Savannah Heat (48 page)

“I’ll take care of it as soon as we reach Savannah.
In the meantime, I’ll speak to Knowles.… I believe he’ll see reason.”

“Thank you,” Silver said softly, blinking against a fresh round of tears.

Morgan wiped them away with a dark-tanned finger. “I love you, Lady Salena,” he said gently. “And I know, wherever they are, your mother and father are proud of you.”

Sea and sun glinted blue-green in the distance, where the
Savannah
bobbed peacefully at anchor. Above their heads, gulls wheeled and turned, gaily spiraled upward, then soared back toward earth.

Timeless words, spoken with quiet reassurance, asked the Lord’s blessing over those gathered together for such a joyous occasion. There was a chorus of “Amen.”

The preacher said a few more words, getting on with the ceremony, then asked, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

The gray-haired man stepped forward. “I do, Grandison Aimes.” With a warm smile and a bit of a mist in his hard old eyes, Cookie placed Silver’s hand in Morgan’s. They stood on a windswept knoll in back of a tiny parish church in Kingstown on St. Vincent, the closest island to Katonga.

The small fair-skinned minister in his frayed black frock coat looked up from the pages of his marriage book. He smiled at both of them but fixed his gaze on the tall blond major.

“Wilt thou, Morgan, take this woman, Salena, to
thy wedded wife? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” he answered clearly, looking at Silver with such love she felt an ache well up in her throat.

“Wilt thou, Salena, take this man, Morgan, for thy wedded husband? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” she said softly, clutching her beautiful white bouquet a little tighter. Beside her, in Silver’s hastily altered rose silk gown, Delia reached over and squeezed her hand. Massive, black, and proud, Quako smiled at both of them, his shoulders and thighs straining against the fabric of a frock coat and breeches far too small for him. He gave Silver a wink and a grin.

“Do you have the ring?”

Standing tall at Morgan’s side, Jordy handed Morgan the glittering diamond and ruby ring Morgan had purchased three days ago in Barbados. One of Jordy’s eyes still looked purple and swollen, his lip a little puffy, but he smiled at them with love.

“Dost thou, Morgan, giveth this ring in token that thou wilt keep this covenant and perform these vows?”

“I do.” Morgan’s voice sounded husky.

“You will repeat after me.” The preacher said the age-old words.

“With this ring I thee wed,” Morgan repeated with a possessive note few could have missed. He looked dashingly handsome in his dark blue major’s uniform, gold buttons gleaming, and more pleased than Silver had ever seen him.

“You may place the ring on Salena’s finger.”

When Morgan lifted her trembling hand and slid on the glittering stones, a soft mist gathered in her eyes.

“As you, Salena, and you, Morgan, have pledged your troth in the sight of God and in the presence of this company, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, I now pronounce you man and wife. Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. You may kiss your bride.”

But Morgan hadn’t waited for permission. He had already lifted his lovely wife’s cream lace veil and pulled her into his arms.

“I love you, Mrs. Trask,” he said just before his mouth claimed hers.

Silver felt the heat of it and, for a moment, forgot the minister, forgot Delia and Quako—whose turn would come next—forgot Hamilton Riley and his marines, and the entire
Savannah
crew surrounding them.

She felt breathless when they finally broke apart. “I love you, my darling husband—and I always will.”

Morgan kissed her again, this time more thoroughly, matching her vow with a fiery promise of his own.

Silver could hardly wait.

Though no record surfaced of Texas Marine activity on the Yucatán Peninsula itself, ships of the Texas Navy, carrying sailors and marines, blockaded coastal waters for several years during the young republic’s struggle to maintain independence from Mexico.

Texas aided Federalist forces, and though the rebellion failed, naval efforts contributed to British recognition of the Republic of Texas as a sovereign nation, which many believe helped the vast new territory finally achieve statehood.

I also took liberties with the color of Texas Marine uniforms. Alas, I found no record of what they actually wore. Aside from these things, I hope that you enjoyed reading Silver and Morgan’s exploits as much as I enjoyed writing them and that you’ll want to read Brendan’s story in
Natchez Flame
.

Don’t Miss The Next Sizzling
Romance Adventure from
New York Times
Bestselling Author

KAT MARTIN

NATCHEZ FLAME

Available wherever books are sold.

Galveston, Texas
July 20, 1846

Lord in heaven, what had she gotten herself into this time
? Priscilla Mae Wills stood at the rail of the steamship
Orleans
, surveying the weathered buildings and unkempt, seedy-looking men who lined the dock of the strand.

In the distance, the dirt streets of Galveston bustled with activity, wagons heavy with bales of cotton rumbling toward the wharf, men and animals clattering along in confusion. The rest of the passengers had already departed, but Priscilla still stood at the rail, searching the long wooden dock, hoping against hope that Barker Hennessey, the man sent to meet her, had discovered the
Orleans
’s early arrival and might yet appear.

You’re a grown woman, Priscilla, you can do this on your own
. But in all her twenty-four years she had never traveled by herself and even with her aunt Madeline had never gone this far from home. And she’d certainly never expected the newly formed state of Texas to be this untamed.

With a sigh of resignation, Priscilla walked down the
gangway and along the pier, dodging stevedores unloading cargo, barking dogs, braying mules, and even a few drunken sailors.

A hot, muggy breeze whipped the dark brown skirts of her serviceable cotton day dress, and with each of her weary steps the stiff white ruffle around the neck scratched the delicate skin beneath her chin. Strands of dark brown hair had come loose from the tight chignon hidden at the back of her coal scuttle bonnet, and the strands whipped tauntingly in the wind.

Up ahead, the sign for the Galveston Hotel and Saloon gleamed red and white in the hot July sun beside another large painted sign advertising Samuel Levinson’s Bath House. Barker Hennessey, the man her fiancé, Stuart Egan, had sent to escort her on the final leg of her journey, would look for her at the hotel once he discovered her ship had come in.

Ignoring the heat and the tightly laced stays of her steel-ribbed corset, Priscilla walked the bustling dirt street toward the hotel, by far the best-looking building in town. At least the paint wasn’t peeling and the walk in front had been swept clean. Just the thought of being inside, out of the blistering sunshine, urged her to quicken her pace.

That’s when she noticed the commotion out front. A crowd had gathered, grumbling among itself, then seemed to be backing away.

“Look, Jacob—ain’t that Barker Hennessey?” a slender man in a red-checked shirt asked the smaller man beside him. The name registered immediately, and Priscilla glanced toward the big-boned man at the opposite end of the porch.

“That’s him, all right. Barker’s madder’n a wet hen ’cause he lost his poke to some gambler.”

Gambling
, Priscilla thought, feeling sorry for the big, strapping man in the black felt hat who stood in front of the swinging double doors to the saloon,
the devil’s
own sport
. She also felt a wave of relief that she had found him so quickly.

“Excuse me. Could you possibly let me pass?” Nudging her way through the crowd, she headed for the porch. With her mind on the coming introduction, it took a moment for her to realize he was speaking.

“I said, you’re a cheat and a liar!” Hennessey called out as she stepped on the boardwalk. “I want my money back, Trask, and I aim to get it!”

At the angry tone of his words, Priscilla turned her head toward the object of his wrath, the tall, broad-shouldered man standing right beside her.

“I won that money fair, and you know it,” Trask said.

“Mr. Hennessey!” Priscilla called out, waving a white-gloved hand and starting in his direction.

“Goddammit!” The tall man gripped Priscilla’s arm so hard it made her flinch. His free hand slapped the leather holster tied to a long, muscular leg, she saw the bluish flash of metal, and heard the deafening roar of gunfire. Whipping her head toward Barker, Priscilla breathed the smell of burnt powder and stared in horror at the opposite end of the porch.

Barker Hennessey’s eyes remained open, his mouth gaping wide in an expression of astonishment, his sausage-size fingers still clutching the pistol in his hand. Only a trickle of blood ran from the small, round circle that marked the entrance of the tall man’s bullet—right between his eyes.

Watching Hennessey crumple to the porch, Priscilla’s knees went weak. She tried to make a sound, but her mouth had gone dry, and the words seemed to lodge in her throat. Feeling the grip of Trask’s hand on her arm, Priscilla swayed against him. Angry blue eyes locked on her face just seconds before her lids flickered closed, the world tumbled sideways, and Priscilla sank into darkness.

“Holy Christ, what next?” Brendan Trask swung the slender young woman up in his arms and stepped off the boardwalk onto the street.

“Nice shootin’,” Jacob Barnes said to him as he strode toward the shade of an oak tree beside the watering trough half a block away.

“You’d better get the sheriff,” Brendan answered without breaking his long-legged stride.

“She all right?” The little man caught up with him, then hurried to keep from running.

“Just fainted. She’s lucky she didn’t stop a bullet.” Brendan recalled only too well the moment she had started to step in front of him. He glanced down at the small, round hole in the full white sleeve of his shirt, and the little man followed his gaze.

“Boy, you surely got that right.”

“Get the sheriff,” Trask reminded him.

“Sheriff got hisself kilt last week. I’ll see if’n his deputy’s down at Gilroy’s Saloon.” The man scurried off to find the law, though Brendan figured what little there was in town had probably already been summoned. Galveston might be the wildest port on the Gulf, but a shooting was a shooting, and Barker Hennessey worked for one of the most powerful men in the country.

“Damn.” Brendan wished he could have avoided the killing, but Hennessey had left him no choice. He just hoped to hell there wouldn’t be trouble.

He’d had enough of that already.

Brendan knelt and propped the lady against the trunk of the oak tree, noting her somber brown dress, high-necked and long-sleeved, and the tiny waist pulled tight by her corset. Clothes like that in this heat—no wonder she’d fainted. Sometimes women didn’t have the sense God gave a mule.

He crossed to the watering trough, dipped his handkerchief into the water, wrung out the excess, and
returned to the base of the tree. He untied the woman’s bonnet strings and pressed the wet cloth against her lips. They were full, he noticed, and a delicate shade of pink. Her features held a trace of that same fragility: slim, straight nose, fine chestnut eyebrows, thick dark lashes. She wasn’t really a beauty, but she was definitely attractive.

He thought of Patsy Jackson, the woman he’d spent the night with, of her full, ripe curves, red-painted mouth, and fun-loving warmth in bed. There was nothing frail about Patsy, nothing prim or proper. She was the kind of woman who could pleasure a man, have a frolicking good time in bed but didn’t give you trouble in the morning.

Not like this one. This little miss would probably pass out again just thinking about what he had done to Patsy. Pretty as she was, Brendan liked his women lusty. This one held little appeal, though in a town where men outnumbered women a dozen to one, she’d undoubtedly be considered quite a catch. He wondered which man she belonged to—and why that man hadn’t the good sense to keep her out of trouble.

She moaned a second time, and her lids fluttered open. Warm brown, gold-flecked eyes looked up at him in confusion. Brendan shoved his broad-brimmed hat back on his head and assessed her pale, oval face. If he hadn’t spotted her from the corner of his eye, she’d probably be dead right now.

The thought sent a shudder down his spine.

“Lady, you are some piece of work.” The words came out a little harsher than he had intended. “What the hell did you think you were doing? Don’t you know any better than to stroll into the middle of a gunfight?”