Chapter 12

12

Enya took a deep breath and tried to stifle the queasiness inside.

"Better?" Sullivan's voice rumbled low, his presence steady and strong at her side.

She nodded and lifted her face to the sun, letting the warmth bathe her skin. Closing her eyes, she inhaled, the air laden with warmth and the scent of the early blooming azaleas.

She was embarrassed to have to cling to Sullivan. And she hated that he'd witnessed her nearly getting sick to her stomach a moment ago while sitting in the fancy restaurant he'd taken her to tonight during their stopover in Natchez.

"I'm sorry, Sullivan." The commotion of the main thoroughfare resounded around them—the passing of wagons, the bustle of pedestrians, and the businesses still trying to sell their wares. Fine brick buildings mingled with the older clapboard, attesting to the development of the town—although it couldn't begin to compare with the growth of St. Louis.

The biggest difference with St. Louis was that the dull grays and browns had been replaced by color and growth. Surrounding Natchez and all along the river, the lush green was stunning—the oak, beech, and cypress trees already in full blossom. The full array of beautiful flowers loaded the fruit trees—peach, apricot, mulberry, and quince. The air was laden with their sweet scents.

She could admit she was relishing every moment on solid ground. After the past ten days of traveling downriver on the Belle , she was learning to take advantage of each extended stop in the port towns, including the chance to attend mass on the past Sabbath.

Sullivan had offered to find a room in a hotel for the night since they wouldn't be leaving until the next morning. But she didn't want the hassle of moving, not when their berth was the best and biggest on the steamer. It was a lovely room, and she was more than comfortable in it, especially because Sullivan catered to her every whim.

If she hinted their room was too dark, he'd have the chambermaid bring another lantern. If she mentioned that she was cold, she'd soon have extra blankets. He'd even made arrangements for them to eat in a private dining room away from all the other passengers so she wouldn't have to worry about anyone else like Mrs. Townsend embarrassing her.

No one had ever treated her the way Sullivan did. As a middle child in her family, she'd always felt overlooked, even insignificant. She supposed in some ways that had made her bolder and more expressive because she'd had to speak up more forcefully to let her voice rise above the clamor. Even then, she'd never felt truly understood.

But Sullivan saw her every need, sometimes even before she did. He listened to each word she spoke, even though he didn't always respond. And he seemed to make her comfort and happiness his priority.

"You should go back inside and finish your meal." She opened her eyes and nodded toward the establishment behind them, the waft of food again making her stomach lurch.

"I'll dine with you or not at all." His statement came out harsh. But after being with him night and day for the almost two weeks they'd been married, she was learning that though he might be gruff on the outside, he was sensitive underneath.

Tonight he was attired in one of his best suits, and she could admit he was a fine-looking man with his dark hair smoothed back with pomade, his jaw lined with scruff, and his tight coat and trousers hugging all his muscles. He always wore his collar pulled up high with his cravat covering his neck and hiding the bright scars there.

He rarely smiled. But neither did she, so she couldn't complain about his lack of jesting or humor. In fact, as far as she was concerned, the more serious he was the better because then he didn't resemble Bryan, who'd loved to banter.

"What would you like to do?" He took her hand and situated it in the crook of his arm. "Perhaps take a walk along the river?"

She extricated her hand and stepped back from him. "I want you to go eat. You're hungry. And just because I can't stomach the food doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy the meal." Although she hadn't experienced much queasiness as her pregnancy progressed, sometimes the nausea came on unexpectedly.

Thankfully, the bouts were infrequent, and instead she struggled with being perpetually tired. She was ready for bed early every night and slept late. Some days she even took naps. She was slightly embarrassed by the amount of sleep she was getting, but Sullivan never seemed to mind.

"I'll eat later." His tone held a finality that told her he wouldn't be swayed. Never intimidated by her, he reached for her arm again and placed it back through his. "When we get back on board, I'll have the cook make us the baked chicken you like."

How had he known she liked the baked chicken? They'd had it for dinner one night. Aye, she'd enjoyed it more than some of the other fare that had been served, all of which had actually been pleasant for a steamboat. But she hadn't said anything about her preferences to Sullivan.

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

He ignored her silent question and started down the plank walkway that led toward the waterfront. Not only was he never intimidated by her the way other men were, but he also had no trouble taking command of her when the occasion warranted it—even sometimes when it didn't, like now.

She simply didn't know what to make of Captain Sullivan O'Brien. He was unlike any other man she'd ever known.

Although she'd done her best to keep her resolve to be polite with him, she still struggled with the fear that he'd turn into another man altogether, like Bryan had, and start treating her with contempt. What if he was being considerate because their marriage was still so new?

So far, other than the near crash the day they'd left St. Louis, their voyage had been uneventful. When she wasn't resting, they strolled on the decks, and they sat in the chairs outside their cabin and watched the passing scenery.

Because Sullivan had been traveling the Mississippi River since he was an infant, he knew everything about the mighty river, including the history, the people who lived there, the vegetation and wildlife, and more. He faithfully and patiently answered each of her questions.

During the few times when she was queasy and in bed, he'd pulled up a chair and read to her from one of his volumes of old books, mostly from Pilgrim's Progress since it held her interest more than his well-worn copy of Augustine's Confessions or The Imitation of Christ .

Even though he claimed he wasn't working, he still spent a large amount of time overseeing the operations of the boat, mostly when she was sleeping. He was always gone when she awoke in the mornings, and he came in after she was asleep at night. Sometimes she wondered if he'd even been there at all. Only the clothes draped over the chair from the previous day proved that he'd come and gone.

Guilt nagged her that she was sleeping on the bed while he bedded down on the floor. But when she'd brought up the sleeping arrangements one morning, he'd insisted he didn't mind, that he'd gotten used to sleeping on the floor when he'd been younger and done all manner of work on the steamboat.

She drew in another steadying breath, the scent of the azaleas wafting stronger as they neared the waterfront.

A dozen other steamboats were tied up along the wharf, and the dockworkers were still busy unloading the heavy cargo. From what she'd witnessed already at the other ports, the steamboat would be loaded up again with more goods. Sullivan had described it as an endless effort of shuffling necessary items from one city to the next for consumers.

A worn path meandered along the riverbank. It was edged with long grass and dotted with wildflowers she'd never seen in St. Louis, not even at her family's country home.

The evening sun seemed to paint everything with a golden hue, and it glistened on the river, turning the lapping waves iridescent.

"'Tis beautiful," she murmured, pausing and hungrily taking it all in.

"It is." He stood beside her quietly.

With her hand still tucked into his arm, she sneaked a peek at him, half expecting him to be watching her and admiring her instead of the scenery. She'd had boys and men lavish her with those kinds of silly compliments before.

But not Sullivan. He was appreciating the scenery, totally focused on it, and wasn't thinking about her at all—or at least that she could tell. Not that she wanted him to be thinking about her. But it was strange not to be the center of attention.

Why didn't he ever look at her? Didn't he find her beautiful?

"Sullivan?" What was she doing? Her heart trembled.

"Yes?" He kept his gaze on the river.

Why did she care what Sullivan thought? She didn't. She really didn't.

She stared at his strong profile—his chiseled cheek, his well-rounded chin, the hardness of his jaw. She'd learned so little about him, about who he really was.

Like that scar on his neck. She didn't know anything about it. Or his past. She only knew what he'd told her about growing up on a steamboat and little else beyond that.

She hadn't paid attention to anything about Sullivan the same way he had with her. She didn't know what his favorite meal was or what he liked to do or what brought him happiness. And the reason she didn't know anything about him was because she'd been so focused on herself, her own pain, and her own future, that she hadn't stopped to think about how he felt about everything.

A part of her wanted to understand more about this kind man she'd pledged to spend her life with. But another part of her wanted to stay oblivious. She was safer not knowing, safer with an emotional distance, safer keeping her defenses high.

He finally slid her a sideways glance. In the low light of the setting sun, his eyes were a warm bronze. For two heartbeats he seemed to give himself permission to stare at her face, and as he did so, his eyes darkened and filled with heat. Was that desire?

As his gaze met hers, she was left with no doubt. Oh aye. It was desire.

He dropped his attention to the grass in front of them.

A bubble of panic began to form in her chest. Even though she might have thought she wanted him to notice her beauty and flatter her the way other men always had, she didn't want anything to change.

She slipped her hand from his arm and started back down the path toward the steamboats. She lengthened her stride, not wanting him to follow her, reach for her, and try to convince her to give their relationship a chance to grow.

She needed to keep things the way they'd been so far since getting married—simple, at the surface, and without sharing more than they had to.

As she reached the wharf area, she didn't wait for him and continued toward the Belle , which sat like a stately queen among her ladies-in-waiting.

At the landing stage, she finally halted. Several deckhands were in the process of rolling barrels down the ramp toward the shore, and she stood aside to allow them room. The main deck was half-empty, the usual crowded storage area now deserted of the poor passengers who rode and slept wherever they could find a free spot among the cargo.

The steamboat beside the Belle was unloaded as well. Her gaze snagged upon a group of men still sitting in a huddle near the front of the deck. Though the area was shadowed and devoid of the evening rays, she had no trouble distinguishing the black color of their skin, the chains binding them to a post, and the tattered clothing that hung from their bodies. Clearly these men were slaves.

She gave a curt shake of her head at the atrocity. Even though Missouri had joined the United States as a slave state, her family didn't agree with the owning of one human being by another. Her da was a supporter of the growing abolitionist movement, and he'd taught them to loathe slavery.

Was Sullivan for slavery or against it? She hadn't thought to ask him before now. He wasn't transporting slaves on the Belle , but that didn't mean he opposed slavery. She couldn't be happy—maybe not even friends—with a husband who believed it was acceptable to treat other human beings with such contempt.

As Sullivan meandered closer, her ire at the sight of the poor men huddled together belowdecks only grew. If she could have her way, she'd stomp over and set them all free, regardless of the consequences to herself. But she wasn't na?ve and knew that if she tried such a thing so openly, she'd never succeed and would only bring more hardship to the slaves.

The previous autumn she'd secretly attended an abolition ist meeting and learned what she could do that would truly make a difference. Of course, she'd neglected the meetings over recent months since her life had fallen apart.

When she returned to St. Louis, she would have to get involved in the meetings again. Maybe now that she had a home of her own, she could provide a secret refuge to runaway slaves as they traveled toward the free states.

"Well, if it isn't Captain O'Brien himself," said a fellow overseeing the unloading of cargo from the steamboat beside the Belle .

Sullivan stopped next to Enya, and his body stiffened.

"That your wife?" the fellow called. He wore a captain's cap and coat and had a scraggly beard. "Heard she's a Shanahan."

Sullivan didn't respond, but she could feel the tension radiating from him.

"Reckon you think you'll have even more control on the waterway now that you married her." The other captain didn't seem to mind having a one-sided conversation with Sullivan. "I'm already onto you, O'Brien, and it won't be long now before I ruin you."

Before Enya could think to halt Sullivan, he was already striding across the riverfront, past the dockworkers who were watching the interaction, toward the other captain.

At Sullivan's imposing size and presence, the captain took a rapid step away, but before he could escape, Sullivan snaked out a fist, caught a handful of the man's shirt and vest, and dragged him back.

"I don't care what you do to me, Fitch." Sullivan's voice was low and hard in the quiet that had descended over the riverfront. "But don't put my wife in danger ever again."

The captain released a scoff. "I've never even spoken to her—"

"You almost hit the Belle with the Ida May ."

Was this Captain Fitch? After the near accident in St. Louis, Sullivan had briefly mentioned the conflict with the captain. He'd also explained that he'd known Captain Fitch since boyhood since their fathers had started out as captains working for the same company. But, of course, Mr. O'Brien had gone on to build an empire while Captain Fitch's father had never risen above the position of captain.

Sullivan held on to Captain Fitch's clothing for a moment longer, his other fist balled as though he intended to start a brawl.

Beneath the unruly facial hair, Captain Fitch's pale skin was turning red, and he shoved at Sullivan.

"Stay far away from her." With the low warning echoing in the air, Sullivan released Captain Fitch, spun on his heels, and stalked back toward Enya. He glowered at the dockhands who were watching, and they all quickly picked up their loads and continued their duties.

As Sullivan reached her, he gently tucked her hand against his arm and proceeded up the gangplank by her side. She wanted to pull away from him again, just as she had moments ago during their stroll. The attraction in his eyes before and now his defense of her with Captain Fitch ... was he developing deeper feelings for her already?

When they stepped onto the deck, she couldn't keep her gaze from finding the slaves again on the other steamer. "I've neglected to ask you your stance on slavery."

He followed her gaze. "I don't transport slaves like that."

"But you do transport them?"

He hesitated. "No."

She had the feeling he wasn't telling her everything. "So do you or do you not support slavery?"

"I do not." Again, his voice held a strange hesitancy.

"If so, then you have surely considered using your fleet of steamboats as a way to help slaves escape to freedom."

He glanced around, as if embarrassed to be having the conversation. "It would be very difficult to do."

"The river is likely the easiest way."

He just shook his head. "As a steamboat captain, I can be sued by slave owners if their slaves board my steamer and I don't stop to question if they're bond or free. I can even be sued if a slave shows me a forged pass that says he's free and I inadvertently help him."

"Isn't being sued worth the price of freedom?"

"Did you know that the minimum sentence in Missouri for aiding a runaway is seven years in the penitentiary?"

"You would lose seven years of your freedom. But they have lost a lifetime of theirs." She was being unfair to him, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

She spun and started across the deck, her footsteps slapping with growing frustration. Maybe he didn't support slavery, but he clearly wasn't as passionately against it as she was.

His footsteps followed, and in the next instant, he had a hold of her arm and stopped her. He turned her so she had no choice but to face him. He towered over her, but his height didn't intimidate her and neither did the thunderclouds darkening his countenance.

"You're upset with me," he stated. "But this doesn't have anything to do with slavery."

"Yes it does—"

"No."

"I'm upset at your passivity on the matter." She tried to jerk her arm loose, but his grasp was unyielding.

"You're trying to cause a fight."

"I'm bringing up a perfectly legitimate issue."

"You want to push me away."

"You're ridiculous." She backed up a step, and this time, he let her go. She spun and rushed toward the stairs, needing to get away from him, needing to protect herself, but from what she didn't know.