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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
You who were all of grace or all of glory, None recognizes you! A rude drunkard Mocks you in passing with a show of love; A wretched child runs skipping at your heels. Ashamed to be alive, shrunken shadows, Fearful, with bent backs you hug the walls; And no one speaks to you, strangely destined! Human debris ripe for eternity! Charles Baudelaire
Evangeline watched her husband closely. His curly brown hair framed his face and she thought him almost beautiful without the thick growth of beard she had asked him to remove when they had come back from supper with the Captain of the ship. There had been one brief moment of rebellion flickering through his stony stare, then he had simply turned away and found his razor and brush. She sat on the bed, watching him shave; enjoying the movement of the muscles across his back as he plied the razor to his face. "Will the scars fade in time?" she asked as she studied the crisscrossed stripes. "I have no idea, but I doubt it," he answered, seemingly unconcerned with whether they did or not. "I am told you killed the man who did that to you. Is that true?" He looked around, apparently surprised that she knew of it, then nodded, turned back around and continued shaving. "Where was this?" He dipped the razor into the washbasin to remove his whiskers, then leaned toward the mirror, the better to see the tender spot under his nose. "Camp Douglas." He winced, having nicked himself, but ignored the tiny dot of blood that bubbled up. "The gods sent that bastard there as a guard and gave me the opportunity to strangle him." He peered at her through the mirror, gauging her reaction to his brutal words. Evangeline frowned. "You had met him before?" "Twice," he replied and turned his head to even out the sideburn on his right cheek, being more careful not to cut himself. "Was it a matter of course to whip prisoners, Captain?" she asked. Undoubtedly, she would be asked questions about her husband's internment at the prison in Illinois and she needed to know the particulars. "I wasn't whipped at Camp Douglas and no, it wasn't a matter of course." He whipped the razor through the water to clean it, laid it aside and took up a towel to blot his suds-streaked face. "So he whipped you……." "I don't wish to discuss this, Vangie," he snapped, tossing the towel aside. The first time he had called her the nickname, she had protested vehemently, but she had seen the gleam of spite in his forced grin and let it pass. Since then, he had taken every opportunity to use the nickname to annoy her. But the fact of the matter was, she rather liked it and in his soft Georgia accent, it was almost sensual the way he pronounced it. "All right," she agreed and pushed up from the bed. She took up the towel and walked over to him, reaching up to wipe away a glob of suds he had missed. He stood there obediently until she was finished, never looking at her, then waited until she put the palm of her hand on his clean cheek before letting his gaze lower to hers. "Do you intend to paw me every chance you get?" he asked in a nasty tone and wasn't prepared for the slap that rocked his head to the side. The sound was loud in the ship's cabin and it stung for his wife had put her strength behind the hit. When he turned to face her, he was not in the least surprised to see her lovely face creased with fury. "If I want to 'paw' you," she hissed, her eyes blazing, "I will 'paw' you whenever I wish! I own you, McGregor!" She watched his cheek stain with the imprint of her hand and saw the muscles bunch there. She knew if she listened closely, she would hear his teeth grinding together. Holding his angry stare, she lifted her chin. If truth were told, he had hurt her deeply with his snide question for never had any man ever found her touch as revolting as this one obviously did. She wanted to lash out at him again--not with her hand this time--but with a weapon she knew would hurt him more: her tongue. "If you want to see that whore of yours ever again, I suggest you do nothing to upset me, Captain," she told him. "It is well within my power to make sure you never lay eyes on Ivonne Delacroix this side of the grave!" She saw a slight flicker of his eyelids--the only concession he gave that he had heard and understood her threat. The fight seemed to drain from him at that moment and his proud shoulders dropped ever-so slightly, the battle gone from his suddenly blank expression. "That's better," she pressed, rubbing salt into the wound she had opened. A false smile of forgiveness eased over her red lips. "Must we fight on our wedding night, Captain?" Just like that, he thought with disgust, he had witnessed his wife's quicksilver personality change before his eyes. He had already decided she was a duplicative bitch long before now, but he could now add consummate actress to the description. She was like a coral snake he'd once seen coiled inside a bunch of bananas being off-loaded at the docks in Savannah: beautiful to look at and lethal to the touch. Deliberately, she reached up and put her palm to the place where she had struck him, then pressed her body closely against his, grinding her silk-clad hips against him. "I can think of other things to do on our wedding night rather than fight." She looked up at him through the fringe of her long golden lashes. "Can't you?" Her fingers caressed his cheek. He stared back at her, hating her to the depths of his soul, but he didn't push her away as he wanted to do. "What is it you want?" he ground out. "You," she replied. Her hand slid from his cheek, down his neck, his chest, and came to rest at the waistband of his trousers. She licked her lips. "I want you." Before he could reply that he'd already performed his husbandly duties once that evening, her hand moved lower still until she had cupped it around him. He had to force himself to stand still, to endure her touch, and when she realized he would make no move to accommodate her, she removed her hand, stepped back. "Take off your clothes, Captain," she ordered. He blinked. "You want me to strip for you?" he asked, incredulity creeping into his voice. "Slowly and with a great deal of care," she replied and seated herself on the bed once more. She crossed her legs, folded her arms over her chest, and waited, one tawny brow lifted in challenge. "No," he snapped, his jaw working, his nose crinkling with distaste. "I will not." "Yes, you will," she said in a matter of fact tone, "and you will do it now." They glared at one another for a full minute, neither giving in. The tick of the clock on the wall behind the desk and the harsh breaths coming from Sinclair's flaring nostrils, the only sound in the cabin. When it seemed as though she would finally throw her hands up in defeat, she grinned at him. "We make landfall tomorrow, Captain, and I do believe I will need to telegraph your grandmother that you are not cooperating." She tilted her head to one side. "Perhaps she has gone to see Ivonne and will have news for you on how the effort to free her is coming." The blackmail worked for she saw his eyes close slowly; heard the slow, deliberate intake of breath before he opened the lids halfway and shot her a murderous look. "Take off your clothes," she repeated, not giving him time to argue further with her. "And then what?" he threw at her. "You pleasure me, Captain," she answered. "And you'd better make damned sure you do!" *****************************
Sinclair was so inebriated he could barely find the doorknob as he tried to enter their hotel room. Not that he gave a gods-be-damn anyway, he thought, as his hand kept sliding around the brass knob in an effort to capture it. If he needed to sleep outside the door because he couldn't find the gods-be-damned knob, he would. Just as he'd decided that wouldn't be such a bad idea and was half-way down to the floor, the door opened and he stumbled into the room, narrowly avoiding crashing into his wife who stepped aside with an unladylike snort of disgust. He careened into the room, trying to keep from falling face down on the floor, and spun, knocking over a small Wedgewood table filled with bric-a-brac as he did. "You are drunk!" Evangeline pronounced. "Naaah," he responded with a crooked grin and a giggle that set her teeth on edge. She watched him weave his way across the elegantly-appointed room and throw himself into one of the silk brocade armchairs, wincing as she heard the delicate frame crack beneath his weight. Glaring at him--her slippered foot tapping out a dangerous rhythm on the carpet--she was amazed to see him fish inside his coat and withdraw a bottle of spirits. "Oh, no, you don't!" Evangeline grunted and rushed forward to grab the bottle, but he pulled it out of her reach. They struggled for the pint, him holding it away from her--switching it from hand to hand to keep it out of her reach--until she doubled her fist and plowed it into his belly. The hand holding the bottle came down in reaction and she grabbed it, hurtling it against the fireplace where it landed to shatter into a dozen pieces. "Bitch," he muttered drunkenly. He rubbed at his belly, but didn't retaliate. He was too drunk to move and too apathetic to care what the hell she did to him. "Where have you been?" she demanded. She'd had the hotel concierge out looking for him since suppertime when he had disappeared from the expensive supper club where they had eaten lobster and filet mignon. He had been swilling the champagne down as though it were water the entire time and when he had excused himself to go to the restroom, she had informed the waiter there were to be no further spirits. She had sat there for nearly half an hour before she realized he wasn't coming back. Furious, hurt, and a little worried about him, she had enlisted the aid of the maître d' to find her errant husband, explaining he had suffered a blow to the head while on board ship and had a tendency to wander off. She hoped that explained some of the cuts and bruises on Sinclair's face. From the look the Frenchman gave her, she knew he hadn't bought her story for one moment. A search of the supper club had not resulted in finding her missing spouse and she had returned to the hotel, enraged and worried. When she'd heard him muttering to himself out in the hallway, she had breathed a sigh of relief and--for one of the few times in her life--offered up a prayer to the Virgin for his safe return. "I asked you where you've been, Sinclair?" she demanded again. "Drinking," he told her, "and getting shit-faced drunk as an Okeefeenokee swamp rat." "And you smell like one, as well," she responded, fanning the air. He let out a loud, obnoxious belch, chuckling evilly when she gasped with displeasure at his deliberate rudeness. He held up his hand. "Come 'ere, Vangie," he ordered, arching his fingers at her. "Come 'ere and let me screw you!" "Go to hell," she snapped and strode purposefully into the bathing chamber. She could hear him snorting like a pig as he laughed and she smiled. She rather liked the way he snorted when he laughed and, as drunk as he was and as mean-spirited as he'd been to her--she was beginning to enjoy their sparring sessions. No man had ever held his own with Evangeline and this one was doing an admirable job of entertaining her. If she could just stop him from drinking. Already she could see that was going to be a problem. She knew why, of course. All men liked to drown their troubles in a bottle of strong drink, but she was not about to allow her husband to wallow in his self-pity. If it was the last thing she did, she would make Sinclair McGregor forget Ivonne Delacroix. "VAN……GIE!" he shouted in his singsong voice that was meant to irritate her. He had no way of knowing she was becoming increasingly fond of the name. "VAN…..GIE!" She opened the bathing chamber door and glared at him, her lips quivering. "What is it?" He wagged his brows at her and held up his right index finger which he pointed at her and swivelled back and forth. "Wanna screw?" he hiccuped. Evangeline pursed her lips together to keep from laughing at him. "You couldn't screw the side of a barn right now, Sinclair." She giggled. "You couldn't even hit the side of a barn right now!" "Wanna bet?" he challenged and before her horrified eyes, he reached down, unbuttoned his trousers, extracted himself and began to urinate over the arm of the chair. "SINCLAIR!" she gasped. "NO!" Even as she rushed to get a towel to blot up the stinking mess, he fumbled his way out of the chair and came after her, laughing like an idiot. "Come 'ere, Van….gie!" She slammed the door in his face only a fraction of a second before he could cross the threshold. His muffled 'wha….?"; a thud; a yelp of pain; and the slide of his body down the oaken portal let her know he'd walked right into the door. She gasped, opened the door and found him on his knees, holding his nose as blood poured over his fingers and onto the carpet. "You bwoke my nose," she heard him say. "Oh, baby, I'm sorry!" she told him and knelt down beside him, putting the towel under his chin. "You bwoke my nose, dammit," he accused then pitched sideways, his eyes rolling up in his head.
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She lay there watching him sleep, two dark bruises under his eyes to add to the bruises that were still on his face from the beating he'd taken. His poor nose was swollen--broken again--and he was snoring because of it; yet his snores weren't that unpleasant. Bending forward, she eased a loose lock of dark hair away from his eyes. He was handsome, she thought. More handsome than any man had a right to be. Why had she ever thought the scar that swept over his left cheek detracted from his male beauty? It did not. It gave him a rakish, dangerous look that she'd seen other women watching--putting their heads together to discuss--and admiring. She trailed her fingers over that wicked scar, claiming it for her own, and then slid her fingertips over his slightly-parted lips. The upper lip was just right, she decided as she studied it; the curve of it had been hidden beneath his mustaches. She traced the fullness of the bottom lip and pulled it down just a little to get a glimpse of his white teeth. Between the fascinating amber color of his brown-tinted eyes, the curl of his dark hair, and the mole on his right cheek, she came to the conclusion he was just about the most handsome man she'd ever seen. Her gaze fell to the patch of hair at his breastbone and she lowered her fingers to thread them through the dark hair. She liked the feel of those crisp curls against her nipples and the weight of his body that was just right and the……. "What are you staring at, Vangie?" She looked up to find him watching her and pulled her hand back, knowing how he did not like her to touch him. She moved away from him, rolling to her back and lay down, their bodies not touching. "Go back to sleep, Captain," she told him. They lay like that for awhile, both staring up at the ornate plaster ceiling, then she felt his hand touch hers, then cover it. Without a word, she spread her fingers until he had locked his with hers, curling his hand down to entrap her own. "Are you feeling better?" she asked quietly. He snorted with amusement. "I ain't feeling nothin', darlin'." She smiled and turned her head toward him. "Numb, are you?" Through the low light coming in from the window, she saw him grinning. "Numb as a corpse on a cooling board," he answered. She laughed. "That'll teach you to leave me unescorted, Captain," she admonished. He was silent for a moment, then he turned his head toward her. "I can be a prick sometimes," he admitted. "Yes, you can," she replied. Her smile faded. "But I know why." He nodded. "I know you do." She was surprised to feel his grip tighten on her hand. "I made a decision tonight," he told her. "That being what?" she asked, thinking they were acting like any married couple as they lay there discussing their life together. "I'm going to start acting like a grownup." She laughed. "That would be a nice change." "I love her, Vangie. I will always love her and when the time comes, I will be with her. You have to understand that." Deep, abiding hurt filled Evangeline's heart, but she merely nodded her acceptance of his words if not agreeing with them. "But?" She felt there was a 'but' somewhere in his thoughts. "But I am your husband and you deserve to be treated with respect," he said. She held her breath, not daring to give away the joy his words had brought. Instead, she squeezed his hand. "That would be nice, Captain." "Sinclair," he said softly. "Sinclair," she repeated and sealed their bargain by lifting his hand to her lips and kissing his scarred knuckles. He stunned her when he returned the favor, looking into her surprised eyes as he did. "Truce?" he asked. She smiled. "Truce." "No more stripping for you?" he teased, his left brow lifted. "We'll, see," she answered. He looked at her for a long moment, then leaned over her, placing his lips to hers in a gentle kiss that caused a ripple of longing in her lower belly. Before she could bring her arms around him, he lay back down, released her hand and turned to his side away from her. "'Night, Vangie," he said quietly. She ached for him, wanted him as she had never wanted another man in her life; but she knew when to back off; knew when to leave well enough alone. "Goodnight, Sinclair," she whispered. He didn't move away from her when she molded her body to his--needing the feel of him against her.
THE LEGENDS BEGIN WITH THE KEEPER OF THE WIND
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