Tomorrow the Glory Page 2

  “Yes,” he said bluntly.

  She continued to look at him, digesting his information with a calm interest. Again he felt his anger grow. “I found you on the Battery,” he said harshly. “You fainted; I brought you here.”

  “It is your ship, then?”

  He offered her a grim smile. “Yes, ma’am. It is my ship.”

  She stood, then, and he saw that she was tall for a woman. He noted again how very beautiful she was. Without the distortion of her crinoline he found her figure very lithe and graceful, and now that she had awakened, he noticed that her skin was exceptionally fine, like silk. With her pallor gone, a fresh color brightened her cheeks, a natural pale rose that beautifully complemented her honeyed hair, the inky smudges of her lashes, and the bluer than blue of her arresting eyes.

  She moved about the small cabin with a restless grace. “I apologize, Captain. I have never before fainted in my life. I’m afraid I neglected to eat with the excitement of the day.”

  “I see,” Brent replied, crossing his arms over his chest as he observed his mysterious guest. “Too busy celebrating?”

  Her lashes lowered over her eyes. “No, sir, I do not celebrate this day.”

  “Are you a Unionist?” he demanded.

  “No, sir,” she murmured. Her eyes lit on her discarded crinoline, yet its removal seemed to mean nothing to her. She appeared to totally accept her situation with calm interest. “I am a native South Carolinian, Captain.” Her lashes had remained lowered; suddenly they rose; the smile she offered him was dazzling. Her lips were so beautifully shaped, her teeth small and white and perfect.

  Who in their right mind had allowed this beauty to roam the streets alone?

  “And you, Captain?”

  He was wise to her charming questioning, her abrupt attempt to bring the focus of the conversation from herself to him. That was all right, he thought, his eyes narrowing. He’d play her game for a while.

  “And I?” he inquired. Standing, he clasped his hands behind his back and circled his guest until he reached the wooden planking of the cabin door. From there he continued to observe her.

  “Did you celebrate today?” she pressed, offering him another of her dazzling and coquettish smiles.

  “Did I celebrate?” he repeated somewhat bitterly, as if the question were a new one he must phrase to himself.

  “Sir!” She sounded impatient. “If we should come to war, where will your loyalties lie?”

  “With my state,” he answered quietly.

  “Which state?” she queried huskily.

  He cast an amused frown in the direction of her blue, blue eyes.

  “Florida, madam. I am a Floridian.”

  “Florida,” she repeated, smiling very slowly. She lowered her lashes again, and idly glanced at the charts that covered his desk, touching the edge of one with a slender finger. She returned her glance to him. “I had always thought the state nothing but swamps and Indians—and backwoods. Is that true, sir?”

  Brent allowed himself a hearty laugh. “No, madam, some of the loveliest plantations you would ever wish to see grace our landscape. The soil is rich and fertile, the weather warm, the sun brilliant. The ocean is ever blue, ever beautiful.”

  Once again her lashes lowered. She had the capacity to act the perfect southern belle, and yet she was like no other woman he had ever met, great lady or harlot. She played prettily only when required to receive an answer she desired; yet one could almost see the sharp workings of her mind. Each of her questions was planned; she sought something.

  It appeared that she, his guest, was putting him through a strange test. He was being judged.

  Suddenly anger surged through him. He wanted to shake her. Didn’t she know the folly she had almost brought upon herself? Just watching her was arousing him, the soft, natural undulation of her hips as she sailed about his cabin. He could feel his blood grow hot . . . pulse and surge . . .

  “Enough, madam,” he said curtly. “I haven’t time to amuse you or to satisfy your curiosity. I want to know who the hell you are so that I might return you to father or husband.”

  Her lashes lowered. “There is neither,” she said softly.

  “Then pray, madam, what would you have me do with you?”

  “Do you sail soon?”

  “With the morning tide.”

  Her direct gaze met his. “I’d like to sail with you.”

  Very slowly, and with calculated assessment, Brent allowed his eyes to roam his visitor from head to toe, lingering upon the lush swell of breast and hips. “You do not look the whore,” he said roughly.

  She flinched slightly; her lashes swept down over her eyes, but then she was facing him again, the indigo of her eyes so sultry he was certain he had imagined the flinch. “I am not a whore, Captain.” Her voice was husky; it sent a new wave of heat rushing to his loins. “I merely wish to reach another port. And”—she allowed her tone to fall lower, her eyes to rake suggestively over him—“I find you quite . . . appealing.”

  Her reply thoroughly startled him, but he arched a brow high with skepticism. Despite her words and manner, something about her didn’t ring quite true. She was stunningly beautiful. Her clothing was of the finest quality. Her speech was gently modulated.

  He sat at his chart desk and rudely leaned back to clunk his boots atop it while he struck a match to light a slim cigar, assessing her all the while with a frank scrutiny that should have made her blush. “Lady, I wonder if you know what you ask. If fortune has struck against you, I don’t believe I am the man you seek. I am not the marrying kind.”

  “I have no wish to lure you into marriage!” she said with an irritated exclamation. Seeing the mocking smile that curved his lip and raised his brow at her display of temper, she swiftly lowered her lashes again, and spoke with soft seduction. “I wish only to strike a bargain.” Her laughter rang out suddenly like a sweet melody. “Really, Captain.” She glanced toward her crinoline. “I do believe I’ve already been compromised. And a southern gentleman—”

  “Don’t count on my being a gentleman,” Brent warned her, inhaling on the cigar.

  But even as he spoke, he felt the pulsing need and desire strengthen. Sharp gray eyes, the hue of granite, swept over her again. When he looked at her he wanted to touch her; to see the parting of her rose lips in anticipation of his, to see the incredible blue of her eyes misted with passion . . . but he would not be used, not by any man or woman.

  “Lady, what is this?” he inquired shortly. “If you have hopes to irritate a lover, bring him jealously to my steps for a duel to delight your nature, I will not participate. I would not waste life for the vanity of a foolish woman seeking attention. I fear, madam, that soon enough plenty of the gallants of our region will lie dead.”

  She inhaled slightly. “I have told you, sir, no gallant will rush to my defense.”

  Sweet Jesus. He wondered what power she held over him. If she taunted him much longer he would cease to care; he would find himself ripping off the remainder of her clothing and taking her on the floor....

  What was she? The finest of courtesans? How else could she offer herself with such aplomb? Perhaps a widow, long without a husband? Whatever, she was no innocent maid, and if she wanted to hop into bed with him, he sure as hell didn’t have any objection as long as she expected no ties.

  “You wish to strike a bargain, but I warn you the price may be high. Tell me your terms”—he smiled coldly—“and I’ll give you mine.”

  He finally seemed to have had an effect on her. The color in her cheeks rose; her steady gaze faltered. “I wish to reach another port.” She hesitated only a moment. “Take me, and I will be yours.”

  Brent McClain arched his brow still higher and kept silent for a moment. “Perhaps I should get you something to eat.”

  “Then you accept my offer?” she breathed.

  “Not yet,” he drawled. “But whether I do or not, I don’t care to have you swooning on me again. I want a few more
minutes to decide whether or not you’ll be worth the passage.”

  For a moment she lost her elusive calm; she stared at him as if she meant to slit his throat. But the color drained from her face, and the murderous gleam left her eyes. She stared at him and smiled. “I assure you, Captain, I’ll be worth the passage.”

  He opened the door he had leaned against and harshly barked for Charlie. When a curious McPherson appeared, Brent asked for some food and said he wished to remain undisturbed. It annoyed him to see McPherson grin like a monkey for the lady, about to trip over his own fool feet for her. She had granted him one brilliant smile, and he was entranced.

  While they waited, he turned to her sharply. “I am Captain Brent McClain,” he said coldly. “What is your name? If I am to whisper in passion, I want to know whom to address.”

  Again she blushed, but still she held her ground.

  “Kendall,” she said clearly. “Kendall Moore.”

  He nodded distractedly, moving near the open door. “Charlie, damn your hide, what’s taking so long?”

  Charlie, appearing with commendable speed, glanced at him reproachfully. In a matter of minutes he had managed to create a handsome tray of cold fowl, bread and creamery butter, and wine.

  “That’s fine, Charlie, thank you,” Brent said firmly, shutting Charlie out of the cabin.

  Brent sat at his desk and watched her. She said nothing as she seated herself across from him, eating ravenously but with an elegant delicacy. She made no apology for her appetite. He knew that she covertly watched him as she imbibed freely of the wine. It appeared that she craved the relaxation it might bring . . .

  * * *

  Kendall wasn’t really craving the wine; she drank out of nervousness. She was frightened by the man she faced; he was built like Goliath, and moved with a deadly, pantherlike agility. His face was not so handsome as it was extraordinarily arresting. It showed strength, character. The angular planes were rugged; the jawline was firm and square. His eyes were level, straight, and direct. He was a man who would demand much. A dangerous man if crossed, she was certain. If used . . . and she planned to use him. His eyes seemed to sear into her soul; they made her shiver. Dear God, she had chosen the wrong man. He didn’t squander his energy on gallantries. But she had to get out of Charleston, so she had to carry it off.

  Covertly she gazed at him again. He was tall and broad of shoulder, narrow and trim at the waist. From his form-hugging trousers and knee-high boots she knew that his legs were long and as sturdy as tree trunks, finely muscled and shaped. The fingers, too, that tapped on his desk appeared powerful, like his hands—long, broad across the knuckles.

  The shivering assailed her again. How would such a man touch a woman? she wondered. And then she bit into a piece of meat so that he wouldn’t see her tremble. All she had known of men thus far had been misery.

  She sipped her wine again, almost gulping it. She had made a mistake. He radiated masculine power and virility. It was natural, something he breathed and walked. Such a man would also be ruthless. She could feel it by the sear of his eyes as he probed her. How will I keep him at bay? she wondered desperately. If I fail, and if he discovers that I am a liar, he will be relentless. God help me. I must have been mad; I will never succeed. But I must! I must!

  Where she had come up with her plan, she didn’t know. It had only come to mind when she had seen him. And then she had brashly opened her mouth. Now she had begun something that she had to finish. And whatever came, it would be worth it, because she would disappear before the radical events in Charleston today forever made her a prisoner in a land that was foreign to her.

  I am mad. . . .

  She had eaten all that there was to eat. Willing her fingers to steadiness, she poured herself more wine and brought her cool gaze level with his.

  Why was he so angry? she wondered. “Are you quite finished . . . Kendall?” he inquired in a mocking drawl.

  She nodded.

  “Then will you stand, please?” His voice was pleasant. Too pleasant.

  He raked his gaze over her again, letting her see how he mentally stripped her with a practiced eye. She was no debutante, he decided. She was young and beautifully fresh, but past the age when a southern girl was presented to society and married. Was this a game she played often? Did she often seek out lovers? Her eyes professed a mysterious innocence; they also seemed to promise the enigma and the wisdom of all seductive femininity . . . With a cruelty he couldn’t suppress, he demanded disdainfully, “What makes you think, madam, that I should find you worth the passage?”

  It was not the ashen color he had seen earlier, but her high-framed cheeks went white. He wasn’t particularly proud of his triumph, and yet it was justice. He had known that she had observed him closely, as he had her, since her eyes had opened; she had judged his physical attributes, he thought wryly, and she had obviously decided he passed inspection.

  Kendall suddenly knew deep and devastatingly how slaves felt when they stood on the block at auction. And for the first time, she lost sight of her plan. A black fury seemed to overwhelm her; she was speaking before she thought. “Because I had figured you as a gambler—you backwoods bastard!” she hissed. And she spun on her heel, groping blindly for the cabin door.

  “Oh, no, madam!” he suddenly roared, and then, with lithe steps he was upon her, jerking her into his arms. “You have teased me long enough with your bold proposition, with the promise in your eyes. I will have you tonight, Kendall Moore. Your bargain is sealed.”

  Her head fell back; her eyes, as deep and storm-tossed and mysterious as the ocean, met his.

  “We reach a new port first!” she insisted icily. “That’s the deal I offer!”

  His lips tightened grimly within the strong line of his jaw. The steel of his eyes ripped through her with the brutality of a knife. “Your deal? Well, madam, I’ll have a sampling of what I’m being offered before I agree to terms!”

  His lips fell on her bruisingly. He plundered her mouth, forcing it to his, his tongue delving between her teeth in an invasion that swept away any chance of denial. His fingers tangled into her hair, his hand spanned the small of her back, forcing her to him. But then . . . his intent changed. He had wanted to savage her with the fever that had gripped him. Now he found that he did not. He drew his lips from hers, then touched them with a light and teasing brush, mingling his breath with the sweetness of hers. She smelled of mint and roses . . .

  He stood back from her, pulling his shirt from his trousers and undoing the pearl buttons. He raised a brow at her as he removed the silver cuff links at his wrists. He paused. Waiting. Determined.

  “Now, Kendall,” he told her hoarsely. Relentlessly. “If you want passage, I will have you now.”

  She was shivering, shaking from his assault. She could not resist his strength; neither could she drag herself from the effect his gentleness had had on her senses. He had touched something within her, something that made her want him, as dangerous and demanding as he was . . .

  But he would know! He would discover that she was a fraud, and he would throw her off his ship.

  “Now!” he demanded again, gray eyes sharp and nakedly displaying a desire that could no longer be taunted.

  She watched as his shirt fell to the floor. She stared at the broad expanse of his chest, at the rippling muscles of his shoulders, at the tawny hair that tapered to a line at the waistband of his breeches.

  “I . . .” She lifted her chin. He might not be a typical southern gentleman, but surely he would keep his word. “Your promise,” she said, trying to still the quiver in her voice. “Your promise that you will deliver me to another port.”

  His lips were set in a grim line. She had to have his promise before her shaking became so uncontrollable that she panicked and fled. She couldn’t do this! She didn’t know the game! But she had to play it. Now.

  Kendall smiled sensually, reaching gracefully for the hooks of her gown. She allowed the silver dress to fall in a r
ush of silk to the floor, forcing herself to remain tall and proud as her breasts were bared above the corset. “I promise you I’ll be worth the passage,” she murmured, slowly, seductively untying the drawstrings of her corset and allowing that, too, to fall to the floor.

  Brent tossed back his tawny head and laughed. “Madam, you are worth it already. It will be no difficult task to transport you from one berth to another.”

  Kendall pouted, allowing her fingertip to hover over her lips. Then she clenched her fist over her heart, between her breasts. “Your word, Captain,” she murmured prettily, lashes fluttering as she prayed that she would make the right moves in this game that was totally new to her. “Your word . . .”

  As Brent stared at her, minus stays and corset, he discovered with a pleasure that brought his breath to a rasp that her perfection was real. Firm, high breasts, cream-colored, rose-tipped, met his view. Beneath them lay the visible line of her ribs, narrowing to a waist his hands could circle. With pulse beginning to pound, he reached for the cord of her pantalettes, pulled it loose, and watched their path as they fell to her feet.

  Her belly was concave; her legs long and sleek. The deep shadows of her hips lent fascination to the honey brush of feminine hair, an intoxicating contrast to the cream silk of her flesh.

  He stepped back again as she stood, devouring her with his eyes as his senses came to a lava boil. Sitting in the chair that had been hers for her meal, he began to pull off his boots. Still their eyes held; but who hypnotized whom he wasn’t sure.

  “Your word, Captain,” she insisted. Dear God! She couldn’t stay here like this much longer.

  He smiled rakishly and shrugged. “My word, Kendall. As I said, giving you passage will be no hardship.”

  She had to bite down on her lip. She was worth passage only because passage was so cheap. And she was standing naked before this arrogant but arrestingly handsome stranger who appeared even more awesome as he shed his clothing.

  With boots cast aside he stood again, walking to her slowly. His cheek nuzzled against hers as he sought her lips, this time taking them deeply. His hands found her shoulders, caressed the feel of silk, then glided slowly over her spine, appreciating the fine indentation. He felt the soft touch of her fingertips coming up to press against his chest....