Heart Of The Storm. Mary Burton

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СКАЧАТЬ She will be traveling with us. Mr. Rubin keeps the eight men on this ship in line, including myself sometimes.”

      Rubin glanced down at her. His gaze traveled over her black dress and veiled face. “A woman is bad luck, but a widow is daring fate to destroy us. The men will not like it.”

      LaFortune shrugged. “She is paying well.”

      “We’ve had smooth sailing since New York,” the old sailor said. “Why tempt the seas now? Our lives are not worth whatever fare she has paid.”

      The captain’s smile flattened. “Madame, you must excuse Rubin. He has sailed the seas for over forty years, but he is quite superstitious.”

      Rachel sensed the power play between the two men. She kept silent.

      “Good luck is why I’ve lived so long,” Rubin said.

      The captain’s gaze hardened.

      Rubin wasn’t happy, but he knew when he had pushed too far. “Very well. But we will regret this.” He nodded toward the small door that led to the hold below. “This way.”

      As Rachel started to turn, the wind caught her veil and whisked it back off her face. For an instant her gaze caught the captain’s. She saw his eyes spark with interest as he studied the bruise marring her left eye. She quickly grabbed the veil and pulled it back in place.

      The captain frowned. “Who would mar such a lovely face as yours?”

      Rachel held the veil in place with a gloved hand. “It was an accident.”

      He smiled. “Of course.”

      He didn’t believe her, and she did not care. As long as he didn’t press her for details and left her alone, she was satisfied.

      She wanted nothing more than to find her cabin and bar the door. “My cabin, Mr. Rubin?”

      Nodding, the old sailor led her belowdecks. Rubin had to stoop to move down the low, narrow hallway. The smell of urine and filth, magnified by the confined space, assailed her.

      He opened a small door to a cabin. The room had a bunk, one chair and a chamber pot next to the bed. A small portal above the bunk looked out onto the harbor. The precious little floor space was crammed full of crates of wine.

      “Will you be needing anything?” Rubin asked.

      She stepped into the room. The sheets on the bunk were stained. A rat scurried into a corner then disappeared behind a crate. Eight days in this hole seemed intolerable. However she had no choice.

      Choking back her fear she said, “No.”

      “Then I will leave you.”

      She stared out the portal onto the busy dock. Hundreds of people milled around out there. The thought that one could be Peter had her itching to leave port. “Mr. Rubin, how long until we sail?”

      He stopped, his hand on the door handle ready to close it. “A half hour.”

      Too long. She would not rest easy until the shores of America were out of sight. “Thank you.”

      With a grunt, Rubin closed the door behind him.

      Rachel sat in the chair. She removed her veil. The air in the cabin was thick, but still it felt good to be free of the suffocating veil. She draped the veil over the back of the chair. She tugged off her second glove and, along with the other, folded it neatly. She took great care to tuck both in her reticule next to her money and a small volume of poems. The task complete, she folded her hands in her lap. She considered reading several poems. They always calmed her. Her stomach already queasy from the rocking of the ship, she decided against it.

      The ship creaked. Above, the captain shouted commands.

      She caught her reflection in a small mirror nailed to the wall beside the bunk. Her blue eyes were sunken, lifeless, and her skin pale. She looked much older than her twenty-three years.

      How had her life become such a terrible mess?

      This time last year, everything had been different. Her father had been alive and she’d been the belle of her social circle.

      Then her father had died suddenly. Rachel had known Peter, a business associate of her father’s, for years. Peter had been a kind, gentle man. And when she’d learned that her father’s finances were in a shambles, he’d helped her with the creditors. He was always there. Quiet, ready to help.

      So when he’d offered marriage, it had seemed quite natural to say yes. She’d imagined her affection would grow over time and one day she would love Peter.

      She’d been such a naive fool.

      In the first weeks of their marriage he’d insisted on knowing where she was going. In her father’s house, she had had greater freedom than most women and she’d been accustomed to coming and going as she’d pleased. She’d been taken aback by Peter’s command at first. But vowing to be a good wife, she’d complied. Then Peter had objected to her friends who’d called on her at her home. She’d accepted that marriage meant change, and though she didn’t like it, she’d told her friends not to call. In time, she reasoned, when Peter wasn’t under such great pressure at work, he would ease his restriction. However, the rules had only grown stricter. And it wasn’t long before her clothes weren’t quite right. They were too loud, too bold. Her opinions weren’t ladylike.

      To keep the peace she’d started to compromise. She wore more somber clothes. She spoke less often and put aside her books.

      Soon, Peter saw to it that she never left the house unless he was with her. He chose what she wore, what she ate and when she slept. She’d become a prisoner with only her needlework to occupy her time.

      Two nights ago, they’d come home from a party. Peter had been in a rage because she’d talked too long to a young man. He’d accused her of having an affair. Though she’d tried to allay his fears, he’d grown angrier by the moment. And this time he’d hit her.

      For the first time she’d seen the true monster that lurked behind the blond hair and blue eyes.

      As she’d lain on the cold floor, bruised and bleeding, Rachel had begun to plan her escape.

      The next morning, Peter had kissed her on the cheek and bid her good day. He’d planned to take her on his business trip to Baltimore, but her left eye had been far too black. Her appearance would have raised questions. So he’d been forced to leave her behind. Next time, he’d scolded, she should not make him so angry.

      She’d stood at her bedroom window watching him as he’d climbed into his carriage. When the carriage had rounded the corner, she’d fled.

      She’d gone to the docks and inquired about freighters that took on passengers. Forced to wait for the morning tide, she’d spent the night in an inn by the docks.

      Only a day, two at most, remained before Peter returned. A couple of days to put as much distance as she could between them.

      Within a half hour, the Anna St. Claire set sail. The trip down the river was smooth. As the hours ticked by, her nerves relaxed a fraction. Everything was going to be fine.

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