Chapter 13

13

Angst swirled through Sullivan. He leaned against the rail of the deck and breathed in the familiar scent of the Mississippi—a mixture of muddy water, fish, and wet grass. The river was moving lazily along the bank, and the clear surface reflected the brilliant display of stars overhead.

Normally he enjoyed this time of the night, when the vessel was mostly silent and the pressure of keeping everyone safe fell away. He loved the untamed beauty all along the Mississippi, and now that they'd reached the south, the warmer temperatures and the greener scenery made him feel at home.

But not tonight. He hadn't enjoyed anything. Not since his fight a few hours ago with Enya.

Oh, he had no doubt she despised slavery. He'd learned from the first morning with the Shanahans that they were unabashedly against slavery. He'd been relieved to hear it. But he certainly hadn't been at liberty to reveal his role in helping runaway slaves.

He still wasn't. It was already dangerous enough that he was involved, and he didn't want to bring that danger upon Enya. Keeping her ignorant, just like he did with his crew, was for the best.

So far he'd remained fairly quiet about his antislavery opinions so he didn't draw suspicion from officials and slave owners who boarded steamers and searched for runaways. And so far, his strategy had worked. No one suspected what he was doing. He'd been able to travel smoothly from New Orleans to St. Louis without a single altercation or search of his steamer.

Even though Enya loathed slavery—and rightly so—he couldn't shake the feeling that the argument was her effort to put as many obstacles between them as she could, the same as when she'd run from him while on their walk along the river.

Had she sensed his attraction?

He'd been trying hard to keep his desires in check. He'd done his best to dig a hole and stuff those longings down so deep they'd never find their way to the top. But when she'd said his name out there on the river walk, he thought he'd heard something soft, maybe even inviting. That's all it had taken to break the lock and set that desire free.

Blast. He shouldn't have looked at her. Should have kept his gaze on the river. Maybe then she wouldn't have seen just how much his attraction was growing.

But it was too late to try to change his reaction. In one glance, he'd knocked down the fragile foundation he'd been building. All he could do now was start over in his efforts to prove he was a man of honor and integrity and would never purposefully hurt or use her.

He tossed another glance toward the cabin door. The lamp was extinguished, which meant she was already in bed.

He'd made sure the cook delivered her chicken dinner. And he even asked the cook to bake a tart that she liked. But he'd decided to forgo eating with her. He wasn't sure why, except that he'd felt more discouraged than usual about the setback in their relationship. And he'd wanted time to bolster his resolve before seeing her again.

Was his resolve strengthened?

He studied the faint outline of his reflection in the water below. Although he couldn't see his face clearly, he guessed his brows were drawn and his expression serious, making him appear older than his years.

He'd hoped with enough effort that maybe eventually she'd see past all his flaws. But maybe he was hoping for the impossible. What made him think she'd accept him when Imogen and no other woman ever had?

He straightened and headed to the door. Nights were particularly difficult, sleeping so close to her and yet feeling leagues away. But what choice did he have? For now, he had to keep on being patient and earning her trust.

But what if after weeks, months, maybe years, she still didn't trust him? Still held herself back? What would he do then?

He'd keep on fulfilling his marriage vows, that's what he'd do. Because marriage vows didn't come with a time limit or an end date. They were forever. And he'd spend that forever trying to win her.

As soundlessly as he could, he opened the door and stepped inside the cabin. He stopped short at the sight of the empty bed.

She was always in bed and deeply asleep when he came in at night, especially this late.

Where was she tonight?

His pulse lurched as though it had hit a snag, and his mind raced with the possibilities. Had she somehow managed to go ashore before the landing stage was pulled up for the night? If she had, surely he would have noticed her leaving. But what if she'd waited until he was preoccupied and had slipped off? What if she'd had enough of living with him and of their marriage?

With his blood pumping faster with every passing second, he made his way to the hurricane deck and started down the deserted passageway. Maybe she'd gone to the saloon, hoping to find staff who would get her something to eat. His sisters had often spoken of cravings and being hungrier during their pregnancies, so maybe that was the case with her.

As he reached the door of the saloon, he paused. It was open a crack.

He whispered a silent prayer that she was inside and then pushed the door open a foot. Through the darkness of the room, he scanned the tables and chairs and even the cushioned benches beneath the windows.

She wasn't present.

He started to back out, but at the sound of a sniffle, he paused. He glanced around for a lantern, but the room had nothing but the chandelier globes hanging from the ceiling, and he didn't have the means to light those.

Opening the door wider to allow in the star and moonlight, he surveyed the saloon again. This time, his gaze landed upon a slumped figure sitting on the bench in front of the piano. The light, though faint, illuminated her hair— the striking red muted in the darkness, but long and loose and flowing down her back.

The sight of her hair free from the restraints of style and pins never failed to send his stomach diving deep, making him unable to come up for air. Most mornings when he awoke, her hair was like that, spread out around her on the bed. And he had to force himself to rush through his dressing so he wouldn't stop and stare.

What was she doing here? With her hair unbound? And in her nightgown?

He peered at her more closely, the white difficult to miss. Yes, indeed, she was in her night clothing, thankfully also in her robe.

If she was sniffling, did that mean she was crying? Was she upset about something?

He didn't want to disturb her if she'd come to the saloon for privacy. But at the same time, if she was despondent, he couldn't walk away from her without at least letting her know he cared. He had to offer her a measure of comfort—although he wasn't sure what she would accept, especially after how they'd parted ways earlier.

With a silent tread on the carpeted floor, he approached until he stood behind her. Should he whisper her name? Or maybe just touch her shoulder?

Before he could figure out how best to announce his presence, she slid over on the bench, making room beside her.

Had she done it for him?

He hesitated, didn't want to assume—

She patted the spot.

He lowered himself, his bulky frame hardly fitting and half of it hanging off. But she'd invited him to sit beside her, and he intended to do it no matter how uncomfortable he was.

Her face was buried in her arm on the closed piano cover.

He didn't feel the need to fill the silence. But his fingers twitched with the urge to sweep back her hair, to caress her back, and to soothe away whatever was causing her turmoil. Instead, he clasped his hands together in his lap.

"Do you know what I did?" came her muffled voice. It was filled with pain and heartache.

He knew she wasn't expecting an answer, so he waited for her to continue.

A moment later, she lifted her head and sat up. She peered unseeingly ahead. Though the darkness shadowed her face, he could still see the tears glistening on her cheeks.

"I ran away from home to marry him." Enya released a soft, mirthless laugh. "I ignored everyone who warned me about him. And I ran off with him anyway."

The censure in her voice told him she realized her mistake and didn't need him or anyone else pointing it out.

"You married a fool, Sullivan." More tears coursed down her cheeks. "I'm such a fool." The regret in her voice weighed a thousand tons and was heavy enough to sink a steamboat.

If she was walking around with so heavy a burden, then no wonder she was sad and withdrawn. If he could, he'd take the load from her and carry it on his own back. But he didn't know how to do that. The least he could do was offer to bear it with her.

"Your choice to ignore advice was foolish"—he kept his tone soft—"but that doesn't mean you are a fool."

"But I was so stupid to believe ... everything he said ... to fall for his charm."

Sullivan searched again for the right thing to say. "You're young and innocent, and it sounds like he took advantage of that."

Her chin dropped, and she stared down at the piano. "He wanted me to write to my da and plead with him to send me money."

Disgust for the man swelled inside Sullivan.

"But I refused. And after I told him I'd rather die than ask my da for money, he left me."

The disgust morphed into rage—burning-hot rage.

"I didn't tell my da that Bryan wanted a share of our family wealth. I was too embarrassed."

Bryan. The previous husband now had a name, and that made him seem all the more real. And everything Enya had gone through more devastating.

"But I think Da knew. His investigators learned that Bryan had been married before to another rich heiress and that her family paid him to go away."

"Then he's a swindler."

"Aye." Her response dropped low, filled with self-loathing. "And I let him turn my head and swindle me."

"Swindlers are good at what they do."

"I should have seen the signs."

No matter how much Sullivan despised Bryan for taking advantage of Enya, that didn't mean she had no fault. He wouldn't coddle her and absolve her from her responsibility in all that had happened. "Moving forward, you must not let your passion alone guide you; rather you must use sound reason as well as the advice of those who care about you."

She didn't respond but simply clutched at the closed piano lid.

Was she contemplating what he'd said? Had he earned a right to offer her instruction? Or had he overstepped himself?

He didn't want to offend her, not when she'd finally opened up to him about her past and her hurts. But he wasn't sorry for speaking the truth.

After several long minutes of tense silence, she smoothed a hand over the lid. "I haven't played since the day I ran away."

"Played?"

She trailed her fingers back and forth over the lid.

Ah, she played the piano. The very image of her doing so seemed to fit her. He sensed that she felt things deeply, and perhaps making music was one way she expressed herself.

If she hadn't played since she ran away, then she'd never played for Bryan. Maybe she'd never trusted him enough to let him in to this part of her. Or maybe she'd offered, and he'd never been interested in hearing her.

Should he ask her? He wanted to hear her—needed to hear her. The need shot through him so powerfully he was almost weak with the longing.

She pulled her hands back and then started to rise from the bench.

Before she could go far, he flipped up the lid with a clatter. "Play for me."