Chapter 9

9

The silence in the carriage was stifling. Sullivan wanted to start a conversation with Enya, but he was terrible with idle chatter.

It didn't help that she hadn't made an effort to communicate with him. During the short drive, he'd asked her a few questions, but she'd replied with one-word answers, and she'd peered out the window the entire drive, as if the bleak, gray scenery of St. Louis was the most fascinating sight in the world.

As the carriage rolled to a stop in front of a three-story, red-brick house with a stucco front, he leaned toward the window to get a better view. It looked fine enough and was in a well-to-do neighborhood.

A moment later, the coachman opened the door. Sullivan exited first and then offered a hand toward Enya.

She eyed his hand as if he'd extended a snake that would bite her.

He bit back a sigh. He'd glimpsed vulnerability, maybe even warmth, a short while ago when he'd gotten down on his knee and apologized to her and then given her the ring. She wasn't entirely frozen. But she did have thick walls of ice barricading her heart—walls she clearly had no intention of lowering.

As discouraged as he was by the nature of her accusations in the bedroom and how easily she'd assumed he was there only to get her into bed with him, he dragged in a deep breath. He'd told her he was a patient man, and he intended prove it.

There was no rush. He'd go slow and steady with her. And hopefully over time, he'd win her trust and affection.

But that didn't alleviate his growing frustration toward her previous husband. The fellow had obviously used Enya for his own needs and hadn't taken hers into consideration, especially when it came to the marriage bed.

Sullivan wasn't exactly an expert when it came to such matters. Although he'd had a period of rebellion in his earlier years and hadn't been chaste during that time, he knew enough that he didn't want his wife to just do her duty , as Enya had so boldly stated.

The truth was, he didn't want to possess her body without first possessing her heart. At the same time, he had no intention of letting her push him away every chance she got.

He extended his hand farther and grasped hers, giving her no choice but to allow him to aid her down from the carriage. Once her feet were on the ground, she started to tug away from him, but he held on and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

Thankfully, she didn't reject his polite offer and instead allowed him to lead her toward the front steps of the home.

He couldn't fault her in any way. Today, as with last night at the cathedral, she was every inch a lady in her style, mannerisms, and bearing.

Not only that, but she was just as stunning. From the moment he'd stepped into her bedroom and glimpsed her at the dressing table with her hair cascading around her, his chest hadn't stopped aching with awe.

The ache in his chest had only swelled as he watched her descend the marble stairway a short while after that. It was the same feeling he had when he was watching a sunset glisten on the river, reflecting the sky above.... He could never put into words just how beautiful it was, only that it took his breath away and made him want to savor the moment.

Even so, if he had any hope of chipping away at her ice walls, then he had to keep his focus off the physical, no matter how difficult that might be.

He could sense Enya's growing curiosity from the way she was taking in the home. She was trying to figure who they were visiting and why.

As they reached the stoop and paused in front of the door, he fished inside his coat pocket and retrieved the key his solicitor had given him. But before removing it, he waited a moment longer for her question.

It came a second later. "Who are we visiting?"

"No one."

Her brows furrowed just a little, enough that he knew he'd caught her off-guard. Something he liked doing.

He lifted the key and fit it into the keyhole.

"This is your home?"

"No." At least not yet.

He swung the door wide, then guided her inside.

She hesitated, glancing down the hallway and at the open doorways on either side as if she expected someone to rush out and chastise them for barging in uninvited. A large mirror hung near the door, conveniently placed for guests to check their appearance. Underneath it and on a tall stand was a silver bowl used for visitors' calling cards.

Without releasing her hand from the crook of his arm, he closed the door behind them, pocketed the key, and moved toward the front parlor.

"Shouldn't we wait?" she whispered, her steps hesitating. "We can't just walk into someone else's home."

"No, we have no need to wait." He didn't stop and instead guided her into the parlor. Everything in the room was decorated in bright red and gold. From the furniture to the drapes to the walls, the style was gaudy, especially with the elaborate gilt that outlined everything.

From the slight rounding of Enya's eyes, he could tell she thought the room was overdone too.

"You can redecorate in whatever style and colors suit you." He pretended to be interested in the enormous mirror above the fireplace. It, too, was embellished with gold.

"Redecorate?"

"My solicitor gave me the name of a designer who can help you." He reached into his pocket and this time pulled out a card. As he handed it to her, he started forward through the room toward a back pocket door, giving her little choice but to keep moving.

They entered what appeared to be a smaller parlor, a family parlor. It was less ostentatious but was still decorated in the bright red fabric.

"What color do you fancy?" Surely that was a safe topic, wasn't it?

This time, instead of answering, she tugged her arm from his hold and placed both hands on her perfectly curved hips. "What are we doing in this house, Captain?"

Her voice had a sassy note. And, for a reason he didn't understand, it gave him strange sense of satisfaction. "I'm considering purchasing it." Even if it was somewhat gaudy, he liked that it came furnished, that when the previous owners moved to California, they'd left everything behind with the home.

She didn't respond.

Finally, after the lengthening silence, he shifted and found her staring at him, her green eyes filled with uncertainty. "You don't like it? That's fine. I'll have my solicitor find us another place—"

"No!" Her voice held a note of eagerness.

He wanted to smile. Instead he raised a brow and tried to remain indifferent.

She glanced beyond the parlor into what appeared to be a dining room. "I do like it. Very much. But..."

"But what?"

"It's a lovely place—or will be after it's redecorated. But I can't—I don't want to—I couldn't impose..."

"Impose on whom?"

She peered around again as though trying to make sense of everything. Finally she released an exasperated huff. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Being so nice."

"I'm not being nice."

"Aye, you are."

Apparently she wasn't used to men treating her kindly. Or at the very least, her last husband hadn't considered her needs.

After her insinuation about the wedding ring, he knew he had to be more cautious with his gifts. He didn't want her to think he was buying her love. Because he wasn't. He simply wanted her to have the best. In fact, someday he would build her the biggest and best house in St. Louis.

"I'm not being nice," he repeated. "I'm being practical. You and the baby will need a place to stay here in St. Louis."

"And you won't?"

He hadn't thought too much about the future. Only that he wanted her to have a home of her own so that maybe then she'd feel secure and cared for and valued.

"Will you be living in New Orleans?"

"I'll buy you a house there too." As soon as he spoke the words, he knew that's exactly what he intended to do.

She cocked her head. The dimple in her chin seemed to be begging for a gentle kiss. "That's too much. I don't expect that—"

"I want to do it." And he could easily afford it. Ever since he'd started working on the river, he'd saved and invested every dollar he'd made. Even though his father was one of the wealthiest men in the country, Sullivan wasn't far behind him, and he could afford to buy her a dozen houses if he wanted to.

She studied him, as though trying to discover for herself the true nature of his wealth. James Shanahan was also a prosperous man, and Enya had likely grown up always having everything she needed.

But she'd clearly never had a man who spoiled her beyond her wildest imagination. And he intended to be that man.

"We'll split our time between St. Louis and New Orleans, between your family and mine."

A thin crease formed between her eyebrows. Was she worried? About what?

He held out his hand. "Come. Let's tour the rest of the house."

She stared at his outstretched hand as she had when he'd helped her from the carriage. But this time, she wasn't recoiling. Instead, she placed her hand into his.

The moment he tightened his grip around her gloved fingers, his stomach flipped a dozen times. Even though the progress in getting her to trust him was miniscule, it was something. He almost intertwined their fingers together, but he didn't want to frighten her. So he did the safe thing—he tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm.

The rest of the time they explored the house, she didn't attempt to pull away. And he took that as a small victory as well. They strolled from one room to the next, and with each one, she grew more animated. By the time they reached the second floor and the bedrooms, she was busily sharing how she would decorate.

He didn't have much to add to her lively descriptions. In fact, even if he'd had ideas, he would have kept them to himself so he didn't have to interrupt her. He was surprised at how much he loved hearing her talk, especially with her growing enthusiasm.

Had Bellamy been right to choose a lively and spirited woman like Enya for him? Sullivan had thought he'd be happier with a quiet wife who fit into his more subdued lifestyle, thought he'd get annoyed with someone talkative. But he was anything but annoyed with Enya.

She'd released his arm and was walking around the perimeter, describing her vision for the baby's room.

"I think I'd like the walls a light yellow." She brushed her fingers along the chair rail. "The summery color will work for either a boy or a girl."

Her cheeks had a rosy hue, and her lips curved up into the beginning of a smile.

He leaned against the doorframe, content just to watch her. He wondered for just a second if he could quit being a steamboat captain and have the job of simply watching her every day, all day.

She paused in front of one of the two windows in the room and peered outside. "I can see the river from here."

"Probably not much."

"Actually, it's a grand view of the riverfront and many of the steamboats." She continued to take in the scene. "Which steamboat is yours?" Her voice had dropped a notch, almost as if she was embarrassed to ask and show any interest in him.

But that's what he wanted, or at least hoped for—that eventually she'd grow to accept him.

He pushed away from the doorframe and crossed to the window until he was standing directly behind her. The view was grand. While he couldn't see much of warehouses and bustling levee, he could see the steamboats forming a crowded line along the St. Louis waterfront.

There were side-wheelers whose paddle wheels were mounted on their flanks. Stern-wheelers had their enormous paddle wheels on their rears. Some were traders, and others, like his company's, were packet boats that made regular trips for both passengers and cargo.

No matter the size or type, the steamboats all shared the same black smokestacks that in some cases towered as high as seventy-five feet above the water. Made from iron, the chimneys rose from the furnace in the belly of the boat. Positioned in front of the pilothouse, most boats had double stacks topped with ornamental crowns. The belching smoke and heat from the furnaces poured from many of the steamboats and filled the skyline of the February day.

Though the vessels jockeyed for the lone patch of paved levee, he spotted several of the New Orleans Steamboat Packet Company boats.

He boxed Enya in on one side with his outstretched arm and pointed his finger at the riverfront. "The long side-wheel with the big American flag flapping in the breeze. That's the Imperial . She's three hundred feet long and has berths for three hundred passengers."

Enya didn't move away from him in such close quarters. Maybe she didn't even notice how near he was since she was squinting in the direction he'd indicated.

"The other superstructure, the Morning Star , she's down a little farther south but still along the paved portion of the causeway." He moved his finger in the direction of the other packet boat. "She's not quite as big as the Imperial , but she's still sturdy and fast."

"Which one are you the captain of?" Again, her question was hesitant.

"Whichever one I choose."

"How do you decide?"

"I usually pick the hardest one."

While he wasn't touching her back, he was close enough that he could lean in and catch the scent of her—some type of floral perfume that made him think of the flower garden behind his parents' home in New Orleans. He wanted to linger there and simply breathe her in.

But the plan was to woo her carefully and slowly, not to send her running from him scared.

He drew in a final breath, then forced himself to back up a step.

She remained where she was, focused on the steamboats, almost as if she were seeing them for the first time, which wasn't the case since she'd grown up in St. Louis and the boats were a staple of riverfront life.

Her cloak had slipped, revealing a stretch of her bare shoulders that drew his attention as quickly as dry wood drawing a flame. Her skin was flawless, and he could only dream of what it would feel like—probably more velvety than her cloak, velvety enough to stroke every day and never get enough.

"Why do you pick the hardest one?" She pivoted, as though she wanted to read his face when he gave his answer.

What should he tell her, that he'd witnessed too many disasters on the Mississippi, too many lost lives to captains who didn't attend to every single detail of the boat that needed to be cared for, repaired, and cleaned before starting a voyage? That he'd witnessed captains who didn't keep a lookout for snags and other dangers lurking beneath swollen waters that caused reckless crashes?

He could rattle off a dozen other answers to her question about the financial risks, the inexperience of some of his pilots, the unpredictable weather conditions. The life of a steamboat captain was dangerous, and most steamboat owners were lucky if they could get five years out of their river steamboat. The New Orleans Steamboat Packet Company steamboats lasted longer than average, and it was because he took extra care with each vessel.

But Sullivan couldn't say any of that to her here and now. Instead, he crossed his arms over his broad chest—partly to keep from reaching for her hand again. "I pick the hardest one because I'm the best man for the job."

She dropped her attention to her gloved hands and the outline of her diamond wedding ring underneath.

His voice came out a little arrogant. Even if his statement was the truth, he didn't like to boast. "Mainly, I pick the hardest because I like the challenge."

After a moment, she lifted her chin and her eyes flashed with anger. "I'm not like your steamboats. I'm not another challenge for you to win."

With that, she slipped past him and out into the hallway. Her footsteps echoed on the wood floor as she hurried toward the stairway. She clomped down the steps and through the front entryway. A few seconds later the front door opened, then closed.

He stood frozen to his spot in the middle of the bedchamber, the one she'd said she wanted to turn into a nursery.

What had just happened here? He'd made some progress with her. She'd been more talkative and comfortable with him. So what had he done to send her running?

He released a tight exhalation. Maybe for as many steps forward that he made, he had to expect some steps back. Perhaps many.

Whatever the case, he couldn't allow himself to get discouraged, and he had to keep trying. But what if even after everything, he could never measure up or be enough?