Chapter 21

21

Sullivan leaned against the cabin door and watched Enya with a reverence that bordered on sacrilegious. She was beautiful all the time. But when she sat at the piano and played, she was divine.

Of course, when she'd approached him two days ago and asked him if she could have a piano in their cabin, he'd been more than a little surprised. She hadn't played since the night he'd found her in the dining saloon in the dark. But he hadn't stopped to question what had changed her mind. It hadn't mattered.

Although moving the heavy piano had been no easy feat and required four of his crew, he hadn't been able to tell her no. He could never tell her no. But in this case, he would have carried the piano to their room on his back alone if he'd had to in order to grant her wish.

When the settee had been removed and the piano put in its place, she'd sat and played for only a few minutes before standing up, closing the lid, and pushing in the bench, all the while battling her tears. The next time, she'd played a little longer, still hiding her tears.

Only last night had she played for the first time without crying. And today, throughout the day, she'd finally seemed to give herself permission to find joy in the music.

They'd reached the St. Louis levee a short while ago, but she'd been too distracted at the piano to pay attention.

But he didn't mind. In fact, he wished he'd thought to move the piano to their cabin earlier, even though the pianist they'd hired to play during the evenings had complained several times about no longer having access to the instrument.

Enya's long fingers stroked the keys, creating a whimsical tune that tugged at him, made him want to go stand behind her and wrap his arms around her.

But he'd resolved after their kiss in the carriage, as he had at the beginning of their marriage, that he wouldn't pressure her. He wanted their affection to be mutual and willing or he didn't want her at all.

Well, that wasn't exactly the truth. He did want her. Sometimes very keenly. But it was becoming clearer, with every passing day, that she'd never feel the same level of attraction to him that he did to her.

He supposed he didn't blame her. She deserved someone much more handsome and charming than him. Perhaps Bellamy had meant well in matching them together. He'd been trying to save them both from disaster and hadn't had much time to do it.

But ultimately, Sullivan had known he'd be better off with someone who was more like him, someone who wasn't so perfect like Enya.

Her fingers slowed with the final notes, until they came to a standstill altogether. The music faded, replaced by the noises of the levee—shouts of the stevedores, the clatter of horses, the booming of other steamboat whistles.

"That was beautiful," he said, alerting her to his presence, guessing she hadn't known he was standing there listening since she seemed to become absorbed in the music whenever she started playing.

She twisted on her bench and offered him a smile. It wasn't exactly a full, radiant one, but it showed off the dimple in her chin. He hadn't seen the dimpled smile in a while. And the sight of it kicked him hard in the gut, making him wish he could walk over and kiss first the dimple and then her lips.

She'd taken extra care with her hair today so that it hung in ringlets, and she was wearing one of her finest gowns, likely because she'd wanted to look her best when they arrived in St. Louis.

The baby wasn't showing yet, but he'd noticed subtle changes in her figure, a slight filling out that hadn't been there when he'd first met her. He wanted to tell her that she always looked her best, no matter what she was wearing, but he didn't want to chance her sensing the heat of his desire.

He shifted his attention to the piano keys. "You're very talented."

She shrugged as if it didn't matter. "When I was younger, I dreamed of being famous and performing in front of crowds of people."

"And now?"

She released a scoffing laugh. "I've grown up and realized my da and mam were right, that such dreams are silly."

"They don't have to be silly."

She seemed about to scoff again but studied his face, as though searching to see if he was being genuine.

"I dreamt of building the fastest steamboat on the Mississippi, one so fast it could almost fly."

"I'm sure you were adorable."

"Maybe I won't build the fastest, but I still love what I do."

She turned quiet, contemplative.

"You might not become a concert pianist, but you can still find ways to use your talents. It would be a shame not to."

"Really?" The one word was loaded with skepticism.

"Really."

"You'd support whatever I choose to do?"

"If it makes you happy, why wouldn't I?"

She didn't answer and instead fingered the keys again.

He peered outside the door to the busy waterfront in the April afternoon. "Most of the passengers have disembarked. We can go too, if you'd like—"

He stopped short at the sight of several men, including a constable and Captain Fitch, striding up the landing stage onto the Morning Star. A knot tightened in Sullivan's stomach. What accusations did Captain Fitch plan to level against the New Orleans Steamboat Packet Company today?

"What's wrong?" Enya came to stand beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm. She was situating her bonnet over her head and drawing the velvet ties under her chin. Her sleek, delicate fingers smoothed and wound the ribbons, and he had the sudden wish that he could tie the ribbon just so he had an excuse to graze her neck and chin.

He tore his gaze away from her and settled it back on the visitors. "Wait for me here."

His instructions did no good. As he strode away, she fol lowed behind on the promenade to the stairway. At the top, he placed a hand on her arm. "Stay here, Enya. Captain Fitch is a dangerous man, and I don't trust him."

This time, thankfully, she stopped at the railing while he clambered down the metal staircase to the main deck.

"What's the problem with my boat today, Captain Fitch?" Sullivan nodded at the constable and captain and then sized up the third man. Tall and hefty, with dark hair and sideburns as well as a long, drooping mustache, the fellow looked familiar. In his double-breasted frock coat buttoned all the way up, he held himself with the authority of someone accustomed to unquestioning obedience.

Captain Fitch touched the brim of his flat cap and then offered Sullivan an off-kilter grin beneath his overgrown beard. "You've heard of Roan Whistler, haven't you, Captain O'Brien?"

Sullivan's stomach bottomed out into a sickening chasm. Yes, he knew who Roan Whistler was. Known as the Whistler for the way his whip whistled against the back of slaves. He was a slave catcher, hired by many southern plantation owners to track down and return their slaves.

If he was here on the Morning Star , then that could only mean one thing—he was searching for slaves.

Sullivan tipped his hat at Roan Whistler, even though he would have preferred to smash a fist in the man's face. Then he lifted a brow at the constable, a portly man who was one of the captains of the St. Louis police department. Sullivan recognized him but didn't remember his name.

The fellow gave Sullivan a sympathetic shrug, as if to say he was merely doing his duty.

Captain Fitch's smile only grew, as though he relished any trouble he could bring to Sullivan. "We've heard complaints that the New Orleans Packet has been transporting runaways."

"You've heard wrong." Sullivan didn't back down and didn't let anything show, but the sickening feeling was growing in his gut. The young woman hiding in the closet of his cabin had come down with a cough over the past few days. The fits of coughing came and went. But he never could predict exactly when she'd have one. Her coughing had woken him up twice last night alone.

Roan Whistler was studying Sullivan intently, as if trying to see down to his soul and discover the truth.

Sullivan stared back. Good thing he'd cut off all access to seeing into his soul long ago.

Captain Fitch was glancing now between the two of them. "The Whistler got your name as one of the captains sympathetic to slaves."

Sullivan hated to think about what lengths Whistler had gone to in order to extract that information. But someone, somewhere, had given up his name in an effort to alleviate the torture. He only prayed it had helped.

"If Roan Whistler and the constable want to question my crew, go right on ahead." Sullivan waved a hand toward the stairs. "You'll learn the truth readily enough from them." He prayed his secret was still safe, that none had heard the coughing.

Whistler didn't wait for a second invitation. He marched forward onto the main deck, toward a group of Black deckhands who'd halted their work and now watched his approach with wary eyes.

The constable started to follow but halted, his expression apologetic. "I'm certainly sorry for this, Captain O'Brien. I told Roan Whistler that your father, the Commodore, has slaves himself and that your steamers have always been reliable. But he and Captain Fitch insisted on searching not only this steamer but all your boats here along the levee."

"I'm sure the Commodore won't be pleased if any of his steamers are damaged or delayed." Damage and delays were the least of Sullivan's concerns, especially if Whistler and Captain Fitch found the runaway he was harboring.

No doubt Whistler would examine every square inch of the vessel. But the compartment in his captain's cabin was hidden enough that the fellow wouldn't think to move the rug and search in the floor. Not unless he heard coughing...

Enya hadn't moved from the stairway railing above on the texas deck. From where he stood, he could see her features growing stormy. Should he warn her not to get involved?

With her feistiness combined with her abhorrence of slavery, she might say or do something that would cast greater suspicion on him. And he didn't need that today of all days. Maybe tomorrow. By then the slave would be gone.

But, of course, since Whistler and Captain Fitch suspected him already, they would be on higher alert, would be watching his steamers carefully. They wanted to catch him in the act of stowing a runaway. No doubt Captain Fitch hoped that such a charge would hurt the New Orleans Steamboat Packet Company and in turn send more customers to the Memphis Packet Company.

It would cause a scandal and might decrease business for a time. But eventually, they would recover, and Captain Fitch would be back in the same place, trying unsuccessfully to compete with them.

There was a much bigger problem, one that filled Sullivan with cold dread—the prospect of bringing disgrace to Enya and the baby. She would be supportive of him and wouldn't care about the damage to her reputation. But he would.

Even worse, however, was the thought that he might have to go to prison and be separated from her. He could hardly bear to let an hour pass without checking on her, even from a distance. How could he go years without seeing her, talking to her, or simply basking in her beauty?

With a new sense of urgency charging through him, he could only watch Whistler and Captain Fitch and try not to give away his growing panic.

But it was mounting quickly. He had to figure out a way to distract the search before it was too late.