Savannah Heat (30 page)

At eight o’clock sharp she answered Morgan’s rap on the door. Immaculately dressed in his navy blue uniform, brass buttons polished and gleaming in the lamplight, he stood erect, appraising her with intense green eyes, his plumed hat tucked beneath his arm.

“I’m ready,” she said stiffly.

“So I see.” Morgan’s eyes moved over her. God, she was lovely. Though he’d seen the gown several times before, he hadn’t really appreciated how beautiful she looked in it. Or maybe she looked different to him now that he knew her womanly secrets. As he watched the rise and fall of her soft full breasts, he knew the perfect pink shade of the nipples hidden
just beneath the low-cut bodice. He knew exactly how luscious they tasted, how to bring them to a peak, then how to satisfy the ache in them he had created.

He knew that even without the whalebone corset she wore he could span her waist with his hands. He knew the roundness of her bottom, the shapely curves of her hips and thighs. He knew the feel of being inside her.…

Morgan’s body stirred, his shaft beginning to harden, and silently he cursed the evening ahead. He had to remain aloof, he thought, ignoring the heavy ache of wanting that would accompany him all evening. It wouldn’t be easy.

Silver watched the play of emotions that crossed Morgan’s face, the softness that had crept into his expression, then the hunger. He looked so handsome standing there it made her heart turn over. When he reached for her arm, she stopped him. “Before we go, there’s something I want you to know.”

Morgan arched a fine dark blond brow.

“The other morning … when we were arguing … I didn’t mean those threats I made. I’d never do a thing like that. I was just angry.
And I wanted to hurt you the way you’d hurt me
. Sometimes my temper gets the best of me.”

“Sometimes?”

“I just wanted you to know.” She knew she should tell him the truth about the colonel, but he probably wouldn’t believe it, and one confession for the evening was all her pride could bear. She started for the door.

“Wait a minute.” Turning away, Morgan strode to the trunk at the foot of his bed, dug through the blankets and clothes he had stored there, and pulled out the pearls he had intended to give to Lydia. He had
traded them off a sailor in Spain, just for the hell of it, figuring one of his lady friends would enjoy them. Once he got to Barbados, he had changed his mind and kept them, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“That dress needs a little something more,” he said, draping the pearls around Silver’s throat. “These ought to do nicely.” He fastened the small gold catch and handed her two delicate matching pearl earbobs.

“They’re lovely.” Silver toyed with the strand, her fingers running over the smooth round beads. She put the earrings in her ears and turned in his direction, awaiting his assessment. “Whose are they?”

Morgan looked at the way they rested at the hollow of her throat, at the creaminess of her skin, almost the same satiny texture and shade as the pearls. “Yours,” he said. “No one else could do them justice.”

“But I couldn’t possibly—”

“We’d better be going,” he said, cutting off her refusal. “We wouldn’t want to be late.” It seemed right that she should have them, though he couldn’t say why. Lacing her arm through his, he picked up her satchel, hefted his own, and guided her out the door. On deck Hamilton Riley and Constantine Buckland stood at the taffrail.

“My dear, you look lovely,” the colonel said.

Silver smiled. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“I hope you’ll save a dance for me,” Ham said.

Morgan fought the urge to tell them her dance card was full. Damn, the woman had a way of getting under a man’s skin. Vixen or not, Buckland or not, he wanted her. It was useless to deny it. Still, he would not take her.

He was afraid he would only want more.

* * *

Silver spotted the carriage that awaited them at the dock, a fine black barouche pulled by two glistening black horses. The top was down, and a red-liveried servant sat in the driver’s seat. Morgan helped her alight, then climbed in beside her and leaned back against the tufted leather seat. Riley and Buckland followed suit.

The carriage rumbled off down the dirt street past a pier where fishing boats bobbed at their anchors.

“Shrimpers … 
camaroneros
,” Morgan said. “It’s a big industry here.” The strong odor of fish mingled with the dust in the air. It was the dry season in the Yucatan, though any day now that respite from the heat and humidity would be coming to an end. “Mostly they grow henequen; that’s the plant they use to make hemp. You’ll see plenty of it before we leave.”

They rode along the streets, bypassing numbers of Campechanos, as the usually easygoing residents were called. Parks and open spaces made the city look like paintings of Europe she had seen.

“That’s the oldest convent church on the Yucatan,” Morgan told her, pointing to a huge stone building. “The Franciscan Cathedral, built in 1540.”

“Very impressive,” Ham put in.

“Looks a bit musty to me,” said the colonel.

The streets were not crowded, just a few peons returning to their families after work, a few drunken paisanos in front of the cantinas.
Soldados
prowled the streets, as did well-dressed ladies and gentlemen,
gente de razón
, on their way to dine in one of the finer Campeche restaurants.

“Shrimp and fish are specialties here,” Morgan said, “but they also eat cochinita pibil, pork baked in banana leaves flavored with achiote—that’s a sort of paste ground from red seeds.”

“Where did you learn to speak Spanish?” Silver asked, remembering Ham’s words and appreciating Morgan’s fluent accent. She was determined to be just as cordial as he, no matter what their differences.

“I spent some time in Spain.”

“And of course you’ve been here.”

“I’ve been to most of the Mexican trade centers.” Morgan’s glance moved over her face. Though he worked at being friendly, there was a tightness around his mouth every time he looked at her. That he wasn’t with her by choice was more than apparent.

Still, she was glad for the conversation. As forced as it was, it helped ease her nerves.

“I rather like the Mexicans,” Morgan said, “though I’m sure Lieutenant Riley and Colonel Buckland have mixed emotions about them.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Buckland said defensively. “They butchered a hundred and eight-seven of our men at the Alamo, to say nothing of the three hundred fifty poor unlucky bastards—pardon me, my dear—at Goliad. God knows what they’ve done to the fifty marines they’re holding at this very moment—including your brother—or have you forgotten?”

A muscle bunched in Morgan’s cheek. “Hardly, Colonel. General Santa Anna is not on my list of favorite people, but General Canales is a good man. Need I remind you, we’re his guests this evening—and we need his help.”

“I assure you, Major, I’m well aware of our situation.”

Morgan said nothing more until they arrived at the governor’s residence—a three-story pale pink structure with black wrought-iron balconies and massive carved double doors. The house faced inward, centering
on an interior courtyard, as did most of the other dwellings.

Silver leaned through the carriage window. “What a lovely home.”

“There are lots of beautiful houses in the city,” Morgan said casually.

“If you like this damnable place so much,” Buckland snapped, “maybe you should join up with the Federalists.”

Morgan clenched his jaw but didn’t answer. While the servants took their bags, the driver pulled open the carriage door. Morgan stepped down and helped Silver alight. She took his arm and smiled sweetly, though the smile felt as forced as Morgan’s words. He’d brought her only because he had to, still believed she was dallying with Buckland, and in general had far more on his mind than her.

“General Canales.” Morgan greeted the man in the elegant foyer who stood beneath a crystal chandelier. Papered in rose brocade, the walls reflected the soft lighting, and so did the black-and-white marble floors. Silver crystal sconces flickered beside the arched entryway that led into the main salon. “May I present Lady Salena Hardwick-Jones, daughter of the earl of Kent.”

“Senorita.” The general bowed over her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet the beautiful woman my troops call
Dama de Luz
”

Morgan arched a brow. “Lady of Light,” he translated with a trace of amusement, and something else she couldn’t quite name.

“The
soldados
watched you depart your ship,” the general told her. “They said you had hair as pale as moonlight and eyes the soft brown velvet of the doe.” He bowed over her hand. “They have not lied.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, General Canales.” He was an imposing man, not as tall as Morgan, but with flashing eyes and an intelligent smile. Across his chest, his uniform glittered with row upon row of medals and bright-colored ribbons, and a gleaming satin sash ran from his shoulder to his waist.

“This is Lieutenant Riley,” Morgan said, “and you know Colonel Buckland.”

“Lieutenant Riley, Colonel Buckland.” The men shook hands all around. Strains of guitar and fiddle played softly in the background. “The dancing began some time ago, senors,” the general said to the men. “I hope Senorita Jones will grant me
un baile
.”

“I’d be pleased if you would—”
Call me Silver
, she intended to say, but Morgan’s grip on her arm tightened in warning. Apparently he didn’t want the general on too-familiar terms. For once she didn’t argue. She was in a foreign country; she didn’t know the customs here. “I’d be pleased to dance with you, General Canales,” she said instead, correctly guessing the Spanish word.

“I look forward to it, senorita.”

After a last warm smile from the general, Morgan swept her beneath the archway and into the main salon, a huge, beautifully appointed room where most of the furniture had been removed to allow space for dancing. Some of the men wore the uniform of officers in the Federalist Army; others were dressed in clothes that were far more European: black evening clothes with wide white stocks and ruffle-fronted shirts.

The women wore silks and satins cut in the latest vogue or colorful lace dresses, tortoiseshell combs, and lace headdresses Morgan called mantillas. Six men, dressed in short-jacketed black suits unlike any she had seen before, played violins and guitars at
one end of the room. Except for an occasional waltz, the tunes were lively, the dancing far different from that she had seen on St. Vincent with Michael Browning.

“What do they call those pants with the flared bottoms and the silver circles down the leg?” Silver asked Morgan just as the orchestra began another buoyant tune. Around them couples moved in sensuous rhythm, their backs arched, their feet moving first one way and then another.

“They’re called
calzoneras.
” His words were clipped; his tone was a little bit harsh. Taking her hand, he started toward the dance floor, but Silver pulled away.

“I can’t dance like that.”

Morgan looked annoyed. “It isn’t difficult. I’ll lead, you follow, just like any other dance.” The longer they were together, the more distant he became. A growing tension simmered beneath his surface calm. Silver glanced around at the beautifully dressed men and women, at the luxurious surroundings of the general’s sumptuous residence and wished he would let her enjoy this rare and wonderful evening. She felt the pressure of his hand leading her toward the dance floor but stopped him again before they reached it.

“I’ve danced only once in my life,” she admitted. “It was a long time ago. I don’t even remember how to start.”

Morgan turned her to face him, surprise in the eyes that held hers, so green, so probing. The hardness in his expression eased. “You’ve danced only once? Surely your father held parties, soirees there on Katonga.”

She only shook her head. “My father is a very private man.”

Morgan watched her a moment more, as if pondering some grave decision. Then his hand touched her cheek. “All right, Silver, just for tonight, we’ll pretend things are different between us. That you’re Lady Salena and I’m Morgan Trask, your devoted suitor. We’ll dance as if we haven’t a care in the world. How does that sound?”

Silver grinned so wide the dimple in her chin disappeared. “It sounds wonderful.”

Morgan tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm, covered it with his, and they moved out onto the dance floor. The lively music ended, and the lead musician announced a
vais
, the Spanish word for waltz.

“Thank God,” Silver whispered, though even that simple dance seemed suddenly foreign. Morgan turned her to face him, placed one of her hands on his shoulder, gently gripped the other, and settled his palm at her waist. The heat seemed to burn through her clothes. When his feet began gliding to the rhythm, Silver stepped on his shiny black boots two times before she picked up the proper motion, the dance lessons she’d been forced to suffer and her single experience with Michael finally returning to mind.

“I’ve never been to anything so elegant,” Silver told him. “Father took me to a ball on St. Vincent once, but—”

“But what?” Morgan asked lightly.

“It didn’t work out too well.”

“Why not?”

If she told him the truth, he’d think even worse of her than he did already.

“It couldn’t be that bad,” Morgan said with a smile when she didn’t answer. “How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“So you went to a ball on St. Vincent when you were fifteen and?”

Silver lifted her chin. “I let a boy kiss me, and my father saw him. He called me a harlot and a whore. It was the worst night of my life.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she had to look away.

Morgan’s grip on her waist grew tighter, but he didn’t miss a step, just whirled her around the room as if no one else were there. “He shouldn’t have done that, Salena,” he said softly. “You were only a child.”

He’s done far worse
, she thought. She looked at Morgan, surprisingly saw no rebuke, and managed a smile. “I probably wouldn’t have done it, except I wanted to see what it felt like.”