Read The Horsemaster's Daughter Online
Authors: Susan Wiggs
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
He grinned. “Talked my way onto the
Swan.
”
“I have often wondered. How did you manage that?”
“I won’t say. You already find me despicable enough.”
“I don’t find you despicable,” she protested. “Just…exasperating.”
“Ah, exasperating. Does this mean I’m rising in your esteem?”
“At least it’s a feeling you can understand,” she said, “because you find me equally exasperating.”
He fixed her with an unreadable stare. “I was with a woman this afternoon.”
“I know that. I’m not stupid.”
“Were you shocked?” he asked.
“Was it worth it?” she countered.
“Are you going to report me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On why you did it.” She bit her lip. “Besides…the explanation you gave me earlier.”
“To shock you? And perhaps…hell, I don’t know. It’s not…what you think. I came away feeling empty. It’s hard to explain.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because I’m a bad man.”
She shook her head. “I think you’re actually a good man with some very bad habits.”
He propped an elbow on his knee and gave her a dazzling smile. “Isadora—” He broke off and grabbed her hand, holding on tight. “He’s coming,” he muttered in a low voice.
“The monkey?” she whispered.
He nodded. They waited, straining to hear. A distant night bird called and another, even more distant, answered. Closer in, the bushes rustled with a furtive sound.
Isadora kept her grip on Ryan’s hand. She liked holding his hand. His bore calluses of hard work and a comfortable dry warmth. She couldn’t help but note the size—she had large hands for a woman but his were much bigger, swallowing hers so her fingers nestled safely inside. Safe. That was the way she felt with Ryan Calhoun. Safe, as if nothing in the world could harm her so long as she kept hold of his hand.
It was a fanciful notion. An un-Isadoralike notion. Yet it rang through her with a strange resonance.
Safe with him. When had she ever been unsafe? Physically—never. She had lived the sheltered life of the daughter of one of Boston’s first families. But in other ways her peril was constant. She could not even walk into her parents’ drawing room without feeling as if she were in danger of drowning.
It occurred to her that she hadn’t experienced the drowning sensation since she had left Boston. Not even in the deadliest moments of the great storm.
“There, see?” Ryan whispered, his lips so close to her ear. She shivered with the warm vibration.
Ye powers. Here she sat in a perfumed garden, holding hands with a man while he whispered in her ear. Her fevered imagination had, of course, conjured this moment many times. But the man in her daydream had always been Chad Easterbrook. And in her daydream, the moment had never, ever felt this delicious.
“I don’t see it,” she whispered back. She told herself no romance heated this moment. They shared only a mutual curiosity in what the exotic night would bring, a mutual anticipation of learning the secrets of the forest.
“A tiny shadow. It’s there.”
He did the most extraordinary thing. With a restrained gentleness so poignant it made her chest ache, he touched her cheek in order to turn her head toward the low shrubbery border. His touch nearly shattered her, for not since Aunt Button had someone caressed her with such tenderness. Yet this surpassed even Aunt Button’s affection, for this sent shivers radiating outward along her limbs and stirring up a strange pool of heat somewhere deep inside her.
“Do you see it now?” he whispered.
She forced herself to concentrate. “Heavens be. I think I do,” she said, mouthing the words, barely speaking them.
A tiny creature, furtive as a thief, darted out of the bushes and snatched up a chunk of papaya.
“He is so little,” she whispered. “Like a wizened old man.”
The monkey crouched over its find, stuffing its mouth greedily until it could hold no more. Then, grasping a piece of plantain in its tiny paw, it made off into the shadowy night forest.
Isadora felt a welling of wonder and joy in her chest. She could not have erased the smile on her face if she’d tried, but she didn’t try. She turned to Ryan, realizing that even though the creature was gone, he still kept his lips close to hers, still cradled her cheek in his large, warm hand.
“How wonderful,” she said. “I can’t believe we saw such an amazing creature.”
“You,” he said with laughter in his voice, “are a very hard woman to impress.”
“What do you mean?” She was amazed she could even get the words out, for his other hand let go of hers and slipped, as furtive as the night creature they had come to see, around her waist, holding her lightly but firmly.
Men had touched her there to dance with her, but they had been different. They’d all had the aspect of wooden soldiers forced in front of a firing squad. But Ryan…dear Lord, she could only think of him as Ryan now…he gave her the impression he actually wanted to be here, wanted to touch her.
He smiled gently, the faint torchlight softening his features. “What I mean is I’ve crossed oceans and battled storms to bring you here, and you’ve taken it all in stride. I haven’t seen you so perfectly enraptured, not once, until you saw the little fellow come stealing out of the forest.”
That’s not what has me so perfectly enraptured.
The thought—and the utter truth of it—startled her. She nearly blurted the words aloud.
But at the last moment, she stopped herself. Because she didn’t trust herself, didn’t trust her heart. Didn’t trust Ryan not to break it.
“I suppose,” she said softly, with a touch of irony, “I seem terribly worldly and sophisticated.”
“Far too worldly and sophisticated for the likes of a Virginia farm boy turned sailor,” he said.
Still touching her. Holding her. His gaze a lodestone she could not look away from.
She managed a wobbly smile at his statement. “Farm boy? Judging by what your mother has told me of Albion, you grew up in a world of unimaginable wealth.”
“I never found what I wanted in that world,” he said.
She moistened her lips, tasting the fruit she had eaten earlier and finding herself strangely hungry again, empty and yearning for…“What is it you’re looking for?” she heard herself ask. “What do you want?”
He chuckled low in his throat, and the sound sent a thrill through her. “Those are two different questions, Isadora.” Though she didn’t think it possible, he leaned even closer, so that the warmth of his breath and the fruity scent of the rum drink he’d imbibed mingled with her own shallow inhalations.
He was close. So close. She’d never been this close to a man before.
“Do…you have…two different answers?” she managed to force out.
“Only one at the moment. Only one.”
The hand at her waist tightened. She had the most inexplicable urge to touch him as well, for her hands lay clenched in her lap and she wanted to put them somewhere else. Wanted to put them on him.
Her fingers reached up, lightly coming to rest against the wall of his chest.
His swift intake of breath was a sound of surprise—but not one of outrage.
“Which one?” she asked, still unable to believe that she, Isadora Dudley Peabody, was in the middle of this splendid garden, in the middle of this splendid moment, in the arms of this splendid man.
“What I want,” he said, and the words sounded tense and strained. “Ask me what I want, Isadora.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ll only answer if you promise you’ll believe me.”
“If I—”
“Promise, Isadora. Say you’ll trust my answer.”
“I’ll trust your answer.”
He smiled, and once again she heard that silken chuckle that did such odd and unsettling things to her. “What I want,” he said, “is to kiss you.”
“Liar,” she said automatically.
“You promised you’d believe me.”
“Because I thought for once you’d tell me the truth.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“You?”
“No. It’s that you talk too damned much. I suppose I could swear on King James’s Bible that I want to kiss you, but there’s a better way to convince you.”
The smoldering look in his eyes astonished her, held her mesmerized. “How is that?”
“Like this, love. Like this.”
And then it happened. Slowly. Each passing second an endless heartbeat of time, and she experienced it all, reveled and immersed herself in it. The way he bent his head ever so slightly, for unlike most men, he was taller than she. The way his thumb skimmed lightly, searchingly, across the crest of her cheekbone then rode downward, brushing at a spot on the side of her throat that pulsed with a heat she had never felt before. The way his other hand at her waist drew her closer, tighter.
And then his lips. The lips she had watched, day after day, with increasing fascination and bafflement. The lips that had sneered at her, sworn at her, laughed and shouted and smiled at her. He didn’t plaster her with his kiss; he merely tasted her, at first barely touching her mouth with his own.
Back and forth, slowly, subtly, he moved his head, sharing the merest hint of himself, the briefest brush of pressure. Overwhelmed by the sensations, she let her eyes drift shut and heard a strange, whimpering sound escape her. As of their own accord, her fists clenched into the fabric of his shirt.
Closer. She wanted to be closer. She wanted to taste more of him, to feel the pressure of his mouth on hers. But he simply kept brushing her lips, holding her gently as if she were fragile, breakable. The hand at her waist moved, a minor shift, barely noticeable, except that she felt his thumb graze the underside of her breast, could feel his touch even through the stiff buckram of her corset. She felt a surging and singing inside, things she had read about in the romantic novels she was not supposed to see until she was married, but read in secret anyway. And, oh, this was so much better. She wanted so much more than this moment, yet she was terrified that it might end.
She had an overwhelming urge to lean toward him, to press into his embrace, to crush her mouth against his. But she didn’t dare. Didn’t know how. Didn’t trust him to accept her.
It was an act of supreme self-control, then, to hold herself rigid, unmoving, disbelieving.
And finally it was over. From the time he had begun to kiss her until the moment it ended, an eternity had passed. The world had changed color, tilted on its axis. Yet when Ryan Calhoun drew back from her and regarded her solemnly for several long moments, he looked exactly the same: handsome, relaxed, assured.
And she was a perfect mess inside.
“I won’t apologize,” he said easily, “although a gentleman would. I’m not sorry that happened.” He stood, his lithe grace never more apparent, and helped her to her feet. She went like a marionette on a string, wooden and stiff, jerky in her movements.
“We’d best get inside. They’ll want to hear all about the monkey.”
“What monkey?” she asked stupidly.
O bed! O bed! Delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
—Thomas Hood
(1841)
R
yan awoke the next day and stared for a long time at the plaster-and-timber ceiling of his large, airy room in the villa. “I still can’t believe I did that,” he said aloud, though there was no one to hear.
He had taken Isadora Peabody in his arms. He had kissed her.
In the past, flouting convention had been a way of life for him. But Isadora, milled like the straightest of spars by convention, made him understand that he was not immune to censure. That things he did could cause profound effects.
What fool notion had possessed him? It was not that he regretted kissing her—he simply didn’t have the conscience for that. What he regretted was her reaction. She had been so startled, so vulnerable that he knew she was in danger of letting the kiss mean far too much to her.
This could signal a disaster. This could change everything between them, just when they had begun to move toward an accord. With Isadora, he had a relationship he’d never thought possible with a woman. He had a true friendship. Trust. Mutual respect. Equal footing. Delight in shared interests.
Perhaps she would even quit making those infernal reports to Abel.
He had probably destroyed it all by kissing her. So long as they were friends, he couldn’t harm her. But if he dared to move into her heart, he would strip away all her defenses, open her to a hurt she didn’t deserve. She was too fragile for a rogue like him.
He crushed his eyes shut against the glaring morning sunlight. Damn it.
Goddamn it all to hell.
There were girls aplenty for kissing. But there was only one Isadora.
He remembered her stiff posture, her shocked expression last night. She had been outraged in every cell of her body. He knew it. Could feel it emanating from her.
But when she had softened in his arms, when she had moistened her lips and timidly touched him, he’d forgotten who she was. Forgotten she was born and bred of the Beacon Hill elite. Forgotten she and her kind looked down on Southerners, particularly those who moved in the company of pirates and cutthroats. Forgotten that her heart belonged to Chad Easterbrook whether the upright bit of plant life deserved her or not.
Ryan of all people understood what it was like to want something you couldn’t have. To want it with all your heart and soul. To want it with a passion that made nothing else matter. He should respect that in Isadora.
He got up and bathed in the cool water from the basin at the washstand, using a spicy scented soap, then cleaning his teeth with a tooth powder that tasted like anise. He thought of the long, laughing conversations they shared. The bickering and bantering. The quiet moments reading books. The satisfaction of taking a sounding on shipboard and finding that their figures agreed. That was the Isadora he wanted back. He had to return to the place they were before he had stepped over the line, to the friendship, the camaraderie, the respect.
But even as he thought it, he knew he would keep pushing her. He
liked
seeing her unbend, liked making her laugh, and hell, he liked seeing her get mad.
He was through pretending he was a gentleman. She knew better than that, anyway. She knew damned well that he was a groping mass of male desire. No more pretending, then. No more standing aside while she dreamed of Chad Easterbrook.
Ryan was moving in for a good time.
Isadora’s nightmare began when she awoke. It started with a maid barely more than four feet tall. Scolding like a jungle parrot, she blustered into the room and started ordering Isadora around in a musical Brazilian patois.
“My name is Angelica. You can have your coffee and
churro
while I do your hair. And for the riding today, you may not wear that strange
norteamericano
gown. I have brought something much, much better….”
“What riding?” Isadora managed to ask. “I don’t know how to ride.”
“That is no matter. The
burro
knows what to do. All you have to do is sit. A monkey can sit.”
“I am certainly not going to ride a jackass. Truly, I cannot—” Isadora almost choked on her fried bread. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
Angelica laughed, her face jolly and appealing despite the sad state of her teeth. “It is your costume for riding.”
“I won’t do it. I won’t put that on.”
“Senhora Peabody, you are not going to insult your hostess by refusing, are you?”
“I’m afraid I shall have to.”
“I’m afraid I cannot let you.”
The argument went on, but the diminutive servant proved the stronger, and by eight o’clock Isadora stood in the courtyard, dubiously eyeing a sleepy looking burro. She felt utterly ridiculous—Angelica had made her put on a strange, wide-legged split skirt that barely covered her shins. “Like the
gauchos
wear,” the maid had declared, buttoning the back of a loose white blouse.
She felt completely naked. Yet without her corset and longcloth petticoats, she detected a comfort and ease that was alien to her. Well, she thought. If Rose insisted on riding a mule for a bit this morning, she could oblige.
But it wasn’t Rose who came out to greet her in the courtyard.
It was Ryan.
After all their days together on shipboard, Isadora told herself, she should be used to his startling handsomeness, but she wasn’t. Freshly dressed in fitted dark breeches and a blousy white shirt, he looked more outrageously attractive than ever.
She couldn’t help herself. She kept thinking of last night. It changed everything. Last night he had kissed her—too intimately to be dismissed as a friendly gesture, too lightly to be construed as true passion.
His regrets had come almost instantly, she recalled. He’d hastened to return to the house, and the rest of the evening he’d studiously avoided her while regaling his aunt with tales of his adventures at sea.
Isadora had somehow managed to endure the evening by sitting stiffly, her back rigid, nodding when spoken to and pleading fatigue far earlier than she should have, then disappearing into her chamber. She would have been able to get through today if she didn’t have to see Ryan. The longer she spent away from him, the more she could convince herself that their embrace had been a figment of her imagination.
But now she had to look him in the eye by the dazzling light of day. All the feelings he had stirred in her—the warmth, the yearning, the frustration, the ecstasy—had barely cooled and in fact heated anew when he came near.
She angled the flat brim of her straw hat over her eyes. “Was this your idea?”
“Good morning to you, too,” he said cheerfully.
Clearly, the night before hadn’t affected him at all. He was back to being the friendly, unconventional Ryan she’d known from the start.
“I don’t ride, you know,” she said.
“Before you boarded the
Swan,
you didn’t sail, either,” he replied.
“But there was a point to sailing. I have no idea what the point of riding an ass is.”
“Ah, you’ll see.” He grinned and went over to one of the burros. “Do you know how to mount it?”
She felt a blush splotching her neck and cheeks. “How difficult can it be?”
“I’ll hold its head and you get on.” He reached for the bridle. The animal bit at him, large yellow teeth snapping loudly. Ryan pulled his hand out of harm’s way. “This must be a female.”
“You are so amusing.”
He managed to hold the beast and she surprised herself by swinging easily into the saddle. The animal was small and short-legged, so that helped, and once settled astride, she understood completely why she had been made to wear the gaucho pants.
After they were both mounted, she looked across the courtyard at Ryan and burst out laughing.
“What?”
“Your noble steed,” she said. “What a picture you make. I should call you Don Quixote.”
“You are so amusing,” he said, mimicking her tone. “Come, Sancho. Our quest begins.”
“Our quest for what?”
“You’ll see.” He patted his saddlebag, then kicked his heels into the burro’s flanks. The little animal trotted forward, and Isadora’s mount followed.
She enjoyed the ride too much. She loved seeing the countryside from the back of a plodding burro. Everything passed with delicious slowness. They rode two abreast on the gravelly mountain pathways, winding downward toward the city. The hot, dry sun felt good. The hat brim shaded her face, but she could feel the brush of heat on her bare arms and the backs of her hands.
She and Ryan spoke little as they descended the steep road to the heart of Rio. Isadora kept thinking of the way Ryan had touched her, holding her as if she were something fragile and fine, something he didn’t want to hurt yet couldn’t let go.
Then she remembered that this was Ryan Calhoun. He had probably learned the seductive manner of embracing a woman from his countless lovers, and he’d honed it to a fine art. He had, in fact, come from the arms of another woman as if it didn’t matter whose embrace he shared. She was making a fanciful moment out to be too big an affair. They were together in a scented garden, coaxing an exotic animal out into the light, and the moment had been no more than that.
That’s all it was. That’s all it could ever be. That’s all she dared to want it to be.
“You’re living inside your head, Isadora,” Ryan called to her.
“What do you mean by that?”
He swept one arm out to encompass the view of the harbor, the sparkling waters and the distant mountains. “I’ve brought you to paradise and you’re scowling. What are you thinking about that makes you scowl?”
She felt the rash of a new blush. “Nothing. This is a different mode of travel for me, and I’m not used to it.”
“Well, try enjoying the scenery, and the travel won’t bother you so much.”
He was right, she discovered. Rio was endlessly fascinating, from the Fountain of the Laundresses with its chattering servants and energetic water boys stationed at the spigots to the fashionable rua do Ouvidor, where mysterious, bejeweled
donas
went about in curtained litters.
They visited the ship and watched the discharging of the cargo. Ryan’s next task was to check the inventory against that of the consignee, then come to a reckoning of a price.
“We’ll sail back with more specie than any other ship in Boston Harbor,” Ryan declared. “A hundred thousand pounds sterling.”
From anyone else, she would have dismissed it as an idle boast.
They tethered their mules at the edge of the vast, busy marketplace. Lusty voiced vendors hawked their wares from beneath gaily colored awnings. Some chanted rhymes or banged wooden clappers to get attention. Mounds of fruit, flowers, fish, cloth and every sort of small ware cluttered the market square.
Ryan took her hand. Isadora felt a twinge of pleasure but immediately denied it. He had grabbed hold of her because the crowd surged around him. Nothing more.
“Let’s shop,” he said.
“For what?” Her gaze took in a veritable banquet of sights and sounds—the fruit, the coffee and vegetables, hammered metals from the mountain mines, jerked beef and cod, ungainly sacks of beans and rice, brilliantly dyed cloth and bamboo cages with exotic birds.
“For everything,” Ryan declared.
She couldn’t help herself. She laughed with delight. No matter how exasperating he could be, Ryan Calhoun made everything fun.
The hours sped by as they walked through the market. They ate melons, letting the juice dribble down their chins. They sent a special fifty-pound sack of coffee to the
Swan
to take back to the Peabodys as a gift and bought a silver samovar for Arabella’s wedding gift. They picked out silver filigree earrings for Lily and Rose, a tortoiseshell comb for Fayette and a fancy cigar for Journey.
Ryan bought something else from the jeweler, but tucked the small box away before Isadora could see what it was. Doubtless a trinket for one of his lady friends, she thought with a stab of jealousy.
What a calamity it was, finding that she was jealous of harborside whores.
She thrust away the disgusting thought. She would not let it mar her day. If she must fix her hopes on a man, she should be thinking of Chad rather than allowing her attention to stray to such an inappropriate man as Ryan Calhoun. Chad had held her heart for so long. She would not turn her back on him for the sake of an inconstant, swaggering sea captain.
She knew better than to believe she meant anything to Ryan. She told herself to concentrate on her goal to be an asset to the company. She was too smart to open herself to heartache over Ryan Calhoun.
Having settled that issue in her mind, she hurried toward a brightly painted puppet theater. She laughed at the antics of a pair of marionettes, translating the silly story for Ryan.
“They fight like cats and dogs,” she said, pointing to the papier-mâché man and woman bobbing before the crowd, “and they’ve both gone off to a masquerade
fantasia,
each determined to find a more worthy love. And each discovers an exotic stranger.”
The crowd guffawed and clapped as the puppets danced.
“Let me guess,” Ryan said. “When they take off the masks, they discover they’ve been in love with each other all along.”
“Of course.”
“Just like in real life,” he said with a chuckle.
He put his hand on the small of her back in order to steer her toward more vendors’ stalls. They perused pyramids of papayas and mangos. Her body responded to his light touch before her mind could deny it. She felt the warmth, the flush of pleasure, and by the time she realized what she was feeling, it was too late to stop herself from reacting.
He stopped at a display of carnival masks.
“No,” she said, guessing his intent.
“Yes.” He bought a handful of feathered-and-gilt masks and a colorful fringed shawl. “For the lady,” he explained.
“I don’t need it.”
“Which is precisely why you must have it.” And he looped the shawl around behind her, using it as a sling to draw her closer and closer to him. She thought she might die of embarrassment.