Chapter 16

16

Enya stifled a yawn. She couldn't be tired yet. They'd only finished dining an hour ago. The night was still young.

On the settee in the O'Brien's parlor, she lifted her fan and pumped air against her face, hoping that would wake her up.

"Are you warm?" Mrs. O'Brien's kindly face creased with concern as she leaned forward on the settee beside Enya.

The lantern light from the pedestal table fell over Enya in the growing darkness of the evening. "Not overly so, thank you."

It had quickly become clear after meeting Mrs. O'Brien that Sullivan took after his mother. She was a dark-haired beauty with a calm and quiet demeanor, unlike her husband, who was every bit as loud and overbearing as Sullivan had warned.

Even now, the Commodore's voice carried across the parlor from where the men—including both of Sullivan's brothers-in-law—were sitting at a round table playing a game of cards, Irish whiskey filling their glasses and cigar smoke curling in the air.

They'd been discussing the steamboats' near accident with the Belle and Ida May in St. Louis. Apparently the Memphis Packet Company was the O'Brien's biggest competitor on the Mississippi, and the incident wasn't the first time Sullivan had been threatened by Captain Fitch.

The fellow had already trumped up charges in the past regarding fraudulent merchant certificates, embezzling government funds for private purposes, and avoiding custom taxes. But none of the indictments ever amounted to anything because they simply weren't true. Sullivan and the Commodore ran an exemplary company and tried to be above reproach in everything.

They'd also talked about the latest news, how the SS California had voyaged from New York to California in less than five months around the tip of South America. With the successful journey, the men had argued about whether regular steamboat travel could now happen between the east and the west.

The Commodore was of a mind to invest in building their own steamboats that could weather such a trip, especially with so many people eager to travel to California now that gold had been found, and Sullivan agreed that such a venture could be profitable.

Enya sat with the women in the cluster of settees across from the men, close enough that she could catch some of their conversation when she wasn't making small talk with the ladies, who were eager to learn more about her and her family and to hear of news from St. Louis.

All the while she'd been conversing and sipping tea, she'd had a direct view of Sullivan. He wasn't smoking or drinking like the other fellows, but he was more relaxed tonight than she'd ever seen him. He leaned back in his chair, the top button on his vest undone, his long legs spread out, and his hair mussed.

Most of all, the normally hard lines of his face were soft in the amber glow of the setting sun outside the windows. And without the scowl or the intensity, his features were markedly handsome.

Oh aye, he was a good-looking man. There had never been any question about that. But somehow tonight, in his home and around his family, he carried himself in a way that drew her attention.

Mrs. O'Brien took a drink of tea and watched Enya over the rim of her cup. "You can't keep your eyes off of Sullivan."

It was all in pretense, but Enya couldn't explain that.

The other two ladies smiled and nodded, both lovely and polite. Sullivan's sister, Neala, was with child and quite far along, due in less than a month. When the ladies weren't asking Enya questions, the conversation invariably came back to the baby and the delivery and what it was like to have a newborn.

Enya tensed every time. She wasn't sure how to participate in the discussion without giving away her own pregnancy. Revealing it would be an utter disaster after the way the O'Briens had so warmly welcomed her into their home and family the same way Sullivan had welcomed her into his life. What would they think if they knew the truth—that she was pregnant with another man's child?

The Commodore would realize Sullivan's marriage was one of convenience and would be furious at them for trying to dupe him into believing they had more affection for each other than was really there. So far no one had questioned Sullivan's explanation that they'd met during one of his visits to St. Louis and had gotten married on Shrove Tuesday.

They hadn't needed to do much more convincing since their display in the carriage earlier. That little bit of affection had seemed to mostly satisfy the Commodore, although he'd motioned for Sullivan to put his arm around her once dinner was over.

Sullivan had quickly obliged, and when he started to offer her an apologetic look, she reached for his other hand and squeezed it, hoping to reassure him that she was fine.

Because she had been fine. She hadn't minded the hug in the carriage, not even when he'd lingered a little bit and bent in to make a bigger display by grazing her neck. She could admit, she'd liked being in his arms, and the caress against her neck had been pleasant.

She didn't want it to be pleasant, though, did she? What if the physical contact made things awkward between them? And what if they lost the easy camaraderie they'd had since the night she'd played the piano in the saloon and opened up about Bryan.

Maybe the pretending had been a bad idea. In the carriage when she'd made the suggestion, it had seemed innocent enough. But now that she'd spent the evening with his family, had an elaborate supper, and was ensconced in their intimate gathering, guilt reared its head.

Especially with Mrs. O'Brien's comment hanging in the air, unanswered. Enya glanced again at Sullivan, glad he wasn't aware of her attention upon him. He was too engrossed in the card game and hadn't looked at her once, at least that she'd seen.

Not that she'd been hoping he'd look at her.

"Oh aye." Enya spoke carefully, not wanting to overdo her adoration. The more she could stick with the truth, the better. "I rarely see Sullivan sitting and enjoying himself. And he should be doing so more often."

"He works too hard." Mrs. O'Brien's tone was soothing, just like Sullivan's.

At that moment, a footman approached with a serving tray. "More tea, madam?" He directed his question first at Mrs. O'Brien, then at Enya. Another footman entered the room, this one carrying a tray that had a distinctly fishy smell.

As he drew near the men at the table, the scent grew stronger. Enya hadn't been overly bothered by the smells or tastes of foods so far during her pregnancy. But once in a while, like the time she'd had to leave the restaurant in Natchez, the nausea came swiftly and unexpectedly.

"The alligator bites you requested, sir." The footman held out the tray to the Commodore. "And the Cajun crab cakes."

The talk over the meal had been all about the various foods unique to New Orleans. And the Commodore had requested that the cook make a couple of his favorites to serve as appetizers in the evening.

Enya had been interested in giving the new food a try, her sense of adventure growing stronger, as it had been doing more every day on the trip with Sullivan. But now at the waft of the food, the roiling in her stomach pushed up swiftly.

She stood abruptly and pressed a hand over her mouth.

At her rise, all the men seated around the table also scooted back and stood.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. O'Brien was on her feet in an instant and steadying her with a gentle touch.

Sullivan was already shoving his way around the table, tipping glasses as he passed, his dark eyes locked on her. He dodged the footman and reached her side before she could decide whether to run to the nearest window or find a container to retch into.

With a furrowed brow, he didn't hesitate. He scooped her off her feet and carried her out of the room.

He didn't stop in the spacious hallway. Instead he crossed into the conservatory and made a direct line to a set of double doors. He swung them open and stepped out onto a covered terrace. The fresh evening air greeted her, and she rapidly gulped it in, trying to push down the nausea.

His gaze hadn't moved from her face, and his jaw was rigid.

She breathed in again, and the queasiness began to subside.

The sky was turning lavender with a mixture of rose from the setting sun, and only a few stars were out. The balmy warmth from the day had faded into cooler temperatures.

The spacious garden spread out before them, as lovely now as it had been earlier when the Commodore gave her a tour of the home. The sweet scent of honeysuckle and peach blossoms greeted her again.

She took another deep lungful, then rested her head against Sullivan's shoulder.

"Better?" His low voice rumbled near her cheek.

"Aye." Wrapped against the crevice of Sullivan's body, she felt as safe and warm as she always did whenever he carried her. "Thank you for your help. If not for your quick thinking and rescue, I might have dumped the contents of my stomach into one of your mother's vases."

"Then it was the scent of the food that upset your stomach?" His expression was grave.

"I'm sorry." She pushed against him, intending to force him to put her down. "I feel bad that I've torn you away from time with your family."

"You didn't tear me. I chose to help you."

"So you did. But I still don't want to interrupt your card game and conversation."

"Your well-being is more important."

"Your family will be wondering what is wrong with me."

"We'll tell them the truth, that the food didn't agree with you."

She nodded. Would they suspect she was pregnant? Surely at least his sister Neala would.

"And we'll tell them you're tired and that you need to go to bed."

"I am tired."

"I know."

"How?" She let her gaze linger over his scruffy jaw and broad chin, before working her way up his cheeks to his nose and then meeting his eyes. His bottomless, dark eyes. "You didn't glance my way the entire time we were in the parlor."

"I saw you."

She shook her head, but she supposed that explained why he'd crossed to her so quickly. His consideration was always more than she deserved. "You can put me down now, Sullivan. I'm feeling better."

"I'll carry you up to the room."

"No, I've been enough of a bother and don't want to take you away from your family any longer."

He was already turning and entering through the double doors. Though the conservatory was mostly dark, her attention fixed directly on the piano in one half of the room. A part of her longed to sit down and give voice to the melody that had been formulating in her head over the past few days.

But another part of her was scared to take that next huge step.

"We'll go say good night." His tone was commanding, and although she wanted to argue with him, she was learning he was stubborn when he wanted to be.

As Sullivan stepped through the wide parlor door, he paused. All eyes swung to them, mostly to her, and the faces wore curiosity.

"Good night." Sullivan was still holding her as effortlessly as earlier. "We're retiring for the evening."

"Retiring?" The Commodore was leaning back in his chair, his cigar poised in one hand, and his eyes crinkled with his smile. "Sure you are."

Was the man hinting that Sullivan was making an excuse to be alone with her? To take her to bed?

She didn't embarrass easily, but at the moment she wanted to bury her face and hide. Or to at least retort with a scathing comment. Before she could think of something, Sullivan replied first. "You're jealous. That's all."

The Commodore barked out a laugh, and the other two men guffawed.

Sullivan didn't smile, but his eyes took on a sparkle, almost as if he was enjoying the bantering.

Thankfully no one mentioned her queasiness. And thankfully, as they finished excusing themselves, no one insinuated anything else.

As Sullivan carried her up the stairway to their room, she made a halfhearted effort to get him to put her down, but he refused. So she settled in without protesting any further.

Once behind the closed doors of the spacious room Sullivan occupied whenever he was in New Orleans, they fell into the easy way of relating that had become comfortable while rooming together on the steamer. He stepped into the hallway and gave her the privacy she needed to change into her nightgown. Only after she was securely buried beneath the covers did he reenter.

He pulled a chair beside the bed and read aloud from Pilgrim's Progress until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer.

The next time she stirred, he was engrossed in reading Augustine's Confessions. She wasn't sure how much time had elapsed again when a rapping against the door awoke her.

Sullivan was in the process of laying out a bed on the floor as he usually did. He paused, glanced at the door, and then grabbed up all the blankets and stood. He scanned the perimeter of the room frantically, then crossed to the wardrobe on the opposite side of the bed, opened it, and stuffed the covers inside.

"Sullivan?" The voice on the other side of the door belonged to the Commodore.

"Sir?" Sullivan responded calmly.

What was the Commodore doing at their bedroom door? Had he come to check on them? To make sure they were sleeping together the way a real married couple would? Maybe this was one of the things Sullivan had been trying to warn her about.

Sullivan had already shed most of his clothes and wore only underdrawers and a linen shirt that hugged every rounded muscle in his chest and arms.

She'd never seen him unclothed, had only ever been around him when he was fully attired. Now, at the sight of his thickly muscled bare legs as well as the veins running up and down his arms, her pulse stumbled and fell before picking itself back up and taking off at a strange, racing pace.

She pushed up to her elbows, the blanket falling away from her shoulders.

At her movement, his gaze swung to her. His eyes widened and filled with panic, almost as if he didn't want her to see him in his indecent state of attire. But why? Surely he wasn't embarrassed, not when he had such a muscular and perfectly sculpted body.

Was it the scars? Without the high starched collar and cravat, the red splotches on his neck and shoulder blared as brightly as a sun flare. She'd known he had scars, but she hadn't realized they were so pervasive.

An ache radiated in her chest at the hurt he must have suffered. What had happened to him?

"Can I come in?" his father asked.

"Perhaps in the morning."

"I need to talk to you about something now." His father's voice was firm. "Get decent. I can wait."

Sullivan's eyes widened, and he searched the room, clearly trying to decide where to stand or sit.

There really was only one choice. She sat up farther and tossed the covers back on the side closest to him while scooting over. Here, she mouthed while patting the spot on the bed beside her.

Sullivan hesitated only a moment longer. In one long step he was at the bed and sliding in. The mattress sagged beneath his weight, thrusting them together. But she didn't have time to make a fuss, was only in a hurry to ensure his father saw them together.

"You can come in," Sullivan said.

As the door opened a crack, she tossed the cover over Sullivan and at the same time lifted his arm around her.

Sullivan resisted only until the door swung open all the way and his father stepped inside the room. Then he drew her closer into the crook of his body. She quickly slipped a hand over the cover onto his chest, hoping the pose appeared natural.

The Commodore swept his gaze around the room. What was he searching for? Clues that they were pretending to share affection? Did he suspect that Sullivan had intended to sleep on the floor?

If so, she needed to do a better job of playacting, and she needed to do so now.

She slid her hand higher until she reached the v of his neckline. Then she tucked a finger inside and skimmed it across his bare flesh.

Sullivan drew in a sharp breath and immediately lifted a hand to capture her fingers.

She dove her hand deeper to keep him from stopping her, so that before she realized it, she had her arm halfway into his shirt, her palm flat against his chest, almost directly above his heart. His skin was smooth, and the ridges of his muscles were solid.

She'd only felt his chest through the layers of his garments, so to have access in this manner was slightly daring. But she'd never shirked from dares or danger.

Sullivan's arm tightened around her. And as he took in her hand underneath his shirt, his nose flared. Then his eyes lifted to hers, and the dark brown—almost black—wrapped around her like a rich, thick fur coat, engulfing her in heat and luxuriating her in softness at the same time.

"I'm sorry for barging in and disturbing you." The Commodore peeked their way, took in their cozy snuggling, and pulled the watch out of his pocket and began to wind it.

"Do you need something?" Sullivan's voice held a note of irritation. Was he playacting his irritation? Or was it real?

The Commodore fiddled with the watch for another moment before he tucked it away and met Sullivan's gaze directly. "Your mother seems to think Enya is pregnant already."

Sullivan stiffened at the same time she did. It was one thing to pretend to be affectionate with each other. But what should they say now? They couldn't outright lie to the Commodore and his wife, could they?