he was finally doing something that bid fair to let him keep his sworn promise to avenge his brother's death. Possibly it was because he was going to face Jean Pierre Rouillard at last.

Yes, and it could be he simply took pleasure in the lady's company. He took far too much pleasure in it, in fact.

He should back off, leave her be except for keeping watch to make sure no harm came to her. He should slope off now, find something, anything else, to pass the time. He could visit the engine room, look in on the bridge, have a word with the captain about when they would reach the gulf and the course they would set for Vera Cruz. He could slip down into the hold, poke around checking cargo markings, see if that shipment of arms and ammunition was directed to anyone familiar, say, a gentleman named Rouillard.

None of those things held the least appeal. They might later, but not just yet. Regrettable, but there it was.

Clasping his hands behind his back, whistling a Scots lament for Bonnie Prince Charlie, he sauntered after the irritating yet fascinating Mademoiselle Bonneval.

T
he arrogance of the man, to suppose she might picture him as the hero of some epic romance, a figure of nobility, chivalry and desperate courage. He hardly fit the mold, having hired out his sword to the highest bidder while taking on the subjugation of a helpless female. Not that she was as supine as all that, which the gentleman would discover to his cost, but the principle was the same. The McGregor indeed! His suggestion was enough to put her off finishing the book; now that he had instilled the idea of himself as a figure in it, she must continually force the image from her mind. How very provoking.

It was precisely what he intended, of course; she had seen it in the fathomless gray of his eyes. How odd, when she would have sworn subtlety was not his forte. Force, action, overt command, she might have expected, but not oblique challenge.

How very conscious she was of him behind her. His great shadow, slipping along ahead of him, fell over her
so she walked in its gray, moving pool. The sheer magnitude of it would be intimidating if she allowed it to be. She was not a large female, but neither was she petite, and it nearly covered her.

To walk at anything approaching a natural pace was difficult with him so close on her heels. Why that should be was a mystery. It wasn't as if she cared what he thought.

Perhaps the problem was merely that he was always near at hand, or so it was beginning to appear, always aware of where she was and what she was doing. He was conscientious in his job; she had to give him that much. Her father was getting his money's worth. Too bad he wasn't there to appreciate it.

Or perhaps it was just as well. One of the few advantages she could find in her approaching Mexican exile was that she need no longer be under his thumb. Kerr Wallace was acting as his proxy for now, to be sure, but even that would end in time. And then…

Yes, and then?

She didn't know. It would depend on what she found when she reached Vera Cruz. She only knew it would not include a wedding, no matter what Kerr Wallace thought.

Sonia rounded the prow of the ship and paused to gaze down the river's winding channel. They had left all habitation behind other than an isolated trapper's shack or two with a pirogue bobbing in front of it. A thick growth of trees still crowded the waterway, but was beginning to be broken by small islands of shell where oaks grew, draped in their mourning rags of gray moss. Something inside her longed for the first glimpse of the
gulf, as if freedom might lie beyond its blue waters instead of behind in New Orleans. What contradictory creatures people were that she should feel that way.

At the railing opposite where she stood was a slender gentleman. He appeared sunk in melancholy, drooping over the railing as he contemplated the water. As he caught sight of her, however, he straightened. Executing a creditable bow, he wished her and her companions a good-morning.

He was young, hardly passed into his majority, Sonia thought. Handsome in the traditional French-Creole fashion, with olive coloring that indicated a dash of Spanish in his bloodline, he yet had the fresh, open countenance of one who had not yet succumbed to cynicism. His soft brown hair curled back from a wide forehead, his eyes were dark, tender and intelligent, deep-set behind luxurious black lashes. His mouth was full and mobile, and appeared to smile as easily as it turned down in ennui. Attired in the most outré of current male fashion, in a buttercup-yellow frock coat edged with leather and
tan d'or
pantaloons, he wore the artfully careless cravat of the Bohemians, one dotted in yellow on tan and pinned in place by a Zeus-head cameo in the style made popular by the renowned Mulatto sword master Croquère. For all his casual elegance, something about him reminded Sonia of a puppy anxious to be noticed.

His appearance also seemed just short of effete, a result of the contrast with Kerr Wallace, she was sure. Compared to the undiluted masculinity of the Ken
tucky swordsman, every man in sight seemed too refined, somehow lacking in power and authority. It was not a comfortable insight when it should have been the opposite, with him appearing crude compared to the rest.

“Well,
monsieur,
” she said to this fellow passenger with determined brightness, “are we progressing as we should, do you think? Can the pilot be trusted to see us safely out into the gulf?”

“As to that, I could not say,
mademoiselle.
” He gave her a bashful smile. “We seem to be making good time.”

“Always something to be wished, I agree. Do you travel alone?”

“With my mother, rather, Madame Marie Pradat. I am Gervaise Pradat,
à votre service.
”

Sonia, on an impulse of kindness and with the delicious knowledge that Kerr was unlikely to approve, presented the Kentuckian and Alexander Tremont then introduced herself.

“My mother will wish to make your acquaintance,” the young man said. “I'm sure we have friends in common, and she will delight in discovering them. She was making ready for breakfast when I spoke to her, though not without difficulty.”

“She isn't unwell, I hope?”

Gervaise shook his head. “Just not in the most robust of health, you understand.”

“What a pity. So you are alone.”

“As you see.” He inclined his head, his gaze hopeful.

To invite the young traveler to join their perambulations
seemed the only course possible. When she began to stroll again, Sonia had three gentlemen in her entourage.

“I trust your aunt isn't under the weather,
mademoiselle,
” Kerr said in a deep growl from behind her.

“Because she isn't here to act as chaperone?” She sent him a sparkling glance over her shoulder for his rather heavy-handed intimation that she needed such a thing. “No, no, it's her habit to lie abed until noon, and she was exhausted after rising so early yesterday. I saw no reason to disturb her. Though my dear aunt is as serene as any could wish under most circumstances, she can be most uncivil before she has her morning coffee.”

“That's hard to believe.”

“She would be delighted to hear you say so. You are free to wake her, if you like.”

His reply was no more than a grunt, but he made no move to leave their little group. Exultation at the small victory ran in Sonia's veins like fine wine.

Contrary to her expectations, she could not feel entirely downcast this morning. A part of it was because she refused to give up hope, was too stubborn to accept her fate. The main reason, though, was the gentleman following on her heels. He made her so furious she had scant time for despondency. Matching wits with him was stimulating even when she could not win. It defied belief, much less understanding, but she was very close to enjoying their verbal exchanges.

Behind her, Kerr was engaging Gervaise Pradat in idle conversation. It seemed good sense to listen since it might reveal some piece of information that could be useful.

“You have business in Vera Cruz?” the Kentuckian was asking.

“Not at all,” came the answer with all the proper horror of a Creole gentleman who would never think of turning his hand to trade. “My mother's brother is there. His wife, being from an old Spanish family, inherited a considerable amount of property in Mexico. They have investments on the coast, so keep a house in Vera Cruz.”

“Your uncle looks after his wife's interests.”

“Naturally.”

Noting her attention to their exchange, Kerr sent Sonia an ironic smile. Undoubtedly, he was recalling their discussion on the subject of a husband's prerogatives. She rolled her eyes for the predictability of it.

“Naturally,” Kerr repeated to Gervaise in grave acknowledgment. “You've made this journey before?”

“Several times. My aunt is the soul of hospitality, so makes us,
Maman
and myself, welcome every year. Vera Cruz, like New Orleans, is infernally hot and pest-ridden in summer. We travel with them to the mountains of the interior where it's much cooler.”

“A pleasant escape. You go by carriage, I suppose.”

“Alas, no. The roads are too bad. The usual mode is by litter for the ladies, while the gentlemen ride saddle horses.”

Kerr's inquisition was not entirely idle, Sonia suspected. She could not be certain what was in his mind, but wondered if it might have some connection to the shipment of arms residing in the ship's hold. A gentleman such as the uncle of Gervaise Pradat would have
the means and opportunity to engage in such commerce. She could see, as well, that the annual visit of a doting sister and nephew would make excellent cover for transporting the merchandise.

“And what of you,
monsieur?
” the younger man asked with the lively curiosity of those who preferred investigating people to exploring ideas. “You have affairs of business in Vera Cruz?”

“He is in charge of a prisoner,” Sonia answered for the Kentuckian. “He escorts me to a wedding with a bridegroom I barely know.”

Kerr gave her a hard look that she ignored with ease since she was becoming practiced at it. Gervaise clapped a hand to his heart while staring at her in comic dismay. “I am desolated, Mademoiselle Bonneval. Just when I become acquainted with a lady who might come to mean everything, I discover it can never be. For a picayune, I would make away with you before the wedding.”

“For a picayune, I would allow it,” she said at her gayest.

“May I inquire as to the man lucky enough to be your intended?”

“Certainly, if it's of interest.” She gave him Jean Pierre's name and direction.

“Ah.”

That single syllable held a wealth of meaning. Sonia could not let it pass unchallenged. “You know the gentleman?”

“I believe I've heard my uncle speak of him. He cuts
quite a figure in Vera Cruz, particularly in more cosmopolitan circles.”

“Is that not a good thing?”

“It isn't a bad one by any means.” The boy's face carried a plum-colored flush and he refused to meet her gaze. In an obvious attempt to turn matters in another direction, he said, “So Monsieur Wallace stands as protector in lieu of your father? The two of you are related, perhaps?”

Sonia's laugh was hollow. “Hardly. He is a
maître d'armes
of most fearsome reputation. You must be careful not to give offense.”

“I shouldn't dream of it,” Monsieur Pradat said with mock alarm, though a small frown remained between his eyes.

“It's the incessant talk of war, you see,” she went on. “My father felt something more was required in the way of protection for the journey.”

“Other than your aunt as your companion, I comprehend,” he said. And perhaps he did, for his face was grave and his dark eyes liquid with sympathy.

Kerr understood as well, for he met her eyes, his own shaded a forbidding, storm-cloud gray. The smile she gave him in return was guileless. Still, it seemed a distraction was in order. Deliberately, she released her grip on her fan and let it fall for the second time.

She expected a small melee as her various escorts vied for the honor of retrieving it. Instead, Kerr leaned with pantherlike grace to catch it as it fell. In the midst of that swift move, he plunged a hand into the fullness of her skirts, skimming over her leg at the level of her garter.

She caught her breath at his audacity, the sound perfectly audible in the morning quiet. For an instant, they remained in frozen tableau, gray eyes locked to lavender blue, while the world slid past around them.

“So this is where you have hidden yourself,
ma chère
Sonia!” her aunt said as she descended upon them with brisk steps and a froth of windblown skirts. “Such a pleasant promenade, really—I quite see the attraction. Oh, you've made contact with Monsieur Pradat. How very providential as I've just been speaking to his mother. We were at convent school together, you know, though I've not seen her in an age. She quite longs to meet you,
chère.
Come, let us all walk together. I'm sure we will meet up with Madame Pradat again at the back of the ship where it's less windy.”

There was nothing to be done except fall in with Tante Lily's wishes. Sonia had no real objection since matters had become a little strained. Still, she hesitated, waiting for the return of her fan, preparing a gracious acceptance of the courtesy that would put Kerr in his place as her servitor rather than her jailer.

The words went unspoken. The Kentuckian stared down at the silk trifle in his big hand while a smile curled one corner of his mouth. Lifting it to his lips then, he slipped it into an inside pocket of his frock coat as if secreting the most precious of love tokens.

She could have demanded the return of her property. She could have made a scene, refusing to budge from where she stood until the fan was in her possession
again. Instead, she ignored it, taking the arm of her aunt and walking on beside her.

It was for the best, that retreat, she told herself. She wasn't confused by his unexpected gesture, wasn't misunderstanding it, and certainly wasn't acquiescing to it.