The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle: The Charm School. Сьюзен Виггс

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      “Captain Calhoun?”

      “At your service,” Ryan said.

      “Your chief mate said I’d find you at the mercado. I am Maurício Ferraro.”

      Ryan broke into a grin. “My elusive consignee!”

      “Congratulations on a most successful run.”

      “Congratulations on being the first to fill your warehouse with ice,” Ryan said with a conspiratorial wink. “May I present Miss Isadora Peabody.”

      “Charmed.” The dark, smiling Brazilian took her hand and held it to his lips with excessive courtesy. “I was hoping you would join me and my family for supper tomorrow. You and your delightful lady friend.”

      Isadora was so stunned to hear herself referred to in such terms that she barely heard Ryan say “Mighty obliged,” barely felt him steer her toward the burros and help her mount. Was that why everyone liked her? Because Ryan had shown her favor?

      She didn’t know what surprised her more—that Senhor Ferraro thought her delightful or that he assumed she was Ryan’s lady. The rest of the day passed in a delicious blur of activity. They took their time going back to the villa, stopping every so often to take in the arresting beauty of the exotic city. Everywhere Isadora looked, she saw new wonders, from the lush floral growth in every alley and garden to the jagged distant mountains with their smooth granite faces plunging into Guanabara Bay.

      “Why are we stopping here?” she asked.

      He tethered the burros. “It’s Ipanema,” he said. “One of the most famous beaches in the world.”

      Indeed it was a remarkable place, populated by bathers in all shapes, sizes and colors. Parents relaxed in hinged wooden chairs shaded by giant parasols while children dug in the sand or chased balls or each other.

      As they walked, they sank into the sugar-white, sugar-fine sand. Ryan stopped at a bench and bade her sit.

      “I want to walk on the beach,” she protested.

      “So you shall.” Without asking for permission or explaining himself, he knelt in front of her, grabbed her left ankle and removed her shoe and stocking.

      She would have shrieked in protest but she was too shocked. By the time she found her tongue, both her feet were bare.

      “Why did you do that?”

      Calmly he removed his own shoes and socks. “It’s too hard to walk in the sand in shoes.”

      “It’s indecent.”

      He parked their shoes on the bench. “You’re not going to start that again. I won’t allow it.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s walk.”

      She took three steps in the warm sand and stopped. “Oh, dear.”

      “Now what’s wrong?”

      She looked down at her shockingly bare feet, buried to the arches in silken sand. “This is the most sinfully delicious sensation I’ve ever felt.”

      He laughed. “Oh, love. You have led a sheltered life.”

      They walked on, passing Sugar Loaf Rock. Beyond the rock, they found a deserted spot where cliffs towered over the shore and the waves stole onto the beach. Without hesitation, Ryan led her directly into the surf.

      “We mustn’t,” she said. “This is—”

      “Don’t squeak and squawk at me, Isadora,” he said with excessive patience. “It’s so tiresome when you do that.”

      The surf was creamy and sinuous as it rushed to the shore, swirling around their ankles. “It’s warm,” Isadora exclaimed, “and I was wrong.”

      “About what?”

      “This is the most sinfully delicious sensation I’ve ever felt.”

      “No,” he said, pulling her against him. In that one movement she felt the multiple pressures of his thigh against hers, hip to hip, chest to breast. “You are.”

      Fifteen

      Oh Lord! If you but knew what a brimstone of a creature I am behind all this beautiful amiability!

      —Jane Welsh Carlyle

      (1836)

      “Why are you scowling at me so?” Isadora asked, holding the running strap of the carriage.

      Ryan deepened his scowl, peering at her in the dim light of the coach lamp that shone through the window. “I was wondering if Senhor Ferraro will believe my supper companion was the same laughing, carefree girl he met at the marketplace yesterday.”

      “Not all men put such stock in a person’s appearance,” she said, shifting her gaze out the window.

      Ryan had a devilish urge to grab her, muss her hair and clothes, to make her sorry she’d attempted to crawl back into her proper Bostonian shell. She wore the black-and-brown dress he’d hated from the start, the drab skirts belled out over multiple crinolines. She’d scraped her hair away from her face, though he was pleased to see the wavy stray locks retained a golden vibrance imparted by weeks of exposure to sun and sea.

      But far more alarming than her sober mode of dress was her attitude. She had once again adopted a cowed and apologetic demeanor, holding her shoulders hunched and her chin lowered almost to her chest. This was the way Isadora Peabody of Beacon Hill had presented herself to the world: as a woman who had absolutely no sense of her own worth.

      “You look as if you’re dressed for a funeral wake,” he grumbled.

      She turned from the window, let her gaze flick over him, taking in the yellow waistcoat and turquoise jacket. “You more than make up for my lack of color.”

      “Could you at least try not to look as if you’re on the way to the gallows?”

      “I am not fond of social engagements. I never have been. You should have come without me tonight.”

      Somewhere along the way, life had taught her that social engagements were painful. She had learned to gird herself for the ordeal like a soldier arming for battle. A tough corset and a servile attitude became her shield and her sword. Once again, she’d bitten her fingernails ragged, a habit he’d hoped she’d conquered on shipboard.

      Why do you do this? he wanted to ask her. But he didn’t. Criticizing her lack of poise was dangerous. Because as soon as he let himself worry about her, he’d start to care, and that could be deadly, could distract him from his cause. He needed to marshal all his reckless nerve in order to do what had to be done about Journey’s wife.

      The coach delivered them to a fashionable address in the Botafogo section of Rio. Turning in from the broad brickwork lane lined by carabba trees, they passed through a massive gate of wrought iron. Family crests bearing ships and lions hung from the bars of the gate. The conveyance followed a cobbled circular drive with a lighted СКАЧАТЬ