The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle: The Charm School

He pressed closer. She felt herself lean into him, and then, swearing between his clenched teeth, he stepped back. “You’re far more deserving of a lecture on safety,” he said. “I ordered you to stay in your quarters, and you deliberately violated that.”

Mortified by the sense of forbidden intimacy that had surrounded her only moments ago, Isadora ducked beneath his arm and hurried to the door. “I didn’t hear any argument from you when you were up that yardarm,” she said.

“Then be sure to note that in your report to Mr. Easterbrook.” His insolent, ice-blue stare fastened on her bodice. He was trying to intimidate her, she thought. And, as she fled from the galley, she conceded that it was working.

They were obliged to wear ship and stand off from shore until the heavy seas abated. Ryan used the time to prepare for a grand entrance to Rio.

On his previous trip to the Caribbean, he’d learned that in a seaport, appearances were everything. He represented the ship’s interests to port authorities, shipping agents and consignees. To get the highest prices for his cargo, a skipper had to appear prosperous and well-groomed from stem to stern. Fortunately, the Swan was a fine-looking vessel, the crewmen diligent in their swabbing and polishing. The storm had caused only minor damage. The bark would look like a proud bird as she sailed into harbor.

Ryan kept the crew busy scrubbing down the decks and smoothing them with the holystone, polishing the brass, checking the sails and awnings for spots of mildew. Even the women pitched in, his mother pulling things from the linen locker while Fayette strung them along a line on the afterdeck. Isadora made reparations to the storm-battered hen coop and then—hugely amusing the crew—groomed the goat with a silver-backed hairbrush.

He tried to figure out what it was about her that so fascinated and infuriated him. They always seemed to rub one another the wrong way, even when things started out pleasantly enough. One moment they were laughing at a shared joke; the next they were grousing at each other over the most minor of issues. And sometimes he found himself—of all the damn fool things—pressing her into a dark corner and wondering what secrets she hid beneath her voluminous skirts.

He had always taken pride in his ability to understand the female of the species. He thought he knew what women wanted, what they needed, what they expected. And, until Isadora, he had been able to provide it with reliable regularity.

But this one, this intelligent, vexing, interesting female, did not seem to be taken by any of the usual charms. She didn’t care for fashion, though she clung to the restrictive modes of Beacon Hill out of habit. She was immune to flattery, for she neither trusted nor believed a compliment sent her way. She took no delight in the usual ladylike pursuits of needlework and gossip, finding more pleasure in perusing the Bowditch with Ralph Izard or conducting elocution lessons for Timothy Datty. To look at her, he’d never have guessed she had the strength to endure the storm, yet the hardships only made her quicker and more assured than she’d ever been on dry land. Worst of all, she was impervious to the unexpected mist of heat that pervaded the atmosphere whenever they found themselves alone together. He had no idea where his unwanted urge to be close to her came from. He meant to intimidate her, humiliate her, make her sorry she’d forced her presence on him, yet his plan kept misfiring. He kept catching himself enjoying the closeness far too much…and wanting far more than was good for both of them.

He was insatiably curious about her. She gave tirelessly to others, but what did she want for herself? He should ask her, and he would, if she’d ever deign to speak to him again after yesterday’s scene in the galley.

“There now, don’t you look a sight.” Journey came into the stateroom. “What is that color you’re wearing today—mango?”

Ryan plucked at his silken cravat, admiring the peach-blush shade of it. “One of my favorite colors.”

“Goes well with the lime green sash.”

Ryan ignored the wry censure in his voice. His steward favored somber colors and a dignified manner, but that didn’t suit Ryan. “There’s a reason for this,” he said.

“Yes. Horrible personal taste, for one.”

“So you say. But picture Ferraro’s cold storage plant. Hundreds of workers swarming about, dozens of skippers with ice to sell. Who will they remember next season—a black-clad downeast Puritan, or the dashing Captain Calhoun?”

Journey turned his hands palms-out and took a step back. “Never mind, then. Commerce before taste, always.”

“Captain!” Timothy rapped smartly at the door. “P-pilot’s here!”

Ryan strode out to the main deck. The harbor pilot had come over in a launch and boarded. Dark-skinned, a battered hat clutched beneath his arm, he was staring drop-jawed at Lily, who had come out with Fayette and Isadora to observe the arrival.

“I guess he found something prettier than you,” Journey said.

Lily wore a dress of lavender and lace, complete with a wide-brimmed picnic bonnet and a ruffle-edged parasol. Ryan had seen flower arrangements less elaborate than his mother.

Fayette stood dutifully behind her mistress, though the maid’s wide-eyed gaze devoured the busy harbor with tall ships moving in and out, pilot boats and launches scooting to and fro.

And then there was Isadora, already shrinking into herself, he observed with annoyance. Now that they were about to go ashore, she was reverting to the gawky, timid creature he’d met in Boston. She kept her shoulders hunched and her eyes cast down, though she darted an occasional glance toward Sugar Loaf, the massive upended rock that marked the harbor. She had trussed herself up in an ugly brown dress he hadn’t seen south of the tenth parallel and her hair, which had begun to look somewhat better than squirrel fur, had disappeared into an odd black-and-brown bonnet.

At least, Ryan mused, landfall had not leached the healthy color from her face and she hadn’t coughed or sneezed in weeks.

With a gracious smile, he strode toward the pilot. “Senhor, welcome aboard the Swan.”

“Oh, my,” Lily murmured, admiring his shore togs with a proud maternal head-to-toe glance. “My baby boy is too handsome for words, isn’t he, Isadora?”

Isadora gave him a quick look, then ducked her head. “As you say, there are no words.”

At that moment, the shoreline forts fired a salute. Ryan raised his arms to acknowledge the courtesy.

The pilot tore his gaze from Lily long enough to offer Ryan a bow and a gap-toothed smile. Ryan gestured at the wharves. “How much to bring us in to a berth?”

“Forty pound sterling, senhor. In now, and later out.”

Ryan clutched at his heart. “Did you hear that, Mr. Izard? Just when I thought we’d make landfall without incident, I’m attacked by a pirate.”

“Senhor, I do not understand. I offer a service at a fair price—”

“Fifteen pounds sterling and not a farthing more,” Ryan said.

The man sent a wounded look heavenward and released a long string of Portuguese lamentation.

Ryan waited patiently for his counteroffer, but instead, Isadora cleared her throat. “Captain Calhoun, the poor man said he has five daughters, and his mother-in-law has come to die in his house. I really do think the proper thing to do is to meet his price.”

The Brazilian clearly saw Isadora as the weak spot, and addressed his next prayerful stream of speech to her.

She listened, enraptured. “He says a lesser pilot would risk grounding a ship of this size,” she warned. “Forty pounds is nothing compared to the many thousands you stand to lose if you allow a lesser pilot to run you aground. He’s absolutely right. He—”

“Twenty, and that’s my final offer,” Ryan snapped.

“Thirty,” the man countered.

“Done,” Ryan declared before Isadora could intervene again.

The Brazilian’s face lit up with a brilliant smile, and he hurried off to work.

Ryan whirled on Isadora, lowering his voice to a furious mutter. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I am your translator.”

“Then translate. Don’t advise me on what to pay.”

“But five daughters and a dying mother-in-law? The ten extra pounds would mean the world to the poor man.”

“Poor, hah. The old salt’s a bachelor who lives on his boat. The extra money goes to keep him in women, cigars, and curaçao.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

“It’s my business to know that. Now, the next time there’s any translating to be done, you give it to me word for word—without any of your back-slack.”

He stalked away, feeling strangely invigorated by the spat. That was the odd thing about knowing Isadora. Sparring with her was far more fun than polite conversation with a dozen other misses.

Lily hired a coach to take them up into the hills where her sister lived. While Fayette oversaw the masses of traveling trunks, Lily wafted a fan in front of her face. The smells of roasting coffee and burning sugar cane filled the air.