Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three Read online

  “Just the promenade and observation decks,” the little woman admitted.

  Offering her back, Delta squeezed the sides of her gown together while Mama Rachael fumbled with the hooks.

  “We visited the pilot house, and Mr. Sandee, he’s the calliope player, he promised to let us watch him play that contraption when we approach Cape Girardeau tomorrow.”

  “The word is pronounced cal-li-ope,” Delta corrected. “It’s Greek, meaning beautiful-voiced.”

  Turning Delta around, Mama Rachael fluffed the red poppies she had made from tulle to fill in the decolletage of Delta’s gown. “That’s what the captain said,” she agreed. “But river people pronounce the word cal-li-op-e. Else they say steam piano.”

  Delta eyed Mama Rachael more closely. The feather on her black bonnet tipped precariously over one eye. The bow holding the box-pleated frill of black satin around her neck was partially untied. Face to face now, Delta smelled the unmistakable scent of alcohol.

  “Mama Rachael, what have you been drinking?”

  “Tea. With a splash of brandy.”

  “A splash? You’re tipsy!”

  “No, child, ’twas only a ti’ drink. Way out here in the middle of the river with no one to tell on us, what harm can come from having a ti’ drink with our ti’ game of poker?”

  Delta recalled Lottie Humphries expressing the same sentiment at lunch. “How many did you have? And how much money did you lose?”

  “Me? Lose at poker? Why, child, I can beat the pants off any one of those rowdy brothers of yours. Do you think I’d let family pride down on this fancy showboat?”

  “That’s just it,” Delta objected. “We’re not at home. Playing for matchsticks around the kitchen table is a far cry from playing poker with strangers. How much did you lose?”

  Mama Rachael pursed her lips, but finally replied, “I won this.” Speaking, she dug into her reticule and produced a ten-dollar gold piece.

  Delta’s eyes widened.

  Mama Rachael’s eyes mimicked them. “You wouldn’t tell Hollis, would you?”

  At length Delta smiled. “Of course not. But you must be careful. We don’t know anyone on board.” She recalled Nat’s claim that Brett Reall was dangerous. “You must take care. We could be overrun with rascals and rogues just waiting to take your money.”

  “Nonsense,” Mama Rachael replied. “You shouldn’t look on the dark side of everything. What’s wrong with having a ti’ drink with our little game? At home I often have a toddy before bedtime.”

  “I know. But we’re not at home,” Delta repeated. Straightening the plume on Mama Rachael’s hat, she retied the frill. “Let’s go to dinner.”

  On the way Delta considered their conversation. “You’re picking up the language of the river fast. What does ti’ mean?”

  Mama Rachael smiled, so happy with herself that Delta felt her own spirits rise a bit. “That nice gentleman calls things ti,” Mama Rachael explained. “A ti’ drink, a ti’ game. It means small, petite, I believe he said,”

  “What nice gentleman?”

  “Why the gambler who played poker with us—M’sieur Reall.”

  Delta felt the deck pitch beneath her feet. Had the Mississippi Princess hit a snag? Surely that must be it, she admonished herself. Why should one more piece of dastardly information about the horrid Brett Reall matter? “M’sieur Reall is a gambler?”

  Mama Rachael rolled her little brown eyes. “And such a nice gentleman.”

  Upon entering the dining room, which was quickly filling up with people, the first glimpse Delta caught of Brett Reall belied his occupation as a gambler. His appearance fit Mama Rachael’s description to a T—a nice man, a handsome man, one who at the moment looked a trifle uncomfortable standing beside Zanna at the captain’s table at the far end of the room.

  Well, he should look uncomfortable, she retorted to herself, with all the things being said about him.

  Delta quickly drew her attention to the room itself, which glittered beneath the lights of the dozen chandeliers. The tables had been reset for twelve diners each, except for three or four smaller tables for two tucked into the corners of the room. Fresh white cloths were centered with brass candlesticks and brass vases held fresh-cut flowers.

  “There you are,” Captain Kaney greeted them. Offering an arm to each, his smile lingered on Mama Rachael. “Come with me. I’ll introduce you.”

  With Mama Rachael twittering beside him, the captain escorted them down the long aisle to his table. A rush of self-consciousness suddenly washed over Delta. Only with effort was she able to keep her eyes from straying to Brett again.

  Instead she concentrated on the cast of the Princess Players who milled around, talking, waiting for the captain to arrive before taking their places.

  While Captain Kaney introduced Mama Rachael to the cast, beginning with Zanna and continuing around the gathering, Delta made her way to the opposite end of the table.

  Nat suddenly appeared at her side, pulling out a chair with a dramatic sweep of the hand. “Allow me.”

  This was not what she wanted, Delta thought. Glancing about, she noticed place cards at each setting. The card where Nat tried to seat her read “Elyse.”

  Nat reached for the card. “I’ll exchange—”

  “No.” Searching for Elyse, Delta found the shy ingénue standing directly behind her, where she was sure to have heard Nat’s suggestion. “This is your place, Elyse. I’ll find mine.”

  “Here, young lady,” the captain called.

  She turned toward him, only to discover that Mama Rachael had already been seated and was leaning across the empty chair the captain held, obviously for Delta, talking to the person who sat on the other side.

  Brett Reall. Delta’s stomach fluttered at the thought of sitting beside him.

  “Mademoiselle.” Brett rose in perfect imitation of a gentleman while the captain seated her. It must be imitation, she insisted to herself, feeling him settle back in his own chair. Gamblers were perfidious heathens. Gamblers were not gentlemen.

  But when she allowed herself a brief glance at his face, thinking to look quickly away, she was further confused. Instead of reestablishing the man as a rogue, that one glance revealed a perceptible change in his expression.

  The captain took his seat on the opposite side of Mama Rachael, and a waiter came to Delta’s rescue, moving between herself and Brett to serve the first course.

  She studied her tureen of bouillon with earnestness, while around her the diners began to chatter. She could hear Mama Rachael’s voice, still prattling, although she could not distinguish the words.

  She heard Zanna’s animated chatter and concentrated on her soup, trying to close out the words. Inexplicably she feared being drawn into conversation with the man beside her. She heard her name mentioned, heard Zanna mention her appointment as set designer. The waiter removed her soup tureen.

  “A set designer? I had you pegged as a songstress.”

  It took Delta a moment to realize Brett had spoken to her. Without fully intending to, she looked up. Their eyes held. His were warm. What had happened to the coldness she had seen earlier?

  She struggled to summon a measure of civility. The best she could manage was a weak shake of the head. Why had her wits suddenly turned to mush?

  “I’m disappointed,” Brett commented. “I thought perhaps we would hear you warble a tear-jerking ballad tonight.”

  She smiled at the ludicrous suggestion. “I don’t sing.”

  “Never?”

  She thought of the family gatherings where everyone joined in singing old ballads and hymns. “Never around strangers.”

  At the word their eyes clashed again. Something about him was so familiar the word “stranger” sounded foreign.

  “Delta Jarrett,” he mused without breaking eye contact. “Where have we met before?”

  The room buzzed around her like a hive full of bees. “I wondered that, too,” she confessed. “I don’t know where
it could have been, except—”

  “M’sieur Reall,” Mama Rachael interrupted, leaning across Delta to speak. “The captain said perhaps we could have a ti’ game in the morning after the ship docks at Cape Girardeau.”

  Delta watched Brett hesitate before he replied. “Why, madame, do you intend to stay aboard while we’re in port?”

  “They say there isn’t much to see at Cape Girardeau anymore,” she replied. “I thought perhaps a little game might be more lively.”

  His eyes danced, and after a moment, his lips followed suit. Delta felt a rush of heat in her belly just watching him smile.

  “Then by all means,” Brett replied, “we shall have a ti’ game after I return from shore.”

  The waiter moved between them, placing a plate of fried catfish before Delta, then one before Brett.

  Although her desire for food had vanished, she began to eat.

  “When we get further south,” Brett said, “the chef will likely prepare filé gumbo.”

  She glanced at him between bites. His eyes were not only warm now, they glowed with geniality.

  “Have you ever eaten filé gumbo, m’moiselle?”

  “No,” she responded.

  “It’s spicy.” Brett raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you do not like spicy things?”

  The challenge in his question both confused and somehow exhilarated her.

  “We ate spicy food in Texas.”

  “Texas? You are from Texas? I thought the captain said St. Louis.”

  “My brother lives in Texas—one of them.”

  “One?” He favored her with such a vibrant expression, she began to wonder if she had judged him too harshly. “How many brothers do you have?”

  She laughed. “Six. All older than I.”

  He laughed with her. “I take warning, m’moiselle. You are surrounded by guardians.”

  “You might say I am,” she agreed, thinking of the proprietary nature of not only her brothers, but her cousins, as well. “Especially against men who gamble with little old ladies and feed them liquor.”

  Brett grimaced, but his eyes remained warm and playful. “You wound me, m’moiselle.” He glanced beyond her to Mama Rachael, then in conspiratorial tones, continued. “’Twas only a ti’ game. And believe me, your chaperon holds her own at the card table.”

  In spite of her misgivings concerning Mama Rachael and the gambler, Delta found herself enjoying his company. “I suppose you should have been forewarned, m’sieur. Mama Rachael has had a lot of practice. She can win the pants off any of my brothers.”

  Brett laughed aloud at that. “After playing with her this afternoon, I do not doubt it.”

  “Her words, not mine,” Delta insisted, regretting her bold statement. “But she only plays around the kitchen table for matchsticks.”

  “Believe me, she could whip any of the gentlemen I’m engaged to entertain this evening.” Brett’s black eyes twinkled with mischief. “Perhaps we should team up, she and I.”

  “Was that the reason for the drinks this afternoon, m’sieur? To slow down her calculations? Surely, it is unnecessary to ply little old ladies with liquor.”

  “A ti’ drink. That was all. A petit splash of apricot brandy in her tea. She enjoyed it, oui?”

  “I’m aware of that, m’sieur.”

  Moving his lips closer to her ear, he lowered his voice. “Please, I am not out to win the pants off your chaperon, M’moiselle Jarrett. Nor to inebriate her. But I do intend to try to keep the shirt on my own back.” He sat back, displaying again that mischievous grin. The whiteness of his teeth made his tawny complexion appear even darker beneath the sparkling chandeliers. “As well as other articles of my clothing.”

  “I regret my slip of the tongue,” she admitted, speaking now to her plate, feeling her cheeks burn. But in spite of her embarrassment, when he laughed, she joined in.

  Suddenly Delta found herself staring into his eyes, thinking how she had never seen eyes so black—black and oh, so familiar.

  “You were saying where you thought we might have met,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “On the stage somewhere?” he suggested.

  “On the stage?”

  “They say everyone doubles.” He stared at her mutely, his lips curving into a confident smile. “I thought perhaps set designers might double as actors.”

  “I’m not a set designer.”

  He looked to Zanna then quickly back. “But—”

  “I have no connection with the Princess Players. I only met them today. Zanna asked me to help with one set.”

  Brett’s eyes narrowed, forming a vertical cleft between his brows. She stared at it as though mesmerized. “I admit to a bit of confusion,” he was saying. “When the captain introduced us you were on your way to rehearsal.”

  “Oh, now I understand.” She laughed. “I had an appointment to interview the cast.”

  “Let me enlighten you, M’sieur Reall,” Captain Kaney suggested from down the table. “Miss Jarrett is writing articles relating to the Mississippi Princess and interesting people and things at each port-of-call to send back to the St. Louis Sun.”

  Suddenly Delta felt as though Brett had moved his chair to the opposite end of the table, the distance between them became so great.

  “You’re a journalist?”

  She watched all warmth drain from his eyes. His features took on the stony pallor of a marble statue, reminding her of the way his anger had risen suddenly at lunch. Looking away, he resumed his meal in silence.

  Delta picked at her dessert, lemon cheesecake served with a brandy sauce. She wondered what precipitated such erratic behavior in this man. Once started, talk of her interviews took over the conversation. The cast began to throw out topics for her to investigate.

  “Cape Rock,” Frankie suggested. “It has a magnificent view.”

  “The postal service’s ‘Great Through Mail’ originates at Cairo,” Albert added. “You must look into that.”

  “Delta,” Nat called from down the table. “What about Cave-in-Rock above Cairo? I hear there’s a gang of retired outlaws holed up out there.” He waggled his perfect eyebrows in a suggestive manner that made her cringe. “I’ll be happy to ride out there with you.”

  Finally the meal was over. Captain Kaney rose to announce that a brief theatrical recital would take place as soon as the room could be converted. Brett was the first person on his feet, and to Delta’s surprise he held the chair for her to rise.

  Tentatively she smiled. “Thank you, m’sieur.”

  All she received in reply was another glimpse of that stony expression, before he strode from the dining room by the nearest exit.

  He did not reappear for the recital and Delta had trouble keeping her mind on the proceedings. True to form, Elyse sang her ballad, “The Fatal Rose of Red,” with tears rolling down her cheeks. Since Nat had taken the bold step to seat himself next to Delta during the performance, Delta didn’t wonder. She ignored him as best she could. In fact, she felt like crying herself. She couldn’t imagine why, but suddenly everything around her became dreadfully unimportant. Even Albert’s recitation on the “Superstitions of Aboriginal People of the American West” failed to hold her interest.

  Mercifully the evening’s entertainment was short—Elyse’s song, Frankie and Iona’s dance number performed to the comic instrumental, “Suzanne,” and Albert’s recitation. Zanna ended the performance with an invitation to all on board to attend the full performance the following night on the docks at Cape Girardeau.

  Delta bade good night to the Humphrieses and Menefees and followed Mama Rachael to their stateroom, where she prepared for bed, replying to her still-chirping companion with a mute nod now and again.

  Mama Rachael apparently did not notice. “Good night, child,” she said after she had snuggled into her berth. “Sweet dreams.”

  Sweet dreams? For the first time in hours Delta thought of her nightmare. Well, she wouldn’t dream of ancient lovers tonig
ht. Quite possibly she had found a new nightmare to disturb her dreams—an ill-tempered gambler who doubled as a gentleman when the notion struck him. She closed her eyes with Brett’s smiling face on her mind. It quickly turned to an icy glare.

  The moon shone as a bright orange disk above the pirate ship, Kingston. The lovers stood on the bridge, Anne’s long auburn hair blowing like a sail in the gentle night breeze. Beneath the moon’s glow she could see the sculptured details of Calico Jack’s face. She traced his lips with her fingers, reveling in the delicious feel of his skin against her fingers, against her breast where her blouse was open to his bare chest, against her thighs where his hands roamed beneath her skirts.

  Often on a calm night when the crew had retired and the moon had begun to wane, Jack would take the wheel and Anne would join him. Often they shared tales of the day, and always they loved.

  While her fingers idly trailed across his lips, as though she hadn’t already memorized each line and every curve, she felt him clutch her buttocks in powerful hands. She shifted her body to accommodate him, but instead of entering her as she had thought he would, he held her hips close to his, nuzzling her until she squirmed with desire. His lips, creased in a smile, closed over hers, caressing, delving, possessing her as surely as if he had laid her on the deck and thrust himself into her body, leaving her buzzing with unfulfilled desire. Never had she known such lips. They caused a joyous song to leap to life within her heart. Then, as if from a great distance, the song was joined by the mournful cry of a babe.

  Delta sat bolt upright in bed, her body flushed with heat, her heart thumping wildly. The small room was dark, the only sound that of Mama Rachael’s rhythmic snoring.

  The nightmare had returned. When she had been so sure it wouldn’t, the nightmare had returned, but this time in a different form. She squeezed her eyes and rethought it, disquieted by the fact that the dream had changed, certain now that her ancestors were sending her a message. For months she had dreamed the same intimate dream. Why had it suddenly changed? She forced all thought from her brain, struggling to recapture the vision. But only a premonition, heavy and depressing, remained of it. A premonition that threatened to smother her in the confines of this small, dark room.