Everywhere she looked the bright Brazilian sun illuminated the pageant of humanity on the rough-hewn wharf in the seaport city of Belém.
Hawkers were everywhere, crying their goods at full voice. Sailors mulled about from one stall to another, quarreling about the prices and paying them all the same.
Beggar children followed the sailors, pulling on their sleeves or tugging at their trouser legs, begging for a sweet or imploring the men, through gestures, to visit and buy something at their families’ stands.
While merchants haggled over the prices, Indian women, long skirts wrapped about their slim bodies, vied for the best of the merchandise. All about was color and teeming life. It was the most exciting sight Royall had seen since Mardi Gras in Rio, and a far cry from her native New England.
She took particular notice of the Indian women. They were lovely to her eyes—smooth, dark skin, not black like the Negro, but a nut brown, great dark eyes, and straight black hair tied at the back. They wore bright colors and patterns that enhanced their complexions, and Royall felt pale beside them.
She noticed a few of the women appraising her, and she felt herself blush under their impertinent stares. A few of them spoke to one another, nodding in her direction.
Mrs. Quince, noting her embarrassment, translated their light, musical language for her. “They say you’re beautiful; they call you the golden girl. These Indians are always impressed with fair skin and light hair. They envy you.”
“And I was just thinking how lovely they are. They make me feel pale in comparison.”
“Well, dear, you know the saying, ‘the grass is always greener.’ Come, we must inquire about our accomodations on the paddlewheeler. One mustn’t trust to reservations. Drat this outlandish chair,” the woman complained testily. “If these wheels get caught between the cobblestones, poor Alonzo will be without a wife. A wheelchair, they call this contraption,” she continued to mutter as Royall pushed her from behind. “I call it a curse! Push, Royall! And keep a firm grip. The Lord protect us, I won’t feel safe until we set foot in Manaus!”
At the name of the exotic city, Royall felt a tingle and a quickening of her senses. “Manaus,” her geography text had read, “a treasure trove of wealth and culture, glistening beneath the Brazilian sun. Erected on the banks of the Amazon on the wealth from the rubber boom, deep in the mysterious jungles of Brazil.”
Settling her bandbox on Mrs. Quince’s lap, Royall squared her shoulders and started to push the rattan wheelchair in the direction of the low-slung buildings at the wharf’s edge.
A small boy dashed past her. As she swung sideways to avoid colliding with him, she noticed a tall, dark, hatless man staring at her. The boldness of his gaze was disturbing, and she rushed forward to escape his rudeness.
“... You’ll be delighted with the paddle boat. It’s just what a young girl needs. Gaiety and music. Our paddle boats here on the Amazon rival those on your Mississippi for luxury and food and entertainment. This will be a chance to wear your loveliest gowns.”
Royall smiled as she watched Mrs. Quince’s pale, slate-colored eyes light with anticipation.
After booking passage on the Brazilia d’Oro, Royall guided Mrs. Quince toward the wharf. “We can have our trunks transferred to the Brazilia when we board.”
The gangplank stretched ahead of them, waiting for the purser to validate their boarding passes. Rosalie Quince was engaged in a lively conversation with the agent when, for a second time, Royall became aware of eyes staring at her. Boldly, she looked around. Her heavily lashed, gold-flecked eyes lifted to the promenade deck. Staring down at her with a cool, mocking gaze was the buccaneer from the Mardi Gras.
God in heaven, what was he doing here on board their ship? He couldn’t be sailing with them. He just couldn’t. Memories of Mardi Gras flooded through her as she struggled to gain control of her composure. This couldn’t be happening to her. She raised her eyes slightly. He was leaning nonchalantly against the rail, never taking his gaze from her. Royall’s back stiffened. She stared back, her eyes bold and just as mocking. A pity, she thought, that the sun was so blinding that it was making her squint. Or was it the starkness of his white tropical suit? She found herself craning for a better look and was immediately annoyed with herself. What did he think? As if she cared what the arrogant bastard thought. How dare he look at her that way? Make her feel conspicuous and embarrassed. A small, sick curl of heat wormed in her stomach. This couldn’t be happening! The buccaneer was supposed to be aboard a ship in Rio, sailing out of her life forever. If she had ever suspected that their paths would cross again, she would never have allowed herself to be compromised this way. Impertinently, refusing to allow him to get the better of her, she tilted her chin upwards, continuing her bold stare. A tumble of dark hair, ruffled by the soft wind, grazed his brow. He brushed it aside impatiently, never taking his eyes from her.
Again, Royall was struck by his handsomeness, his masculinity. And if appearances were not deceiving, he was still very interested in her. More for deviltry than for any other reason, she lowered her left eyelid in a seductive wink, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He straightened and nodded his head imperceptibly, acknowledging her small flirtation.
Rosalie Quince turned to face Royall. “Did you ever see a more beautiful thing in your life?”
Mistaking Mrs. Quince’s words, Royall laughed. “No, Mrs. Quince, I can truthfully say I have never seen anything quite so ... so ... dashing.”
Rosalie Quince grimaced. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a ship called dashing before. Whatever, it’s of no mind. I do so love these paddle-wheelers.”
Royall’s eyes were following the tall man on the promenade deck. “I’ve only seen pictures of them,” she replied distractedly.
“Is anything wrong, Royall?”
“Wrong? Of course not, Mrs. Quince.” She couldn’t allow the garrulous Mrs. Quince to suspect that there was a man aboard the paddlewheeler arousing her interest. Worse yet, what if he approached them and revealed his acquaintance with her? No, she assured herself uncertainly; surely he would not be that much of a boor. Or would he?
Royall watched the people boarding the steamboat. Her eyes took in the bright white vessel with its red and gold painted rails. The smokestacks were painted a bright orange, and the gangplank itself was a bright green. Anywhere else these colors would have been overstated, but on the graceful paddlewheeler they were exactly right.
A steward came and relieved Royall of her bandbox, and she followed him as he expertly guided Mrs. Quince’s chair up the bright green gangplank to the promenade deck of the Brazilia. Royall held tightly to the hemp rope handrail as she ascended the slanting plank. She was still not sure of her “land legs,” and she felt she would be more secure on board ship on her “sea legs,” which she had learned to command over the several weeks’ journey from New England to Brazil. She wondered vaguely if it were possible to become “land sick.” She had certainly felt queer since her return to solid ground. Or was it the buccaneer’s influence on her? She said as much to Mrs. Quince.
“Oh, lord a mercy, yes, child. I, too, am feeling the effect of our long sea voyage. The layover here in port hasn’t really helped. We’ll be much more comfortable aboard the Brazilia. Truthfully, I can hardly wait to arrive at my plantation where I can be at my leisure and take life slow.”
Royall found it hard to believe Mrs. Quince ever took life at a leisurely pace.
They followed the steward to their respective cabins. The small, dark man opened the doors and led them into a cool, dim stateroom, furnished in quiet elegance. The theme of the room was that of a casual summerhouse, all cool greens and pale petal pinks. A deep rose carpet accentuated the light color of the draperies. Hanging from the low ceiling was a glittering crystal chandelier properly scaled to the diminutive proportions of the cabin.
Mrs. Quince’s stateroom was similarly furnished, except that the carpet was a deep crimson.
“They will do nicely, won’t they? Royall, do you hear me?”
Royall wasn’t listening to Mrs. Quince. Instead, her attention was directed toward the open doorway where she had glimpsed a tall figure dressed in a white suit. It had moved from the doorway just as she lifted her eyes.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Quince, did you say something?”
“I was just saying these staterooms will do nicely, don’t you think?”
“Yes, very nicely indeed.”
“Child, you seem tired. Perhaps you should lie down and rest. You’ll feel more like yourself and you’ll be able to enjoy the evening’s festivities.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I do feel a little tired.”
“I thought so. Why don’t you go into your room and rest. I’ll make certain our luggage is brought aboard.”
Royall sank down on her bed. Her innards were churning ominously, making her feel decidedly green at the gills. It was impossible! Impossible! He couldn’t be here, aboard this ship, traveling with them, his obvious destination Manaus. It was close, too close for comfort.
Her thoughts raced, discarding one possibility after another. What would he do? What would he say? Was he a gentleman or not? Would he dare to refer to their meeting in Rio de Janeiro? Would he flaunt their intimacy?
Questions boiled in her brain, and no solutions made themselves clear. At last, she decided there was only one possible course of action. Royall threw herself back against the pillows. There was only one choice. If he should dare to approach her, she would ignore him. Pretend that he was mistaken about knowing her. It would take daring and the skill of an accomplished liar, but her reputation was at stake.
Why? Why, when for once in her life she had followed her own instincts, her own desires, should fate decree she would be haunted by her impetuosity? Fool! Fool! she cursed herself, beating her fists against the coverlet. Why couldn’t I have listened to Mrs. Quince, stayed aboard the clipper ship, and drowned myself in lemonade?
Royall squeezed her eyes shut and turned over on her side. He was brash, insolent, a rogue without conscience! She should have known he was no gentleman—staring at her that way, smiling at her! A gentleman never reminded a lady of her indiscretions. His eyes had seemed to devour her, and in public no less! Shame filled her, bringing heat to her cheeks. But then her traitorous memory reminded her of the way his dark gaze had covered her the night of Mardi Gras. The way his hands had touched her, pleasuring her, bringing her beyond the threshhold of desires and passions that she had only dreamed of but had had no experience with. His lips had burned her skin, scorching a trail from her breasts to navel and ... beyond. Tender lips, demanding lips, glowing dark eyes, gentle exploring fingers ... Stop it! Stop it! her mind screamed, even while her body betrayed her, needing, wanting to feel those lips, know those hands again. And somehow knowing she would.
Her agitated thoughts demanded action. Jumping up from the bed, she prowled the room like a caged lioness. Mrs. Quince was right; sleep, she needed sleep. With shaking fingers, she unpinned the scandalously tiny hat that matched her gold and navy pinstripe dress from atop her shining, golden head. Next came the dress, the shoes and petticoats. Stripped down to pantaloons and chemise, she closed the louvers on the tiny draped portholes, darkening the room and muting the bright colors. It seemed that since arriving in Brazil she had been assaulted by color, all colors, intoxicating in their intensity. The colors of the Mardi Gras ... no, she would not think of that now. If possible, she would. never think of it again. Pulling the last of the pins from her hair, allowing it to tumble down to her waist, she flung herself on the bed, determinedly closing her eyes, banishing all thought, seeking sleep.
After awakening from her brief nap, Royall felt refreshed and found herself excitedly anticipating the coming evening aboard the river steamer. From all indications it would indeed be exciting. Already she could hear strains of music from the distant orchestra, the tune reminiscent of Mardi Gras.
Quickly, she made her ablutions and sat before the kidney-shaped, organdy-skirted dressing table to arrange her hair. Beneath the bevy of hairpins, ribbons, and dusting powder, she spied her silver-backed hairbrush.
Lovingly, she picked it up and held it to her cheek. Somehow, it brought her father closer to her. It had been his last gift to her before he died. She once again felt the deep, aching gap in her life, a loss more devastating than even losing MacDavis. Perhaps after a time it would narrow, its sharp edges becoming less jagged and easier to bear. She studied the back of the brush. It was heavily engraved. Her slim, oval finger traced the words “Reino Brazilia,” the name of the rubber plantation to which she was traveling. It was from this same plantation that her father had come by his wealth. Now it was to be her new home.
Twin lines formed between her finely arched brows, and for an instant she felt as if she were moving through time. Her thoughts slid backward, placing her once again on the clipper ship that had brought her to this exotic land.
The wind had been blowing gently, rustling the sheaf of papers she had carried with her to the mid-deck. Settled in her chair, she attempted to make some sense of her father’s portfolio. It had all been carefully explained to her by the family lawyers, but she had been so filled with grief that their words were only a jumble, and the papers she had signed had passed beneath her pen in a blur.
It was there on the mid-deck that she had come across a ledger that her father had used for his personal journal. Leafing through the pages, she found the ledger opened to the last few entries: those written just before Richard Harding’s death.
Melancholia brought stinging tears to her eyes, and she fought them back in an effort to read the neat, small script. Something caught her eye, some oddly worded phrase that she couldn’t comprehend. She then turned back to the preceding pages and scanned the lines. Nothing really, some mention of dates and appointments, a few others about a purchase of French wines for the cellars. Here:
Heard from old Farleigh’s lawyer today. Suppose the old codger finally retired and began to remember his old friends. Still, if what he tells me he suspects is true, I shall have to alter my plans concerning Royall’s future. This will take prompt investigation.
Then another entry, two weeks later:
Morrison, Farleigh’s lawyer, seems to know what he is talking about. The evidence certainly would seem to point to that.... Still, I cannot believe Carlyle would be guilty of such action. It is not indicative of the young boy I once knew ... Am waiting to hear from Morrison again!
Another entry, a month later:
Yes, it is true. Carlyle has not abided by my wishes to comply with Princess Isabel’s Ventre Livre law, and I will not condone his actions. From recent correspondence with him and from other sources which have come to my attention, I tend to believe Morrison’s accusations. This is not all. From searching my memory, I seem to remember my dear friend complaining to me of his son. Something about the boy cruelly beating a slave to death. There was some talk of disinheriting the boy.
And among the last entries:
More and more I search the past; now I am quite convinced Carlyle was responsible. I must arrange for a major upheaval in my plans for Royall. I am going to dissolve my holdings in Reino Brazilia and let Carlyle Newsome be damned!
Royall couldn’t understand what she had uncovered in the ledger, and it was too late to do anything about it anyway. She was already on her way to Reino Brazilia, Brazilian Kingdom. Richard Harding had died before he had had a chance to sell his share of the plantation. She pushed the chilling phrase that she had read in the ledger away from her thoughts. Father had always been overprotective; still, something was amiss.
Rifling through her bandbox now to find a fresh length of ribbon, she came across the letter that Carlyle Newsome had sent her upon the news of her father’s death. She knew its flowery phrases by rote.
My dear Royall,
I am much saddened by the news of your husband’s death. I know his passing is a great burden to you. I can only offer you my sincerest condolences in your time of grief.
Your father was a much valued business partner and greatly respected and honored by my father. I remember having met your father only once, when I was but a boy.
This letter is to extend to you a warm invitation to the Reino Brazilia. It will be your home.
Enclosed are sailing dates for ships leaving New England, also instructions for your travel.
If you can arrange to book passage on the Victoria, you will have the pleasurable company of Mrs. Rosalie Quince, who is returning to Brazil. She will bring you as far as Reino Brazilia. Her own plantation is but ten miles from here.
My sons, Carl and Jamie, extend their condolences and wish you a safe, speedy journey.
My sincerest wishes,
Carlyle Newsome
Coming back to the present, Royall found herself annoyed once again at Carlyle Newsome’s letter. It said all the right things, but what it didn’t say was that Royall now owned one half of Reino Brazilia. That what appeared generously offered hospitality was nothing more than her right to look into her investments. Pulling the brush through her hair, she scowled into the mirror. Enough of these dark thoughts. She would deal with “the Baron,” as he liked to call himself, when the time came. For now, she had more urgent problems: the sudden, unexpected appearance of the buccaneer. This was a new life with new opportunities, and she meant to make the most of it! Still, the buccaneer occupied her thoughts as she dressed.
Enough of all those dark thoughts. This was a new life with new ideas. With this new life, the first thing she had to see to was her person and her hair.
She finished her hair in the popular style of the day. Her coif of golden curls, pulled back from her smooth brow, Grecian style, was swirled into huge coils at the crown of her head. The style accentuated her graceful, long neck and softly rounded shoulders.
Choosing a gown of fine silk in a dark amber color, she held it close to her body and admired her reflection in the long looking glass behind the armoire door. Its rich, gleaming folds were perfect for an evening of entertainment. Excitement eliminated the need for rouge, and she applied only a touch of pomade to her full mouth. Would he notice her? How could he help but be aware of her?
Gathering up her reticule and cashmere shawl, she stole a final glance in the glass. Unashamedly, she appraised herself, liking what she saw. She smiled, remembering Mrs. Quince interpreting the native women’s chatter and saying they called her golden girl. She thought perhaps she should feel conspicuous for her fairness in a land where most everyone was dark complected, but she recalled the eyes of the buccaneer on her and she tingled deliciously under the remembered feel of her body against his.
Pulling herself from her thoughts, she turned away from the glass.
“Yoohoo, Royall, are you dressed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Quince, I’m ready to go.” The door opened, revealing Mrs. Quince sitting primly in her wheelchair. “I think I’m finally able to maneuver this dratted contraption,” Rosalie Quince sighed as she worked the oversized wheels with the palms of her hands. A handsome woman, she had chosen a deep burgundy silk gown that complemented her rounded figure.
“Royall, you look absolutely breathtaking. You’ll turn every head when we enter the dining room. I hope you’re prepared to parry the notorious flirtatious natures of our Brazilian gentlemen.”
Royall pushed Mrs. Quince’s chair out of her room and onto the promenade deck, laughing over Mrs. Quince’s amusing observations about the amorous nature of the Latin.
The dining hall was full to brimming when they arrived. “Oh, dear, I underestimated the number of passengers who will be having dinner here the evening of the sail. I hope we won’t have to wait too long for a table. I’m famished.”
Royall was quite content to wait, however hungry she felt. The dining hall was sumptuous, approaching the point of garishness. Deep red carpeting, gilt-edge picture frames of questionable taste, floods of gloriously gowned women and scrupulously tailored men graced the hall. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the tops of the tables, causing irridescent shimmers to reflect from the jewels worn at the ears and throats of the ladies. After the sterile efficiency of the Victoria, which had brought them to Brazil, it was a welcome sight to Royall’s eyes to feast on the opulence and splendor of the Brazilia d’Oro.
A heavy-set, stern-looking maitre d’ approached them.
“If you will permit, mesdames, it will be an hour before you can be seated at a table. Perhaps you would like dinner served to you in your rooms?”
Mrs. Quince turned to look at Royall to view her reaction. Seeing the disappointment on her face, she answered, “No, we’ll wait. However hungry I am, I would not care to disappoint my young friend on her first night on an Amazonian river steamer.”
The maitre d’s stern look vanished, and he braved a small smile in Royall’s direction. He offered Mrs. Quince a slight bow as he took his leave.
The music had started to play again, and Royall turned to see the orchestra. The musicians were seated on a dais above the main floor of the dining hall. They were attired in bright red waistcoats and black trousers. She was surprised to see that all the musicians were Indian. They played the popular tunes so well, one would have thought they were English or American.
A movement caught her eye, and she lowered her gaze to the main floor. There, seated in an alcove, was the buccaneer. Suddenly, their eyes met and held. She tore her gaze away, then quickly found herself stealing another look. He was on his feet and coming toward her. Inexplicably, her heart beat faster, making her feel as though the pulsing in her throat was choking her. Her eyes followed his hindered progress through the crowded room. He was no longer looking at her; he was looking beyond her, and inexplicably her heart fell. As he approached, she noticed again how tall he was. Well over six feet, if her guess was correct.
Mrs. Quince made a slight gasping sound behind her. “Why, it’s Sebastian. We’re in luck. I was right! It was you on the wharf in Rio!”
He gracefully climbed the four or five steps to the level on which they were standing. He smiled, white teeth gleaming in his darkly tanned face; his eyes were black ... Indian black. “Mrs. Quince! I had not expected to see you until sometime next month. Had I known you were traveling on the same vessel as I, I would have invited you to join me at dinner much before this.” He was suddenly aware of Mrs. Quince’s wheelchair, and his brows lifted in question.
“Oh, posh, Sebastian, don’t ask questions and make an old woman feel more foolish than she is. I’ve broken my ankle. I’ll be fine in a few weeks, I promise you.”
In a gallant gesture, he leaned over her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I am so sorry, Senora Quince. May you return to yourself soon.”
“I’ll feel more like myself as soon as I’ve had dinner, Sebastian. Whatever are you doing in Belém at this time of year? One would think you were too busy getting your rubber to market to treat yourself to a sojourn in the east. However; I am sure, never has one been so happy to see you as I am. The maitre d’ informs us it will be at least an hour before he can seat us to dinner.” At her last words, Mrs. Quince turned to Royall.
Sebastian’s eyes followed Mrs. Quince’s gaze, and he turned to Royall and gave a slight courtly bow. “Royall Banner, allow me to present Sebastian Rivera to you. Royall has been widowed recently and is journeying with me to the plantation, Sebastian.”
“How do you do, Senora Banner.” Sebastian’s eyes formed questions and then seemed to find the answers. He wasn’t surprised to find that Royall was a widow; it explained so many things. The night of Mardi Gras he hadn’t been surprised, thinking she was a prostitute, to find that she wasn’t a virgin. What had surprised him was her obvious lack of experience, her innocence. A smile formed on his lips. Royall had all the untouched innocence of a virgin, blended with a natural inclination for passion. No doubt her husband had never delved the wells of sensuality this woman possessed. Poor man, he found himself thinking, going to the grave never knowing what an exciting woman warmed his bed. The grin broadened; Senor Banner’s loss was Sebastian’s gain.
His eyes flashed at her; twin circles of jet bore into her being. She felt breathless and struggled for control. Never had she met so handsome and dynamic a man.
Regaining control, she answered, “How do you do, Senor Rivera. And that’s Royall with two L’s.”
Sebastian’s eyes became hooded. He remained silent for a moment. Was she daring him to expose her? Or was she simply mocking him? How sweet and innocent she looked standing next to Senora Quince. His heart thumped in his chest as she boldly returned his gaze. There was no point in denying the fact that he found her exciting. She was indeed a sleek jungle cat.
“Ladies, please do me the honor of joining me at my table,” he said urbanely.
Mrs. Quince, in the abrupt manner to which Royall had become familiar, answered for them. “I thought you would never ask. But I wam you, if you hadn’t, I would have invited us anyway. So it’s just as well you did, Sebastian!”
The twin orbs of jet glowed at Rosalie Quince. “Based on our long acquaintance, I’ve no doubt you would, Senora. However, let me assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” His words were directed to Rosalie Quince; his gaze was for Royall alone. A gesture, a word, and two stewards lifted Mrs. Quince, complete with wheelchair, down the few steps to the main Salon. Offering his arm to Royall, they followed behind the steward pushing the chair to Sebastian’s table.
The conversation was lively, owing much to Mrs. Quince’s jocularity and loquaciousness, not to mention her constant references to her wheeled chair. The dinner of stuffed lamb and rice was delectable, and the wine Sebastian chose to accompany the meal was the perfect complement to the savory courses. In spite of her previous misgivings, Royall found herself relaxing in his company, in fact enjoying it.
When the waiter came to take the order for dessert, Mrs. Quince uttered a small squeal of delight. “At last,” she sighed. “Sebastian, I can’t tell you how many months I’ve hungered for clea’ho.”
“I can well imagine, Senora Quince. I understand guava is not a popular fruit in America.”
At this exchange Royall frowned. She did so hate to be left out of any conversation.
“Dear, Sebastian is referring to my passion for the favorite dessert of Brazilians—guava paste and white cheese. Do you think you would care to try some? Or perhaps you would like to have a Blessed Mother?”
Royall frowned again. “What is a Blessed Mother?”
Sebastian and Mrs. Quince laughed, but at the embarrassed look on Royall’s face, Sebastian’s features sobered.
“Senora Banner, forgive my rudeness. Senora Quince and I are enjoying ourselves at your expense, I’m afraid. A Blessed Mother is what the natives call certain little pastries. They’re very similar to French petits fours. The Indians usually serve them on religious holidays, hence the name, ‘Blessed Mothers.’ ”
“Oh, I see. Perhaps I shall try a Blessed Mother, if you don’t mind.” Seeing the apologetic look on Mrs. Quince’s face, she broke into a mirthful smile. If Sebastian Rivera could act as though nothing had happened between the two of them, then so could she.
“It would seem Senora Banner also has a teasing sense of humor. Senora Quince, I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to this journey up the Amazon. Thanks to Mrs. Banner and yourself, I believe I’m the only gentleman aboard who is so fortunate as to be honored with the company of two such lovely ladies.”
“Sebastian, save your speeches for the dance floor. My ankle is aching me. Please don’t hesitate to ask Royall to dance for fear of leaving me alone at the table.” Mrs. Quince pressed her hand to her lips to stifle a demure yawn. “As soon as I have finished my dessert, I fear it will be all I can do to keep my eyes open. Therefore, I shall have one of the stewards take me back to my cabin and entrust you to see that Royall is properly entertained. I have no wish to act as a duenna, I can assure you. I’ve known you long enough, Sebastian, to feel it quite proper to leave Royall in your care.”
Oh, Mrs. Quince, if you only knew how wrong you are, Royall thought.
Sebastian nodded. “I shall be delighted to act as escort for Senora Banner.”
Sebastian turned his eyes toward Royall and smiled. Somewhere within her something stirred, making it hard for her to breathe.
He had kept his eyes on her throughout the dinner, ruining her appetite. What was he looking for when he peered so deeply into her eyes? Why was it so hard for her to keep her eyes from meeting his? She didn’t like the strange emotions his presence evoked.
The music began to play again, a soft, haunting tune with which she was not familiar. Waiters busied themselves quenching the candles burning brightly in the chandeliers above the tables.
A huge black man, dressed in bright gaudy trousers and an orange silk shirt open to the waist, proceeded onto the dance floor and squatted, placing a pair of drums between his knees.
The flutist played a haunting melody, rising an octave above the other instruments. Suddenly, on the dance floor were two other natives, a man and woman, both dressed in flamboyant costume. They assumed a stiff, yet graceful pose and waited for the music to reach its end.
The dining hall became quiet; the diners waited expectantly.
“You are in store for a treat, Royall,” Mrs. Quince whispered. “This is, if I’m not mistaken, the trio that has been taking Rio de Janeiro by storm. They’re from Africa and I understand they’re quite a success. I suppose they’re on their way to Manaus to play at the opera house.”
“Shhh,” came a command from behind Mrs. Quince. A woman gestured with her hand and turned Royall’s attention toward the dance floor.
The dancer began to move, swaying her hips in rhythm to the music; the man followed her lead. The drummer beat a slow rhythm, which became imperceptibly faster as the dance continued. The music took flight, the flutist now reaching low, mellow notes and then soaring to unbelievably clear, high-pitched tones.
The dancers followed the rhythm, swaying, rocking, becoming faster till they were swirling together, holding each other close.
Royall had never seen anything like this. She had been to New York once with her father, to the opera and the ballet, but somehow she could not imagine even the sophisticated New York society of the year 1877 accepting these dancers at their ballet or opera house.
Her attention was attracted to the woman dancer. Tall and lithe, she was now arching herself backward, her expression one of ecstasy. The light of the few candles remaining was caught by the beads of perspiration on her arms and throat, creating miniature diamonds.
The melody and rhythm became heavy, surging to a rapid crescendo. The music stopped; the dancers remained absolutely still, a dramatic tableau. The diners were hushed. Royall glanced around and saw men pulling at their collars and women fanning themselves rapidly. Within herself, Royall felt a remembered excitement. She returned her attention to her own table. Mrs. Quince appeared mesmerized by the dancers; she was staring fixedly at them. Sebastian Rivera was staring at Royall. His gaze was penetrating, probing. Royall returned his look boldly. She felt beautiful under his gaze, warm and sensuous. He was remembering the same as she was. This man made her aware of herself, of her beauty, of her womanliness.
Their eyes locked. Deep, deeper. He gazed, she felt, into her soul and she welcomed him. How well she remembered.
Minutes later, Mrs. Quince retired to her cabin with the aid of a steward. Royall and Sebastian spoke of inconsequential things and shared the enjoyment of each other’s company. Along toward midnight, Sebastian acquiesced to the lateness of the hour and suggested a stroll around the deck before escorting Royall back to her cabin.
Royall felt drained. Why was he playing this charade? Not one mention of the Mardi Gras. He was behaving the perfect gentleman. Acting as though he had just met her. It was damn insulting. She should get angry and do something, say something to shake his manly composure. He had made wild, passionate love to her, and now he was treating her like a casual acquaintance. Exasperated with her own contradictory thoughts, she eagerly accepted his invitation for a stroll. She couldn’t keep things straight in her head. One minute she was praying that he would never refer to the night of Mardi Gras, and the next she was cursing him for pretending she had never spent the night in his arms.
The night was shimmering with stars. The Southern Cross was clearly visible, and Sebastian pointed it out to her. Silence fell between them. Royall sighed. If she had to play the game, she would. What an awful waste of time.
“What are you thinking of, Senora Banner?” His voice was a low-pitched purr.
“I was just thinking that home in New England, it is late February, and the full force of winter is holding fast. Here, it is eternal summer. It’s hard to imagine a world so big it can have two seasons at the same time. New England always seemed the world to me. Now, here I am in Brazil on a riverboat, sailing up the Amazon to a city I’d not heard of till a few months ago. Traveling with Rosalie is an experience.” That should slow down your game a bit, Sebastian Rivera, she thought nastily.
“Yes, Rosalie Quince sees the world through the sharp eyes of a child. Every day is an adventure for her, and she shares that adventure with those around her.”
“I know exactly what you mean. When I first met her, she put me completely at ease. She is truly a great lady.” She wanted to scream, to beat at him with her fists. The last thing she wanted to talk about was Rosalie Quince.
“In more ways than you know. When Senora Quince came to Brazil years ago with her husband, Alonzo, she braved fever and famine to work at his side in the wild rubber forest. If it weren’t for her strength and perseverance, Alonzo is the first to admit, he would have turned away from Brazil to find his fortune elsewhere. From wilderness and a thatched-roof hut Rosalie Quince carved a civilization out of the jungle. It was she who induced the Catholic missionaries to come to the wilds of the rubber forests to educate the Indians. It was she who founded the first hospital for Negroes and Indians. Manaus looks upon her as the grande dame of its society, and a dinner party during the social season is not a true success unless she makes an appearance.
“Rosalie Quince has worked hard all her life, and sometimes I think it rankles her to have so much leisure time on her hands. Still, I think if she had the opportunity, she would gladly wrap her head in a cloth and work in the fields alongside her Indians as she once did. She’s a remarkable woman, and I, for one, consider myself fortunate to know her and be recognized by her.”
“I’m glad you have told me this about Mrs. Quince, Senor Rivera. Rosalie never would have revealed it herself; although I must admit I guessed at what you’ve told me. Only a woman who has known hardship can have the capacity for unselfish understanding. And this I found in Mrs. Quince. I’ve been the beneficiary of her maternal instincts. I’ve felt she privileged me by substituting me for her daughter Suzanne.”
“You’re correct in considering yourself privileged. Tell me, how did she find Suzanne when she went to America?”
“Very well, I think, though I know she misses her sorely.”
A brisk breeze swept across the deck, and the dampness of the night air gave Royall an involuntary shiver.
Sun-bronzed hands gently tucked Royall’s shawl more closely about her. How strong and capable his hands looked. The faint aroma of his cheroot and some tangy, unnamed scent wafted about her. She shivered, not with cold, but with memories.
Dark eyes stared down at her. Royall correctly interpreted the look and flushed, grateful for the near darkness. His voice, when he spoke, was mocking. “Come, Rosalie will never forgive me if I allow you to catch a chill.”
Royall lowered her eyes, feeling a glorious warmth steal over her, warmth from Sebastian’s mocking eyes and tall, muscular body. Without warning, she found herself suddenly in his embrace. He said nothing as he brought his face close to hers, making her light-headed with excitement. Lightly, his lips grazed hers.
A current of emotions swept over Royall. Her body tingled; her pulses throbbed.
His lips were hard and demanding. Hungry. She responded, her lips as feverish as Sebastian’s. Suddenly, he released her. Royall felt shaken. Surely he wanted more, just as she did. The brazen thought did nothing for her composure. She stared into dark eyes that held a promise. Was her own gaze also full of promise? Promise of ... of ... she refused to name the emotion that was sweeping all reason, all thoughts aside. She wanted this man. She knew without a doubt that her new life would never be complete unless Sebastian Rivera was entwined in the strands of her very being. He was her destiny. She could almost feel it, taste it filling her.
Their soft footfalls outside Rosalie Quince’s stateroom made her smile. Then she heard Royall’s stateroom door close and the sound of Sebastian’s boots going back down the companionway to the rhythm of his satisfied whistling. Was a match in the making? If so, she was delighted. If not, as yet, she would give romance a helping hand. A gentle prod, so to speak. Sometimes Sebastian could be so mule-headed, especially when it came to women. Women like Royall Banner didn’t enter a man’s life every day of the week. In fact, rarely did they enter a man’s life. There was something special about Royall, something that set her apart from the other women in Rosalie Quince’s circle of friends. It wasn’t her golden beauty either. What was it? Rosalie hated it when things or thoughts eluded her. Well, whatever it was that made the young woman different would come to her one of these days when she was least expecting it. She would forget the gentle prod and concentrate on a well-deserved kick in the right direction. That was something Sebastian would understand. Rosalie Quince sighed deeply, and much to her own amusement, she found that she missed the lumpy and narrow bunk in which she had slept during her long journey on the Victoria. “Ridiculous,” she chided herself. “How a body could miss that foul excuse for a bed is beyond me.”
Even as she muttered the words, she wriggled slightly, seeking the familiar hole which she had worked into the cotton mattress that served for bedding on the clipper ship.
Silently, reverently, Rosalie Quince whispered her evening prayers before closing her eyes. She had lain in bed resting until she heard the footsteps; then, knowing the girl was safe, she felt able to sleep.
According to habit, she saved her prayers for her last thoughts. While still a young girl, she had developed the knack of sorting her thoughts and mulling them over as one will do before sleep; then, when she felt all that could be done for the day was done, she would whisper her words to God and close her eyes for the night.
As she began her “God-blesses,” as she had done since she was a child, Suzanne’s name came to her lips. Darling Suzanne, the only child of Rosalie’s marriage. The journey to America, in spite of her cheerful demeanor, had been taxing and tedious. No longer young, Rosalie Quince nevertheless could not bear her daughter to endure childbirth among strangers. Even though the “strangers” were the girl’s in-laws, Rosalie felt the need to protect Suzanne from whatever her new life cast her way and once again, perhaps for the last time, draw her daughter close and help her through the pain.
It was not easy for Mrs. Quince to admit to herself that perhaps she had seen her beloved daughter for the last time. After all, she was not young, and she could feel the hot, humid jungle drain away her strength more and more, year after year.
Her arms ached for Suzanne, and she could again see the slim, young girl standing on the wharf, waving good-bye. It remained unspoken between mother and child, the fear of never again holding close one who is loved so dearly.
A sound from the companionway shook Rosalie from her reverie. Aboard ship, Rosalie Quince had taken an immediate liking to her traveling companion, perhaps to defray the pain of being separated from Suzanne; nevertheless, Royall proved to be a young woman of warmth and charm.
Rosalie’s maternal instincts, torn so savagely by her separation from Suzanne, were able to find refuge and comfort in the tutelage and protection of Royall Banner.
Finishing her “God-blesses,” Rosalie impatiently brushed a tear away from the corner of her eye, plumped her feather pillow, and fell back to render her keeping to the angels for the night.
Royall awakened leisurely. This had been the first night in several weeks that she had not felt herself cramped into a short, narrow bunk. She stretched her long, slim limbs, luxuriating in the feel of the fresh muslin sheets.
A feeling crept over her, one of happiness and anticipation. She had fallen asleep with the thoughts of the exciting evening she had spent with Sebastian Rivera and Mrs. Quince, and now she looked forward to another.
She lithely jumped from under the covers and hastened to make her ablutions as though she could not wait to face the day. Humming softly to herself, she rummaged through her trunks and cases looking for exactly the correct costume for her first day upon the luxurious Amazon steamer.
Finally, choosing an aquamarine moiré silk morning dress, she sat before the mirror to dress her hair. She freed the thick blond masses from their ribbons and began to brush the snarls and tangles from it.
It fell almost to her waist, cascading around her white shoulders. Every time she dressed her hair, she reveled in its wealth and sheen. She couldn’t help but remember when she was a young girl of thirteen. She’d suffered from a fever and the doctors had insisted on cutting her hair. “It saps her strength.” She could still hear the dour physician’s voice and her father’s murmured cry of dismay at this radical treatment. For months after that Royall had refused to venture from the house. It was not until her hair grew back to a decent length that she allowed her father to buy her a frivolous bonnet, and she shyly accompanied him for a ride in a hansom through the city park.
Now, as she dipped her fingers in the pomade and stroked them through her hair, she could bless the doctor who had issued the order. Her hair had grown back in a very short time, and where once it had been fine and silky, now it was heavy and glossy, obedient to the will of her brush. Royall considered it her most valuable feature.
As she was placing the last of the pins in her coiffure, Mrs. Quince knocked at the door. “Yoohoo, Royall, are you awake?”
“Yes, Mrs. Quince. I’ve just finished dressing my hair.”
Rosalie Quince maneuvered the chair into the room, still in her dressing gown. “Dear, would you prefer breakfast here in your stateroom, or would you prefer to eat on deck with the other diners? Perhaps you would enjoy a view of Brazil as you sip your coffee?”
“I’d like that very much, Mrs. Quince. I didn’t get to see much of it yesterday.”
“I thought as much. It will only take minutes for me to dress. Perhaps you would come into my stateroom and lace my stays for me?”
Twenty minutes later Mrs. Quince and Royall were seated at a small table on the upper deck of the riverboat. Royall, in her aquamarine gown, had turned every head as she made her way through to their table. She adored the attention she was receiving and only hoped Sebastian Rivera was close enough to notice.
The richness of the moiré silk and the vibrant hue of aquamarine set off Royall’s golden skin and turned her blond hair to gold. Conscious of the admiring stares, she followed Mrs. Quince’s wheelchair and seated herself. Every nerve in her body was tightened to alertness. Then she felt, rather than saw, Sebastian Rivera approach them.
“Good morning, ladies. I trust you rested well?” His tone was light and casual, his eyes sharp and piercing. Royall exalted in their uncompromising approval as he surveyed her. He had noticed.
“It seems Senora Quince, I am in that unfortunate position in which you found yourself last evening. There is no available table.”
Rosalie Quince, a smile playing about her thin mouth, lowered her head in a mock curtsy.
“Please, Sebastian, I entreat you to join us for breakfast.”
“I warn you, Senora Quince, had you not done so, I would have invited myself,” he chided as he winked at her.
Remembering Mrs. Quince’s words from the evening before, Royall laughed openly. “It would seem, Mrs. Quince, that Senor Rivera has quite a memory for conversation.”
Feigning annoyance, Mrs. Quince replied sullenly, “Yes, so it would seem.”
“Tell me, Senor, how is your memory concerning other matters?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she could have died. She must be insane to remind him, to practically give him permission to acknowledge what had occurred between them.
He met her head on, brows lifting, dark eyes daring, a crooked grin twisting his mouth. “I assure you, Senora, my memory serves me very well.” His gaze flicked over her arrogantly, saying more than his words that he remembered her quite well indeed.
Sebastian signaled to the waiter to bring a chair to the table. His poise and authority did not escape Royall. Once seated, he directed his full attention to his companions. “Tell me, Senora Banner, has Rosalie fully prepared you for the rigors of plantation life?”
Before she could answer, Mrs. Quince interrupted. “The rigors of life in Manaus would be more the case, Sebastian, and you know it.” Turning to Royall, she began to explain. “I’m sure, dear, you’ve heard of the decadent society of Paris. Well, let me assure you, Manaus will soon rival that European city for its gluttony and distasteful displays of garish accoutrements. I, for one, much prefer the quiet, serene life on the plantation. I could well do without splendiferous-gowned ladies and men who tipple the most expensive wines. Were it not for the fact that I am sure it is only to flaunt their new-found wealth, I might accept it more gracefully. But this society is so ostentatious that it is actually perverse.” Turning to Sebastian, “And the less said of it the better. Were it not expedient to maintain a townhouse for the sake of Alonzo’s business dealings, I assure you I would not set foot in that devil’s shrine.”
Sebastian, who had heard this same point of view at other times from Mrs. Quince, smiled and commiserated with her. “I, too, prefer plantation life. And you’re right; the less said, the better. I wouldn’t want to discourage Senora Banner before she has had a chance to decide for herself.”
“I assure you, Senor Rivera, it would take much more than the evils of Manaus to discourage me in my opinion of Brazil.” She half-turned in her seat to admire the view along the shore. “From what I’ve seen of your country, the only word with which I could describe it would be lush.”
The waiter arrived and Sebastian ordered quickly. Royall found it hard to concentrate on her plate under Sebastian’s scrutiny. He watched her in open admiration. A table close to theirs was occupied by three gentlemen. Their admiring glances directed toward Royall brought a scowl to Sebastian’s face, and he glowered at them, causing her to experience a delicious tingle. Jealousy? It serves you right, Sebastian Rivera.
With a last sip of coffee Sebastian grudgingly excused himself, saying, “I have a meeting to attend in the lower lounge, but I would like it if both you ladies joined me for dinner.”
Mrs. Quince accepted quickly for both of them.
Royall watched Sebastian’s graceful movements as he took his leave. “Shall we indulge ourselves with another cup of this marvelous coffee, Royall?” she heard Mrs. Quince break into her thoughts.
“Yes, please, Mrs. Quince, and perhaps another wheat cake.” Anything to occupy her thoughts, anything to drive Sebastian’s image from her mind.