Capture The Night Page 2

  The nerve of the man, Madeline thought, gritting her teeth against the words she’d love to speak. Really, to comment on another’s intelligence when his own is so obviously lacking. Listen to his French. And his powers of observation!

  Why, she knew how she looked. Beautiful wasn’t the appropriate word.

  Brazos swallowed his candy and said, “Hmm. You’ve given me an idea.” Before Madeline gathered her wits to stop him, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Beauty. And listen, you take care out here without a man to protect you. If I see your husband on this boat, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind about leaving you alone.” He winked and left her walking toward the gangway.

  Madeline touched the sticky spot on her cheek, damp from his peppermint kiss, and watched, fascinated, despite herself, as the overbold Texan tapped Considérant on the shoulder. In French that grated on her ears, he said, “Listen, Frenchman, I’ll make a deal with you. If you find a place for me on your ship, I’ll be happy to share my extensive knowledge of Texas with any of your folks who’d be interested in learning. This land you bought on the Trinity River—it’s not more than half a day’s ride from my cousin’s spread. I’ve spent a good deal of time in that area over the past few years. I can tell you all about it.”

  “Mr. Sinclair” Considérant said in English, “Please do not further abuse my language. I chose that land myself. Personally. I can answer any questions my peers may have about our new home. Now, as I have told you, this packet has been chartered to sail La Réunion colonists exclusively. Every space is assigned. I sympathize with your need to return to your home, but unfortunately the Uriel cannot accommodate you. Please excuse me, Monsieur Sinclair, I have much to see to before we sail. Good day.”

  “Good day my—“ Brazos bit off his words. He turned abruptly and stomped away from the ship. Halting before Madeline, he declared, “This boat ain’t leaving until morning. It’s not over yet. By General Taylor’s tailor, when it sails, I’m gonna be on it.”

  He flashed a victorious grin and drawled, “Honey, you’ve captured my heart and about three other parts. I’ll look forward to seeing you aboard ship.”

  As he walked away, she dropped a handsome gold pocket watch into her reticule, then called out to him in crisp, King’s English. “Better you had offered your brain for ballast, Mr. Sinclair. Perhaps then you’d have been allowed aboard the Uriel.”

  BRAZOS SINCLAIR patted his empty pocket and scowled. What else could go wrong this afternoon? Some little urchin had up and stolen his watch, the one his father had given him the last time he’d stopped by home, the family cotton plantation, Magnolia Bend, for a visit. Hell and Texas, he silently cursed, I’ve gone as soft as a queen’s feather pillow not to have noticed.

  Many a time during his trek around Europe had a light-fingered thief attempted to divest him of his valuables, but this was the first time anyone had succeeded. Of course, as distracted as he’d been by the circumstances, a cutpurse could have purloined his pants, and he’d probably not have noticed.

  It was time to go home.

  Brazos lifted a half-empty glass of brandy from the table in front of him. Staring into the shimmering amber liquid, he wished the tumbler were half full, but life had managed to knock the optimism right out of him. Right about now he needed every scrap of confidence he could muster to force himself to climb aboard that boat.

  After his row with the Frenchman he had come directly to the alehouse across the pier from the Uriel. Choosing a table by the window, he’d ordered a drink and bent his mind toward figuring a way aboard that boat. Time, seldom a concern in this vagabond existence of his, had become his greatest enemy.

  On this side of the Atlantic, that is.

  The letter from Juanita lay like a hot brand against his chest. “Salezan,” he cursed. Hatred electrified his nerves, and his muscles tensed reflexively at the name. Damasso Salezan, prison governor extraordinaire—thief, sadist, butcher. Brazos felt the black tide rise within him, and he quickly slammed back his drink.

  He must get on that ship. Juanita’s life was at stake, the children’s happiness and safety at risk. He’d put it off a long time—almost two years—but now it was time to go home. Salezan’s men had stumbled across Juanita’s trail.

  Absently, Brazos pressed his jacket’s sleeve, feeling for the silver armband he wore above his elbow. Embossed and engraved, the band had originally belonged to a Franciscan priest, his dear friend Miguel Alcortez, before Damasso Salezan had claimed it for his own. Brazos wore it not as jewelry, but as a symbol of his escape from Perote Prison, a reminder of the night when he’d stripped the band from the governor’s arm and made a grievous mistake.

  He should have killed the bastard then. Now Juanita was suffering as a result of his cowardice.

  Why had he allowed the man to live? Brazos didn’t know, and Juanita had been unable to tell him. He couldn’t remember anything about the months he’d spent in The Hole. Even his memories of the escape and subsequent return to Texas were sketchy. One particular moment stood out in his mind, however. He could clearly picture himself standing over Damasso Salezan, his fingers itching to wrap themselves around the governor’s neck, instead wrenching the silver band from the cowering man’s arm and leaving a long, deep gash in the skin.

  Brazos remembered the blood and how it had frightened him. The sight of blood bothered him to this very day.

  Salezan was the only man alive who could tell him why.

  Had that been the reason he’d spared the governor’s life? Brazos twirled his glass on the tabletop. Fool, he told himself, you put Juanita at risk for something you’ve no intention of pursuing.

  Going on four years following his escape from Mexico, Brazos was certain of one fact. Whatever evil had occurred in the dungeons of Perote Prison, he was better off not knowing about it. Something told him that the truth might just kill him.

  Ordering another drink, he considered his present predicament. For months now, he’d wandered around Europe, wanting to go home, but too damned scared to do it. Climbing a ship’s gangway was like crossing a bridge into hell, to his way of thinking. Sailing brought on the terror—a hard lesson learned on the trip over.

  He held up his glass, admiring the warm glow of light shining through the liquid. “And now,” he murmured, “when the price of staying here is more than the cost of hauling my tail aboard a boat for an ocean voyage, I have to run up against the Napoleon of Utopia, Victor Considérant. Grand, simply grand.”

  Lifting his glass to his lips, he sipped. The drink scorched a delicious fire down his throat. “Mmm,” he said, savoring the taste. That’s about the only thing he’d miss when he left this godforsaken continent. French brandy was not easy to come by at home. “Maybe I’ll take a case with me.”

  Because he would make it home—somehow. He looked out the window toward the vessels lining the wharf and grimaced. “I’ll be on a ship in the morning if I have to steal one and sail it myself.”

  For some time now, Brazos had absently watched the people go about their business along the quay. Except for the woman, that is. Her he had watched with considerably more interest. Glancing toward the docks, he noticed that the flaxen-haired beauty hadn’t moved since the last time he’d looked, all of three minutes before.

  Seems he wasn’t the only one having trouble getting on board that boat.

  She’d tweaked his curiosity when she’d had her own confrontation with Considérant. She’d been the last in line, all alone—her husband never put in an appearance. Brazos had lifted his glass in salute when she’d reached the gangway. He’d almost dropped it when he saw Considérant shake his head forcefully and deny the woman access to the ship. She’d argued; from where he sat, he’d seen her brown eyes flashing. Watching her arms flailing about, he’d worried she’d drop the baby.

  She’d talked for the best part of fifteen minutes, her agitated movements sending her full pink skirt to swaying. He’d gotten a good peek at a pair of trim ank
les, and her stiff spine showed off a right fine bosom. Nursing women did have a certain advantage in some areas.

  The fussing hadn’t done her any good, apparently. After dragging herself and her child away from the ship, she’d sat atop a short stone fence and had been staring out at the water ever since.

  Maybe I ought to go check on her, he thought. Nah, she didn’t need him. He shrugged and ran a finger along the rim of his glass. Half a dozen times he’d seen scurvy-looking sailors or rough-cut men approach her. Half a dozen times he’d risen to go save her, but by the time he’d made the street, the men were gone. “I wonder what she says to them,” he muttered into his drink.

  “Ah, never mind the woman.” He slammed his glass on the table. This was no time to worry about a petticoat. He had to get on that ship. The lives of his loved ones depended on it.

  Sighing, Brazos took another sip of his brandy. Perhaps he could stow away and count on the captain’s mercy. The hand holding the glass trembled a bit at the thought. But the Uriel was the only ship bound for the United States scheduled to sail from Antwerp in the coming week, and he dare not waste any time.

  Juanita was in trouble. Now that the governor knew she hadn’t accompanied Brazos to Europe, he’d turn Texas inside out looking for her. And to further complicate matters, now Brazos had to worry that Salezan would learn about the children. He could not allow that to happen. Nope, as much as he hated the idea, somehow he’d get aboard that damned boat. Tomorrow, he’d sail for Texas.

  Then he felt it, that tickle at the back of his neck. He looked around. Behind him, a timid, vulnerable expression on her face, stood the beauty. He arched an eyebrow, the question in his eyes.

  Without asking his permission, she took a seat at his table. She settled the baby on her lap and looked at him. “Mr. Sinclair,” she said, her voice husky and earnest. “May I ask you a question?”

  Brazos nodded.

  “Mr. Sinclair, are you married?”

  He frowned and shook his head. What was this about?

  “I see.” She looked down at her lap. He saw her swallow hard, and when she lifted her gaze, he felt as if he were face-to-face with a wounded doe.

  “Then perhaps, Mr. Sinclair” she said, “perhaps you would consent to marrying me?”

  Chapter 2

  THE RUMBLE OF LAUGHTER shook Brazos’s shoulders long before it burst from his lips. “Lady,” he said, shaking his head, a wide grin on his face, “you’d best stick to speaking French. You’d have a fit if you realized what you just said to me.”

  “Mr. Sinclair I’ve spent considerably more than half my life in England, and I daresay I’ve a better command of the language than you. I know very well what I asked.”

  Brazos’s expression abruptly sobered. “There must be an asylum near here, huh?”

  Madeline leaned toward him and spoke in an earnest and rational voice, “Mr. Sinclair I realize this is an unusual situation—” She ignored his snort and continued, “But hear me out, please. I have something you want, and you can provide something I need.”

  Blue eyes swept her with contempt. “I may want it, lady,” he said, clipping his words, “but I’ve seldom paid for it, and I’ve never married for it.”

  Madeline stared at him in confusion until slowly, his meaning dawned, and she flushed with impatience. Gracious, the man’s ego knew no bounds! “You misunderstand me, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, swallowing a surge of anger. “I’m speaking of the Uriel. I have a berth, a private cabin. I’m offering you the opportunity to sail with the colonists tomorrow morning.”

  Silence stretched between them. Sinclair inclined his head, folded his arms across his chest, and stared at her.

  “I’m not doing this very well, am I?” Madeline muttered. The idea had seemed so simple when she’d thought of it. If only she’d had more time to consider the problem, undoubtedly she’d have developed a better plan. But with time as her enemy, Madeline, like any good thief, trusted in her instincts. Her intuition told her to use this man named Sin.

  She drew a deep breath and said, “Mr. Sinclair your assumption that I am a married woman is incorrect. The fact that I am not is at this time causing me considerable trouble. What I am proposing is a mariage de convenance, a marriage of convenience. At the last moment, Monsieur Considérant denied me my place among the colonists, solely because I lacked a man with whom I could travel. Your earlier outburst led me to believe that sailing on the Uriel was of considerable import to you, and I wondered if we might not come to an agreement.”

  Brazos’s brow furrowed. “Lady, you’ve got more brass than a church bell. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Madeline, Madeline Christophe.”

  “Well, Mademoiselle Christophe, let’s take a walk.” Brazos rose and tossed a coin on the table. “Besides, a tavern is no place for a baby.”

  Outside, the wind had calmed and the afternoon sun warmed the air. Brazos bought a hot loaf of bread from a vendor on the quay, and the aroma reminded Madeline of the kitchens at the boarding school in England. Oh, to be home again, she wished. Then she clutched the stirring child close to her chest and thought, No, this is the only place for me.

  Sinclair broke a hunk off the loaf and offered it to her. Madeline declined with a slight shake of her head. He shrugged and took a bite. “Umm, good bakers, these Belgians. You ought to try some. Fresh bread’s gonna be hard to find in the middle of the Atlantic.”

  “We’re instructed to bring some with us when we sail tomorrow,” she said absently. Then she halted and looked up at him. “You’ll do it?” she asked.

  “Depends.”

  Rose’s eyes opened, and she began to cry. Madeline shifted the baby to her shoulder patting the child’s back and watching the Texan anxiously.

  He scowled. “Here, let me have him.” Brazos gently lifted Rose and cradled her in his arms, shoving the bread into Madeline’s. “What’s the problem, little fella? Smell of that bread make you hungry?” He frowned at Madeline. “You need to find a place to feed this boy.”

  “Girl. She’s on the ship—the nurse, I mean. Rose’s wet-nurse. Considérant will have to let her feed her. Oh, dear! Why does everything have to be so complicated?”

  “Lady, you need to start making some sense when you talk. Are you trying to tell me that you’re not providing for this baby yourself? You’re taking a woman along to Texas just ‘cause you can’t be bothered with mothering?”

  “It’s not like that—“

  “And you folks try to call Texans barbaric. I’ve heard all about these French meneurs, these baby brokers, who take infants from their parents and ship them off to the country to be nursed by a stranger. Hell, I can just imagine a child of mine being sent away for two years to live with people I’ve never even met.” Brazos’s mouth flattened into a disgusted frown. “We may have our problems in Texas, but at least we take care of our children.”

  By now Rose’s cries filled the air—exactly what Madeline had tried to avoid. Tossing down the bread, she extended her arms to take the baby and spoke through gritted teeth. “I must take my daughter to her nurse. Now. If you can contain your bluster Mr. Sinclair, would you be so kind as to escort us to the Uriel? You and I have yet to settle this matter.”

  Brazos ignored her outstretched arms, pivoted, and walked briskly toward the ship. Madeline hissed in anger, then followed, almost running to match his long strides.

  Before she quite caught her breath, Brazos had brushed past Victor Considérant, asked about and located Lillibet, and deposited Rose in the Brunets’ cabin. Then, with a firm grasp on Madeline’s arm, he’d marched off the ship and over to a dockside bench, where he plunked her down and demanded, “Talk.”

  Madeline smoothed the folds of her skirt as she tried to decide exactly what she should say.

  Brazos’s boot began to tap against the boards. “Listen lady, I’m not waiting here all day. Let me hear your story from the beginning.”

  “Well…” Madeline drew a deep br
eath, then offered him a version of the truth. “I have embraced the philosophies of Charles Fourier. He was a brilliant man who believed that the people of the world wallow in misery because we have failed to follow God’s Divine Plan.”

  “God’s Divine Plan?”

  She nodded. “Monsieur Fourier discovered the Plan and has designed a way for it to be put into practice. That’s what the Colonization Society of Texas is all about. In our colony, La Réunion, happiness will replace misery, unity will replace division, and Harmony will replace Civilization.”

  Brazos closed his eyes and shook his head. “This is even worse than I had imagined. You folks have about as much sense as my cousin Tilli, and she’s been knitting socks for the family rooster for years.”

  Madeline replied with the zeal of a recent convert. “La Réunion will be a safe and wonderful place in which to live and raise a family. You’ll see, Mr. Sinclair. The colony in Texas will provide a perfect home for my Rose. That’s why I am determined to go.”

  Scowling, she got to the heart of her story. “When I purchased membership in the Society, the agent said nothing at all about any requirement for a spouse. But when I attempted to board the ship, Considérant declared that as a widowed woman with an infant, my life in the colony would be too difficult, and he forbade my joining the group. He told me that only married couples and bachelor men would be allowed to join La Réunion.”

  “No single women?” Brazos interrupted. “What kind of a Utopia is that?”

  Madeline ignored his question. “I wish desperately to go to Texas, and I heard you say how imperative it was for you to be on this ship. I can only imagine that your reasons are important, considering the intensity of your argument with Considérant. Am I right?”

  His expression hardened, and he nodded once. “Lives are at stake.”

  Probably his own, Madeline surmised. She’d not be surprised if he had a cuckolded husband hot on his trail. She stared him straight in the eyes. “So, we could solve each other’s problem, could we not?”