Chapter 23

23

Did Enya know about the runaway slave?

Sullivan opened his mouth to ask her but then shut his lips without a sound, just as he'd done several other times since they'd entered the carriage and started toward their new house. If she didn't know, then he couldn't risk bringing it up. And if she did know, wouldn't she have asked him about it by now?

Thankfully Whistler hadn't discovered the secret chamber. The fellow had certainly tried. His search of the Morning Star had been thorough and lasted several hours.

Relief now weakened Sullivan, and he let himself recline against the leather seat. After having to keep up the charade for so long, he was both physically and mentally drained.

As the carriage bounced over a rut, Enya's head brushed his shoulder, and she didn't move it or put the usual distance between them.

He dropped his gaze to her face. The lantern at the front of the carriage provided enough light in the darkness that he could see that her eyes were closed, and she was asleep.

She was clearly exhausted too.

He could admit he was relieved she'd stayed on the steamer. If she hadn't been in the cabin and playing the piano, Whistler might have lingered longer or come back to search again.

As it was, the slave catcher and Captain Fitch had moved to the Imperial . They wouldn't find anything there or on any of the other New Orleans Steamboat Packet boats. Not this time.

Sullivan planned to return to the levee after he made sure Enya was settled into the house. He had to be on the Morning Star at two o'clock to help with the exchange. He just hoped by then that Whistler and Captain Fitch were gone from the levee and wouldn't linger, hoping to catch him in the act of setting a slave free.

Maybe he needed to wait until another night. He could hold off putting the lantern in the window until the threat of danger had passed. He hated to make the poor woman delay another day. But he'd had to do so in the past when the risk of capture had been too high.

For mid-April, the St. Louis waterfront had been busier than in past years, which might pose a problem as well. Several steamers had pulled up to the levee after the Morning Star , and each of them had been loaded with men heading west to seek gold. In fact, the Grand Turk 's decks had been lined with at least three or four hundred men, eager to make their way up the Missouri River to St. Joseph and Independence.

Though many of the steamers were filled mostly with men, there were still those transporting families and weighed down with wagons, mules, and baggage for the trip to California.

The news coming from the West, however, wasn't promising for the prospective travelers. Spring was late in arriving, and snow was still falling in parts of the Missouri River and Platte River valleys.

Such cold weather was preventing the growth and availability of grass for the livestock that would transport the groups the many months overland from the western edge of Missouri to California. One report indicated that upon reaching St. Joseph, the lines of wagons waiting to start their journey stretched for miles.

Yes, between the slave catcher and the busyness, the task of sneaking the runaway off the Morning Star and into a waiting boat would be all the more difficult. He'd have to use extra caution.

As Enya's body relaxed more fully into him, he slipped his arm behind her and steadied her against the bouncing of the carriage.

She didn't hesitate to sidle closer, the chill of the night invading the carriage. Spring had been cold in St. Louis as well. One of his clerks that had been in the city for several weeks recuperating from cholera had informed him that the Mississippi River was high, not only with the melting snow from the upper Midwest but also because March and April had been so rainy and stormy.

Newspapers reported that the number of deaths from cholera in the city had remained relatively low, and most of the dying seemed to be new arrivals who had contracted the cholera elsewhere.

Sullivan could admit he was relieved the spread of cholera was mild, that it hadn't overrun the city the same way it had New Orleans. Now, perhaps, he wouldn't have to worry about Enya and the baby being at risk when he left for his next voyage.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Sullivan peered through the window. They'd arrived at the new home he'd purchased in February. Several windows were alight, which meant the housekeeper was hopefully well prepared for Enya's stay.

She stirred. "We're here?" Her voice was filled with sleep, low and slurred, never failing to stir longings inside him whenever he heard that tone, longings to climb into bed beside her and hold her all night.

The coachman opened the door, and Sullivan ducked out, taking in the quiet well-to-do neighborhood. The homes weren't overly large or grand like the houses in the Garden District where his parents lived in New Orleans. But the place would suffice until he had the chance to build Enya a bigger and better house. There was talk of creating a new neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, Lucas Place, and he had considered purchasing a lot there, only a mile from the waterfront but more secluded and away from the odors and mire of the industries.

Sullivan descended from the carriage, his boots sinking into the muddy street.

Behind him, Enya was already filling the doorway, one foot out on the step and one hand holding her hat in place.

Before she stepped into the muck, he grasped her waist with both hands and halted her descent.

With the carriage's lantern light glowing from the front side, she was as stunning as always, and her sleep-filled eyes were wide, her lashes fanning around those mesmerizing green eyes.

He didn't give her time to question what he was doing. Instead, he swept her off her feet and cradled her against his chest.

"Sul-li-van." She laughed softly, dragging out his name in chastisement. "You don't have to carry me."

"I don't want you slipping in the mud." He started toward the short set of steps that led to the front door. Maybe it was also an excuse to hold her again. He hadn't done so in a while and relished the opportunity.

"I'm accustomed to battling muddy St. Louis streets." Her weak protest was made weaker as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

His mind traveled back to the last time they'd been at the house, when they'd only been married a short while. Everything had been new and awkward between them. He hadn't been sure what to think of Enya, hadn't known even a fraction of what he knew about her now.

After the past weeks of traveling together, he loved watching her reactions, loved her chatter, loved the brightness of her eyes taking in everything. He loved her.

The love had overtaken him quickly. But he had no reason to deny it. And after the warm way she'd invited him to feel the baby's movements earlier, was she opening herself up to him more? He hoped so.

As he tromped up the steps, the front door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman in a simple black frock covered with a white apron. She had a kindly face surrounded by wisps of grayish hair showing beneath a pleated mobcap.

She introduced herself as Mrs. Christy and smiled at them warmly, easing the tension in Sullivan's chest even more. He'd stressed to his solicitor that he wanted a kind older woman as housekeeper, emphasis on kind , so Enya would have a sweet and pleasant companion during the weeks he was gone.

From what he could tell, his solicitor had succeeded in that regard.

Mrs. Christy gave them a short tour through the house to enlighten them regarding the redecorating efforts that had taken place during their absence. With fresh paint in some rooms and new wallpaper in others, the house was beginning to feel warmer and more vibrant—like Enya.

She oohed and aahed over everything, including the new furniture and framed pictures and other decorations that had arrived from eastern cities. When they reached the final room of the second floor, the one Enya had designated to be the nursery, the housekeeper took her leave, letting them know she would have tea and cakes available for them in the front parlor whenever they were ready.

Enya flitted from one piece of baby furniture to the next, exclaiming over each one, until she halted at the window, just as she had the last time. As she peered out, her expression turned serious.

"Will she be safe tonight?" Enya's question was quiet, and as soon as she spoke it, she spun and laid her hands upon her stomach. "The baby, of course. The day has been quite long and eventful."

Although Enya was good at playacting when she set her mind to it, Sullivan could see right past her attempt to cover the question that had slipped out. The one about the runaway slave.

Enya knew. But she clearly didn't know the extent of his involvement.

She rubbed at her stomach, and this time avoided meeting his gaze. "I'm sure everything will be just fine."

He didn't reply. Should he admit his role? He hadn't known if he could trust her with such a dangerous secret. But today she'd proven herself. In fact, she'd more than proven herself. She'd in all likelihood saved that runaway—and him—from discovery.

"Don't mind me." She forced a smile.

Yes, it was time to trust her. And maybe if he showed her that he trusted her with such an important part of his life, she'd take down the last of the barriers standing between them and learn to trust him in return.

He started to cross to her.

"I'm tired. That's all."

At his approach, her eyes widened, and she backed up against the wall next to the window. "Maybe we should go down and take the tea Mrs. Christy is preparing for us."

He didn't stop until he was but inches from her.

She focused on his cravat. "I'm sure the tea will be getting cold before long." She ducked her head and began to slip around him, except he lifted his arms and pressed his palms on the wall on either side of her head, pinning her in.

Worry flashed through her eyes, but then she smiled and masked her concern. Was she anxious about betraying the slave woman or anxious over his proximity?

"Mrs. Christy seems like a very nice lady, wouldn't you agree? I think I'll get along with her splendidly." Enya rushed to speak, her words tumbling over each other. "I like that she's willing to involve me in hiring the maids. Hopefully we can find someone who's also good with babies—"

He cut her off by leaning down to her ear, his cheek brushing against hers. He hadn't meant to touch her in that way. But at the contact of her smooth cheek, he nearly lost his mind, especially as he breathed her in. Her floral perfume filled his nostrils and his head, and he had to close his eyes to keep himself from pressing his body against hers the way every inch of him was now demanding.

Her soft intake told him she was surprised by his nearness. But she wasn't pushing him away or trying to escape from the cage he'd created around her.

He had to say something now. He drew in a fortifying breath, then spoke softly. "Thank you." His lips brushed her ear, and he forced himself to restrain from placing a kiss there.

"To what do I owe such gratitude?" She shifted enough that her cheek grazed against the scruff of his jaw.

"For playing the piano." He took a turn letting the day's worth of bristle brush her smooth skin.

"It's getting easier to play," she whispered. "And I'm starting to enjoy it again."

"Good." He whispered the word against her ear, earning a shiver from her. "Your playing most likely saved her life."

She froze, held herself motionless for long moments. Then finally she flattened herself against the wall so she could see him. She studied his face, as though trying to discover what he was saying, her eyes holding such hope that he wanted to bottle it and save it for those dreary days ahead when they were apart.

He resisted the urge to trail his fingers across her cheek and down her chin. "You're the one who gave her the laudanum, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," she mumbled, obviously still not certain whether to trust him.

"She was carried onto the steamboat and into my cabin in my large chest."

Enya continued to watch him, warmth now softening her expression.

"Once the chest is in my room, I usually have no trouble concealing the hideaway in the closet for the duration of the trip."

"Then you've done this before?"

"Every single voyage north."

Her chest rose and fell, as if the revelation had taken her breath away. "For how long?"

"Two years."

"Oh, Sullivan." His name falling from her lips was reverent, as though she were whispering a prayer.

"I didn't tell you because—"

"I understand."

"None of my crew knows either. And I need it to stay that way."

She nodded and glanced beyond him to the open door, clearly also understanding that he didn't want Mrs. Christy to hear their conversation. "What happens next?"

He wasn't sure if he should tell her any more details, but at the expectancy in her eyes, he shared with her more than he ever had with anyone else, telling her about the light in the window of his cabin and the rowboat from Illinois and answering her other questions as best he could.

"And that's it. Until I return to New Orleans and start the process over."

"Someday, maybe we can open up our home too." She was still peering up at him, hadn't moved from the spot against the wall. "We could provide refuge to those who need a place to rest or hide on their way to freedom."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I could see that as a possibility."

"Thank you for considering it. No one has ever seriously validated my ideas before." She settled her hands on his arms and squeezed. "You're a good man, Sullivan O'Brien. You know that, don't you?"

He shrugged. "I wish I could do more."

She tugged him closer and slipped her arms around him.

What was she doing? Giving him a hug? For a second, he was too surprised to lift his arms and hug her in return. As she squeezed and began to release him, his body finally got the message that her body was against his.

She took a step back at the same time he leaned down. Her mouth was only inches from his. Close enough to kiss.

Longing swelled within him, but he fought against it. He couldn't kiss her. Wouldn't pressure her.

Before he knew what was happening, she lifted on her toes and touched her lips to his. Softly and sweetly. A friendly kiss, just like her hug.

Except that he didn't want a friendly kiss. He wanted a kiss like the last one they'd shared the day they'd left New Orleans.

As she began to lower herself, he moved swiftly, without giving himself a chance to overthink the situation. He chased after her and captured her mouth.

She didn't resist. Instead, her lips parted to meet his, and her hands slid up his arms, glided behind his head, and dragged him closer.

Suddenly his body was a dry creek bed in summer, and she was a swiftly moving river sweeping over him. As her lips meshed with his, he soaked her in, eagerly, like parched land greedy for cool water.

A moment later when she pressed her body into his, he nearly combusted with the delectable feel of her and the realization that she was offering herself to him freely. They weren't playacting for his father or their housekeeper or for any of his staff on the boat. No, they were alone, without an audience, and no reason to kiss ... except that she wanted to connect with him in this way.

For a moment, he let her take charge of the kiss, let her ply his lips, as though she had all the time in the world with no place to go. But as her fingers glided deeper into his hair, he broke the kiss, unable to hold back the groan.

In the next instant, he wrapped his arms around her and hoisted her higher on the wall so that he could feel her wildly beating heart against his. He bent back in, capturing her mouth and devouring her lips, so that everything became heat and taste and wanting.

He wasn't sure how long he kissed her with such abandon, but she broke away, this time her labored breathing a soft moan. "Sullivan..."

Was that longing in her voice? Did she want more?

His own breathing was too far gone to come up with a response. Instead, he angled in and kissed her jaw before kissing the soft, beautiful spot he'd always admired on her neck. Then he dropped down farther and let his lips connect with her collarbone.

Now that he'd tasted her, he would never, ever, get enough. Not even if he kissed her every day until the day he died. He would be forever hungering for her each moment he was apart from her.

Was she finally beginning to feel the same for him?