Chapter 17

17

How had his mother realized Enya was pregnant? Being nauseous from the scent of food wasn't enough of a sign, was it?

Sitting rigidly against the headboard, Sullivan didn't back down from his father's stare. Instead, he held the man's sharp gaze. "It's none of your or mother's concern."

With Enya pressed against him and her hand underneath his shirt, his body was begging him to think about her and how good and right it felt to be in the bed with her. But he couldn't let his thoughts go there tonight. He had to stay focused on what his father was saying. If he hoped to outwit the man, he had to be at his sharpest.

His father cleared his throat, then fiddled with his watch again. "Your mother and I, well..."

Enya was growing stiffer with every passing moment. She finally slipped her hand out from his shirt and sat forward, her features tightening with determination. "I have a confession to make—"

"No, Enya." Sullivan knew exactly what she intended to do—tell his father the truth about everything.

But the problem was, his father wasn't very good at keeping secrets. No matter how much they might stress the need to keep the pregnancy private, the Commodore would tell his closest friends, and they would inform their wives. Then their wives would share the news with their friends. Before the week was out, all of New Orleans would know about the pregnancy.

At the very least, most people would speculate that he'd had relations with Enya before they were married. That was better than everyone learning Enya's baby had a different father altogether.

"I feel bad for lying," Enya whispered, her tone filled with remorse.

"My family doesn't need to know our business." He let his father hear his statement. "If we choose not to share our personal life with them, that doesn't mean we're lying."

The Commodore nodded. "If you don't want to say anything that's fine. But we want you to know we're here to support you."

Enya stared at his father intently. "Support?"

"Of course. What's done is done. And we can't change that. All we can do now is support you."

"That's not how my family handles mistakes." A note of bitterness edged Enya's tone, a note Sullivan had heard from time to time when she spoke of her family. Her haste in wanting to leave St. Louis and avoid her mother was telling as well.

"Sometimes we make mistakes." The Commodore met Enya's gaze directly. "When we do, we don't wallow in it. Instead we ask ourselves what we can learn so that we don't repeat our foolishness."

As overbearing as the Commodore was at times, Sullivan could admit, the man did have a great deal of wisdom. And he'd taught Sullivan a lot over the years of riding together on the river, about more than just steamboats.

"If you're expecting a child," the Commodore continued, "it's something to rejoice over, not hide."

Enya's body was melding into his again.

Sullivan's gaze dropped to Enya's nightgown strap that had slipped off her shoulder, leaving a large patch of exposed skin. What he wouldn't give to eventually have her permission to graze his thumb along her delicate shoulder and down her arm and then back up.

Would they ever reach that point?

"That's all I had to say." His father opened the door behind him, then his lips curved into a crooked grin underneath his long beard. "I would tell you to get busy making a baby, but since you've already taken care of that, I'll just tell you to have fun."

With that obnoxious piece of advice, he winked, stepped out of the room, and closed the door.

Sullivan wanted to sink into the mattress and disappear underneath. Instead he sat frozen to his spot.

Enya didn't move either. She stared at the closed door, her eyes wide.

After the heavy thud of the Commodore's footsteps moved down the hallway, Sullivan began to extricate himself from around Enya.

"Wait," she whispered, reaching for his arm and holding him in place. "He might come back."

"He won't come back tonight." At least Sullivan hoped he wouldn't.

"And what if he barges in and finds you sleeping on the floor?"

Sullivan could feel his brows furrowing. She was right. His father was unpredictable, had almost caught him bedding on the floor. What would happen the next time his father made an unexpected visit?

"I think you'll need to sleep in the bed with me," Enya whispered, and this time her cheeks turned pink.

"That's a terrible idea." The very mention of it made his mind go places that it didn't need to, like back to the loose nightgown strap and the patch of skin he wanted to caress.

"Two people can sleep comfortably in a bed this size. While growing up, my sister and I shared a bed smaller than this. We tickled each other all the time but otherwise were fine."

He pulled his arm away from her and tried to put a couple of inches between them. Unfortunately, the mattress was dipping beneath his bulky frame so much that she remained at his side, with their arms and legs pressed together.

"Let's be clear about two things." He couldn't prevent his voice from turning growly. "One, I won't be like your sister when I sleep with you. And two, I won't be able to sleep comfortably with you anywhere nearby. It's already difficult to sleep with you in the same room, much less in the same bed."

She leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

He wanted to shift and let himself look at her all night long. But he kicked off the covers and sat up. Too late he realized his mistake, that his back was facing her and that she had nearly a full view of all the scars his undershirt didn't cover.

Hurriedly, he tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Wait." Her hand snaked out and caught his. And in the next moment, she laced her fingers through his so tenderly that the touch immobilized him.

The light in the room wasn't bright, but she couldn't miss seeing his ravaged skin. Wasn't she repulsed by it?

"We can build a wall of pillows between us." Her voice was soft. Did she still want to be with him, even after seeing him at his worst? Why wasn't she running from the room and him as fast as she could?

Every muscle in his body strained to stand up, cross to his wardrobe, and pull out another shirt, one that would cover the burn marks. But she tugged on his hand tightly as though she didn't plan to let go.

A part of him prayed she wouldn't ever reject him because of all his flaws. But another part of him couldn't accept that she'd ever want him—at least not romantically.

"Please, Sullivan?"

With a heavy sigh, he lifted his legs back onto the mattress. Being in bed with her was just asking for trouble. There was no telling what he might do if his thoughts and desires ran away from him. But he couldn't deny that he wanted to be close to her, that the anticipation of lying beside her—even if just for a little while—was better than the anticipation of Christmas morning.

He grabbed one of the decorative pillows and placed it between them. She did the same until a barrier ran from their shoulders down to their feet. Finally, after she snuffed out the light, he settled in on his side of the bed. She seemed to be doing the same, pulling the covers up over both of them and situating herself so that she was facing his direction, using her arm to brace her head.

He was trying to tear down her walls. Why, then, had he built this wall of pillows? Should he toss them all to the floor?

She was still holding his hand, now underneath the pillows. And somehow he sensed she wasn't ready yet for the wall to crumble completely but that she was letting him crack through and disassemble it brick by brick.

For long moments, they didn't speak or move. They just lay there, their breathing filling the silence. Sounds from other parts of the mansion filtered into the quiet—the closing of a door, the Commodore's laughter, the squeak of the floor overhead in the servants' quarters.

He sensed what was coming even before she spoke, and he braced his shoulders.

"Will you tell me about it?" she whispered.

In the darkness broken by the faint moonlight spilling between the cracks in the draperies, he could only see the outline of her face, not more than two handspans away. She was close and yet far enough that hopefully he wouldn't do anything stupid that would send her scurrying like a frightened hare back down into her deep burrow.

He didn't respond to her question. He didn't ever talk about what had happened that day in the war with anyone.

Her thumb grazed the back of his hand. The caress seemed to be her way of reassuring him that she cared enough to listen, the same way he'd listened to her that night at the piano when she'd been heartbroken over her failed marriage.

Even though her pain was more recent than his, she'd been courageous in opening up to him and sharing. Was it time to do the same with her?

He released a sigh. "It happened about two years ago, in March of '47 during the siege of Veracruz."

"During the Mexican War?"

"Yes, I was one of the pilots for the Spitfire steamboat." Flames skittered across his skin at just the mention of that tragic day. "The Mexican forces at Veracruz refused to consider a peace treaty. So the Americans laid siege to the city and attacked it with artillery."

"And you were a part of that battle?"

"Yes, after two days with little success, we got word that Santa Anna was marching an army from Mexico City with additional forces."

Her attention was wholly riveted to him, so much so that he could feel her interest and sympathy. But as the memories flared to life, his natural instinct was to stamp each one out. He didn't want to relive that day.

But he forced himself to whisper the words anyway. "General Scott learned of the advance, and even though he dispatched dragoons to intercept Santa Anna, he knew we had to do more or risk defeat."

She grazed his hand again as though she knew the sharing was difficult.

"The Spitfire and the Vixen offered to get in closer so our cannonballs and Congreve rockets could do more damage."

"But that put you in range of their gunfire and cannons?"

"Yes."

"You were hit?"

He swallowed the revulsion that came from thinking about the damage and loss of lives that night on both sides, even the women and children, because General Scott had refused to allow their evacuation from the city.

"The Vixen was hit and exploded. Some of the men were still alive and in need of rescue. Since I know how to swim, I jumped in and saved them."

His explanation was simplified and a much more polite version of the carnage, the burning bodies, the men drowning before their eyes. Even though the Spitfire had tried to get closer to the men, the fire covering the debris all along the surface of the bay had been dangerous.

But he hadn't been able to stand back and watch men needlessly die. He'd done what he thought was right. He'd been able to rescue a total of six men and had earned a Certificate of Merit as a result—not that he cared about the accolades.

"You got burned while saving the men?" This time she reached out her other hand and lightly touched the puckered flesh on his neck.

He wanted to recoil, jump up from the bed, and pace to the opposite side of the room. But he held himself motionless, even though he'd turned as rigid as a jack staff.

If she felt his stiffness, it didn't deter her. Her index finger traced the top scar, the one that he tried to keep hidden by his collar but that peeked out. "You must have been in excruciating pain, to be sure."

He'd been in agony for months afterward, agony that not even morphine could entirely take away.

Her finger followed the outline of another scar, this one lower and much bigger. The red splotch was tight and misshapen and a part of him he loathed anyone seeing, much less touching. In fact, he couldn't remember anyone but the doctor and later his mother viewing the wounds as they tended to him.

As Enya's finger moved even lower toward his collarbone, he closed his eyes and fought against the overwhelming urge to pull back and roll away to force her to stop. But again, as before, only one thought stopped him. Her pain. She'd shared it with him. If he wanted her to open up and be honest about all she'd gone through, then he had to be willing to do the same.

He tried to force his tense muscles to relax, but he couldn't, could only picture the flames shooting into the air, the stench of burning flesh, the heat of the flames, the cries of the dying.

Her fingers skimmed from his neck up his cheek and into his hair. She combed back the strands that had fallen over his forehead. Her fingers were soft, even soothing, as she slid them into his hair again. Then again.

He could feel her gaze upon him, and he wished for more light so he could attempt to read her expression. Was she starting to care about him? Or was this more of her offering of friendship?

"Thank you for sharing with me," she whispered.

He nodded.

She stifled a yawn even as she caressed his hair.

He didn't dare move for fear of breaking the beauty of the moment. After a few beats, her fingers slowed until they halted altogether. At the even rhythm of her breathing, he could tell she'd dozed again.

All for the better. He wasn't sure how he would have been able to resist her if she'd continued stroking his hair.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to think on everything but her. The sleeping arrangement was difficult enough. And he didn't want to make things worse.