Surrender the Dawn (39 page)

“Well, you look very handsome, sir.” She smiled and glanced at the dancers twirling and gliding over the floor like lilies on a swirling pond, happy to see Noah and Marianne enjoying themselves.

Mr. Abbot shuffled his shoes and shifted his glance between her and the crowd.

“Did you wish to speak to me about something, Mr. Abbot?”

He sighed. “Aye, it’s about Luke … Mr. Heaton.”

“Did he send you?” Just then she spotted him across the room talking with Mr. Crane. Odd.

“I thought you should know,” Mr. Abbot said, “how terrible he feels about not remembering the ball.”

“I’m quite sure.”
Sure that he’s an unfeeling sot.

“He thinks quite highly of you, miss. He’s got much on his mind lately.”

His many other lady friends, no doubt.
“Just not me, apparently.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, that’s where you’re wrong, miss.”

Cassandra could hear no more. “I know you must think me some vain shrew, Mr. Abbot.” Actually, she wasn’t sure why she was behaving in such a way. “I know privateering is not easy business, and I imagine it’s quite harrowing and dangerous at times, but a gentleman’s word is a gentleman’s word.” And she had been so excited, so hopeful that she could depend on the word of that particular gentleman, if she could refer to him by that title. Even so, when Luke had shown up at the ball anyway, she thought perhaps she might give him another chance. Then she realized he’d only come to help Noah, not to see her. And she’d been crushed all over again.

“He hurt you.” Mr. Abbot cocked his head.

She lifted her chin. “Don’t be silly. It would take much more than the broken word of a cad to distress me.”

“He has more than privateering on his mind,” he said. “A private matter that eats away at him. I thought you should know.”

Cassandra’s traitorous gaze swept back to Mr. Heaton, still speaking with Mr. Crane. What problems could the man possibly have that surpassed her own? He had only himself to care for. And only his drinking and gambling habits to fund. Yet, she had sensed a hint of sorrow about him in the solarium that night.

Finally, Mr. Heaton and Mr. Crane separated, and the latter headed toward her. “Oh, bother.”

“And I thought you should also know”—Mr. Abbot dipped his head at a passing elderly lady—“that he kept his word to you about not partakin’ of rum out at sea.”

Cassandra studied the old sailor. A wisdom she had not expected to see intensified his eyes, while his words about Luke befuddled her mind. Why would he honor such a difficult promise and yet forget all about the ball? “Mr. Abbot, you are a loyal friend to Mr. Heaton. He doesn’t deserve you.”

As Mr. Crane approached, his frown transformed into a sickly smile. “Miss Channing”—he bowed—“how lovely to see you. I have just heard from Mr. Heaton that you are here without an escort.”

Mr. Abbot groaned, excused himself, and walked away, Mr. Crane’s glare following him through the mob.

“That is true, sir.” Her voice snapped his attention back to her.

“May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”

Cassandra eyed the man—the slight quiver of his bottom lip, the anticipation in his eyes. But her mind swam with what Mr. Abbot had said, and her heart was drawn out the door where Mr. Heaton had disappeared.

“I thank you, Mr. Crane, but I’m afraid I only came to help a friend. I am not in the mood to dance tonight.”

His face fell and fury filled his eyes. “I see your privateer has returned.” He gestured toward the door where Luke had exited.

“Indeed.”

“With more prize money?”

“That is none of your concern.”

A frown folded his lips. “But what is my concern, Miss Channing”—with raised brows, he leaned toward her, his cologne unable to mask his inky smell—“is how the man manages to slip past the British blockade. At least three times now, is it? When men of far greater nautical skill either do not attempt it or get caught in the process.”

“What are you saying, sir?” Although Cassandra knew precisely what he implied—had entertained similar questions herself.

“I’m not saying anything, miss.” He brushed dust from his shoulder. “Just speculating.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened. “Well, I’ll thank you, sir, to keep your speculations to yourself until you have evidence to back them.” The hypocrisy of her defense of Mr. Heaton, when only moments before she
accused him of being dishonorable, was not lost on her.

Mr. Crane’s eyes narrowed. He appeared to be having trouble breathing. And frankly, Cassandra found her tolerance of his company waxing thin.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Crane …” Clutching her gown, she hurried away, weaving a spiraled path amongst the crowd. All she could think of was catching up to Mr. Heaton. Had she misjudged him? Had she even given him a chance to explain? Cursing her selfishness, she dashed from the room into the garden. Stopping only long enough to ensure he was not there, she pushed her way through the throng that mobbed the front stairs and dashed out onto the street. Muggy air, filled with the fragrance of sweet magnolia, stole the odor of tawdry perfume and tobacco smoke from her nostrils. Taking a deep breath, she scanned the street in both directions. Thank goodness they had lit the lanterns on Light Street or she’d not be able to see very far. As it was, she spotted a lone man, dressed in black, walking toward the harbor. She knew that confident gait.

Ignoring the myriad eyes staring her way, she darted down the street, her slippers clacking over the cobblestones and her heart racing in her chest.

“Mr. Heaton!” she shouted when she thought he might be able to hear her.

He didn’t turn around.

“Luke!”

Still, he continued on his way.

Her chest heaving, she halted, tears forming in her eyes.

Then as if sensing her distress, he stopped.

And slowly turned to face her.

  CHAPTER 27  

S
ensing, rather than hearing, someone following him, Luke turned around. He shook his head at the vision that met his eyes—Miss Channing floating on a cloud of green satin, haloed in golden light from the street lantern above her. He rubbed his eyes. Surely, he hadn’t consumed
that
much alcohol. Yet instead of vanishing like all the good things in his life, she moved toward him, growing more real and lovely with each passing moment.

Only when her scent of gardenias tickled his nose did he truly believe she had followed him.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“I’m not alone now, Mr. Heaton.”

He could not fathom why she had chased after him. She’d been nothing but churlish all evening. He gazed into her eyes and swallowed at the yearning and affection he saw within them. “Come to whip me with more angry retorts?”

She lowered her chin. Her creamy chest rose and fell beneath the gold trim of her gown. “I spoke with your first mate, Mr. Abbot.”

A landau clattered past, laughter spilling from within onto the cobblestones.

“Indeed. I saw you together,” Luke said, uneasy at what the foolish old duff might have told her. Yet she wouldn’t be standing here now—
adorable, shy, inviting—if he’d told her the truth of his actions.

A gentle smile graced her lips. “You inspire loyalty among your crew.”

Luke huffed and pushed a strand of hair behind his ear. “A fact that shocks me as much as I’m sure it does you.”

She gazed past him as a breeze from the harbor frolicked in her delicate curls. Luke longed to do the same, but instead he locked his hands together behind his back.

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my anger, Mr. Heaton.”

He cocked his head. Had the poor woman taken to drink as well? “I was a cad to forget the ball. I deserved your anger.”

She searched his eyes as if looking for something. “Something troubles you, some travesty.”

A bell rang from the harbor. Hot, muggy air moistened his neck and forehead. “Is that what Mr. Abbot told you?” Luke untied his cravat, allowing the white silk to hang down upon his coat.

“I fear my thoughts have been only for my own hurt pride.” She swallowed and looked away but then met his gaze once again. “So what troubles you, Mr. Heaton? Is there something I can do to help?” The concern pouring from her eyes set him back. It took all his strength to keep from taking her in his arms.

“It is a private matter, Miss Channing. One I must deal with on my own.”

Music and laughter bubbled out onto the street from the Fountain Inn. A horse with a rider clip-clopped past.

“Very well.” She bit her lip.

Luke shifted his stance. He wanted more than anything for her to stay. But he did not want her pity. “Was there something else?”

She smiled. “Only that I formally accept your apology.”

Luke chuckled, drawing fire from her eyes.

She placed a gloved hand on her hip. “Did you or did you not beg my forgiveness, Mr. Heaton?”

“It would please me greatly if you’d call me Luke.” He grinned.

“That would hardly be prop—”

Luke lowered his lips to hers. He could stand it no further. He delighted in her fervid response … her scent of gardenias. Her taste. And the way her curves molded against him. No other woman had affected him so. His world spun and he wanted nothing but her in his arms. Forever.

Withdrawing, she pushed back, her chest heaving. Glancing over her shoulder at the ladies and gentlemen clustered around the inn, she raised a hand to her lips. “We shouldn’t.”

Luke brushed his thumb over her jaw. Soft, delicate, like the petal of one of her gardenias. She closed her eyes. He eased his hand down her neck, finally fingering her silky hair as he had so often longed to do. He drew her close to him once again.

“I love you, Cassandra,” Luke whispered in her ear, no longer caring what she thought, what her reaction would be. He could no longer contain the secret—a secret so important, so wonderful, it could never be kept within the heart of a man.

She gazed up at him, her breath heavy and ragged. A moist sheen covered her eyes.

Then hardened into glass. “How many other women have you said that to?”

Luke frowned. “None.” He spoke the truth.

She lowered her gaze.

Lifting her chin with his finger, he leaned toward her and stared into her eyes. “None, Cassandra. I do not speak those words lightly.”

The glass in her eyes dissolved into liquid emeralds. She pressed down the folds of her gown and stared into the darkness.

Luke fingered the scars on his hand. Baffling woman. He had no idea what she was thinking. Feeling. Or why she even remained. “I’ve offended you with my bold affections. Forgive me.”

“No.”

“You will not forgive me?”

“No, you have not offended me.”

Luke flinched as hope began to rise within him. “Then what troubles you?”

She gave him a coy smile, even as her eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. “That I have fallen in love with the town rogue.”

Heart bursting, Luke engulfed her in his arms. He kissed her forehead as she snuggled against him. “You make me not want to be a rogue anymore. You make me want to be honorable and good and dependable.”

She pushed away from him. Her gaze shifted across his. “Can you be those things, Luke? If not, I fear you will break my heart.”

At the thought of his traitorous activities, guilt trampled Luke’s joy.
“I would never wish to hurt you, Cassandra. As long as I live, all I want is to protect and cherish you.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She fell against him again.

Yet, as Luke held her, a battle waged within him. Now that he had won the love of such an exquisite, wonderful woman, how could he expect to keep it when he was betraying his city, his country, and most of all her?