Regina Scott - The Bride Ship

As she stared at him, Clay turned to the captain, pulled out his pouch and counted off the last of his certificates. He’d have little to live on the rest of the trip, but if that meant a chance to help Allegra and Gillian, he could make do.

The captain glanced between the two of them. “Under the circumstances, Mrs. Howard,” he said, “I should ask you if you are willing to accept this man’s money for your fare.”

She had to know what accepting such a gift might mean, that she was somehow under Clay’s protection. Once more he could see the calculations behind her blue eyes.

“Have you pen and paper, sir?” she asked the captain. “I would have you draw up a contract between me and Mr. Howard.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Clay started, but she whirled to face him, eyes blazing.

“It is entirely necessary,” she scolded him. “I will not accept money from you without a contract. And I will pay you back every cent, even if I have to work the rest of my life to do so.”

He wanted to argue. Why couldn’t he do her this service? After all, the good citizens of Boston thought he’d been the one to abandon her, when he and Allegra had been promised for ages. But she knew the truth. She’d been the one to send him away.

He nodded. “Very well, Mrs. Howard. Let’s not trouble the good captain now. I’m sure there’s pen and paper belowdecks.”

She drew a deep breath, turned to the captain and inclined her head. “I accept Mr. Howard’s offer, then. If there is nothing else, gentlemen? I’d like to settle my daughter before we sail.”

Captain Windsor handed the certificates to the purser. “You’re free to go, Mrs. Howard. Mr. Debro will give you your stateroom number. I hope the trip is to your liking.”

She inclined her head again. “Come along, then, Mr. Howard. Let’s settle this between us.” She made her way from the room, head still high, steps measured, never doubting he’d be right on her heels, like a trained spaniel.

She thought a simple contract would settle things between them. He was certain it would never be that simple. He caught her arm before she could start down the stairs. “I don’t want your money, Allegra.”

Her chin was so high he thought her neck must hurt from the strain. “And I don’t want your help, Mr. Howard. But it appears that neither of us is going to get our wish.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll give you ten dollars a month once I’m employed in Seattle.”

She was a hopeless optimist. He couldn’t imagine what work she’d be qualified to do in Seattle, and she’d be lucky to make that much a month regardless of the job she took. Wasn’t this further proof that the wilderness was no place for her?

“It will take years for you to pay me off,” he pointed out. “I’ll give you better terms.” He lowered his head to meet her gaze. “You don’t want me around. That’s clear enough. But if you allow me to become acquainted with my niece, I’ll call us square.”

She sucked in a breath. “Spending time with Gillian? That’s it?”

Clay straightened. “That’s it. Though it goes without saying that I expect the two of us to try to be civil to each other for the three and a half months it will take to reach Seattle.”

She raised her brows. “Three and a half months being civil to you, Mr. Howard? You ask too much.” She pulled away from him and clattered down the stairs.

* * *

The nerve of the man! Allie stomped down the stairs, fury rising with each footfall. Clay Howard didn’t fool her for a second. All that talk about acquainting himself with his niece only to claim he wanted Allie to be “civil.” Her days in Boston society had taught her that when a gentleman paid so much money to support a lady, he generally expected a great deal more than civility—fawning gratitude, to say the least.

She did not intend to be civil about it.

Nor was she inclined to grant him any favors. She would find a way to pay him back. She might not be an excellent cook like Maddie or a trained nurse like Catherine, but she could sew a fine hand. All those years of embroidering pillowcases and tatting lace had to count for something. Mr. Mercer had assured her she could support Gillian by sewing for other families. She’d merely add Clay’s money to her list of expenses.

She felt him behind her on the stairs, but she refused to turn and look. Too bad she couldn’t simply pretend he wasn’t there. Her mother and his would have had no trouble doing so. Anyone in Boston society trembled to receive a cut direct from Mrs. Banks or Mrs. Howard. To her shame, Allie had used the gambit more than once on the men who had courted her, looking through them as if they weren’t there, refusing to hear their pleas for forgiveness for whatever they thought had annoyed her. She wasn’t going to treat anyone that way now.

But she could not help remembering the last time she’d seen Clay. She’d known she’d marry Clayton Howard since she was seven and overheard her mother talking with his. Clay had been thirteen then, an impossibly heroic figure in her eyes, and she’d spent much of the next ten years following him around with Frank beside her.

While her parents and the Howards complained that Clay was too wild, too undisciplined, Allie and Frank had looked up to him, tried to ape everything he did. She had a scar on her knee from where she’d been thrown trying to ride as well as he did. Frank had spent a week trying to master the way Clay tipped his top hat with such a flourish. Clay had just smiled at their antics and gone about his business. She’d never understood why his parents hadn’t appreciated him as much as his younger brother.

But when Allie turned seventeen, things changed. Boys who couldn’t be bothered to notice her suddenly vied for her attention. She was the belle of Boston, her parlor stuffed with suitors. Instead of her following Clay around, hoping to catch his eye, he was the one who had to compete for a moment with her. Her popularity had been exhilarating, and she’d let it go to her head.

Then came the night he’d confessed his dreams to her. Her mother had been hosting a ball, the house crowded with the very best of Boston society. Clay had looked so handsome, so commanding, in a tailored coat of midnight black that was the perfect complement to her pearly-white ball gown. The string quartet had been playing a lilting waltz, and she’d hoped Clay would take her in his arms and whirl her about the floor. Instead, he’d led her out onto the back veranda overlooking the gardens scented by her mother’s prized roses.

Clay had put his arms around her, sheltering her as moonlight bathed their faces, and she’d shivered in delight to find herself the center of his attention at last. But his words had not been the declaration she’d hoped.

“I’m done with Boston, Allegra,” he’d said. “I’m heading west, and I want you to come with me.”

She pulled away from him, fluttering her fan even as her pulse stuttered. “Clay,” she said, “you cannot mean it. Boston is our home. Everyone we know is here.”

“And everyone here knows me,” he countered. “That wild Howard boy. I feel as if I can’t breathe. Out west I can be my own man, a man you can be proud to call husband.”

Her heart soared. He wanted her beside him, his partner, his love. It was everything she’d ever wanted. And yet...

“I’d be proud of you here, too, Clay,” she assured him. “I know you and your father don’t see eye to eye, but if you talk to him...”

His hand sliced through the air. “I’ve talked to him too many times. I can’t be the man he expects, Allegra, and if I stay under his thumb I’ll be no man at all.” He caught her close, spoke against her temple. “Come with me. For ‘I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections and the truth of imagination.’”