Chapter Twenty-Five
Abigail pressed her back against the narrow wall of the cabin, trying in vain to find a comfortable position on the tiny cot that had been shoved into the corner.
The room was far smaller than she had imagined a passenger cabin could be, barely wide enough for the bed and a small washstand, the two walls lined with peeling paint that smelled faintly of mildew and wood varnish.
A thin porthole offered a glimpse of the sparkling Gulf, but it did little to alleviate the stifling heat that had built up over the last several hours of the ship’s gentle sway.
Her gaze slid to the thin adjoining door only an arm’s reach from her bed, and she shuddered at what lay on the other side of it.
Mr. Ainsley’s cabin. Every time she glanced there, a faint jolt of anxiety shivered down her spine.
Half expecting it to open without warning, she straightened reflexively, her fingers curling.
He hadn’t been bothered by the proximity at all.
When she had hesitated, and mentioned that adjoining cabins were hardly proper, he had only waved her concerns aside with a casual remark about their impending wedding.
The cot beneath her was too narrow to stretch out, the sheets rough and stiff, the pillow flat and unsupportive.
The opulent fabric of her new skirts stuck to her legs in the damp heat.
Ainsley had insisted on buying her a fresh dress in the port before boarding the ship.
She tugged at the stiff linen of her chemise, trying to catch a breath, but the small cabin seemed to close in tighter with each shallow inhale.
A faint wave of nausea stirred in her stomach, familiar but under control.
For now. Her thoughts, restless and insistent, would not quiet.
Every creak of the ship, every muffled footstep on the other side of the adjoining door, made her flinch.
She ran gloved fingers over an intricate beaded embellishment on her bodice and bit back a cry. Her lungs felt too tight, the walls too close, and before she realized it, she was moving—pushing through the door and up the narrow steps.
Abigail stepped onto the deck, the warm sunlight hitting her face and the breeze tugging at her skirts.
For the first time in hours, she could breathe without feeling boxed in by the oppressive nearness of Mr. Ainsley’s adjoining cabin.
She gripped the railing, letting the ship sway beneath her feet, and tried to steady her racing thoughts.
Below, the port of Biloxi was alive with movement.
Merchants and passengers hustled along the wharf, porters carrying trunks and crates, dockhands shouting to one another above the clamor.
More passengers were boarding, their voices mingling with the creak of the ship’s timbers and the cry of gulls overhead.
Abigail watched the newcomers with a pang of envy and a shadow of regret.
Each face, each hurried step, reminded her that she had chosen this path.
Yet already, she wondered if she had made a grave mistake.
Her mind, despite her efforts, returned to Lucien.
She could still see his face as she had delivered the news of her engagement, the quiet devastation in his eyes turning into angry accusation.
She sighed and forced her mind to focus on Savannah.
To will herself to embrace the elation she ought to feel.
And yet, the sunlight on her skin and the gentle sway of the ship could not chase away the memory pressing on her chest.
The irony struck her like a sudden wind.
All this time, she’d longed only to get home to Georgia.
Yet now, her heart wanted to go somewhere else entirely.
When she closed her eyes, all she saw was the crooked walls and peeling paint of the little white house in the swamp. And its stormy-eyed, broody owner.
She sucked in a little breath and snapped her eyes open.
Focus.
She had spent the last hours convincing herself that Lucien had been a pleasant distraction, a brief spark in a tumultuous time, and that allowing her heart to linger on him had been dangerous.
She’d learned the hard way that developing feelings for a man like him only led to one thing—heartbreak.
Mr. Ainsley, for all his sudden lack of charm, offered a solid, predictable life that passion alone could never provide.
He could give her security, standing, and a place in society that would ensure her future, even if it lacked the fire of her stolen moments with Lucien.
She drew a deep inhale, letting the salty breeze fill her lungs, and willed herself to pull together.
She’d made her choice, and she would honor it.
Lucien would become nothing more than a memory, a fleeting warmth in a difficult season of her life.
Someday, she would remember it fondly, perhaps even gratefully, but she could not allow it to dominate her thoughts.
Ainsley represented her future, and she must hold that certainty close as a shield against any longing threatening to unravel her resolve.
The shuffle of footsteps behind her drew her attention. Mr. Ainsley approached with a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The polite distance he maintained as he came alongside her did little to ease the tension that had coiled in her chest since they’d boarded the ship.
“It is a fine day for the voyage,” he began, glancing over the rail before letting his eyes settle on her. “The Gulf seems… accommodating.”
He had a way of saying things so they felt entirely inappropriate. Had he always been that way?
“Yes.” Abigail’s voice came too quick, betraying her unease. “Quite.”
He smiled, pleased and certain, and leaned in.
Oh God. Anything but—
His mouth closed over hers. Before she could even register the pressure, his tongue thrust forward, thick and insistent, shoving past her lips. She gasped at the intrusion, and he plunged it deeper, tasting of stale tobacco and the cloying sweetness of cheap rum.
She waited for a spark, for a rush of feeling like she’d experienced each time Lucien had kissed her.
Even a flicker, something to kindle the hope she’d pinned everything on, would be nice.
But nothing came. No heat, no pull, only the slick, invasive slide of his tongue filling her mouth and the scrape of his teeth against hers.
His hand settled heavily at the small of her back, fingers splayed possessively, and pulled her closer with a needy groan. She wrenched herself free with a sharp inhale, turning her face aside, lips tingling with the ghost of violation.
He chuckled, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Lighten up, darling. We’re going to get married. It’s perfectly reasonable for us to take some early liberties.”
The way he said the last word made her skin crawl, and she took a step back, breaking the contact. “Even so, I’m sure you understand my desire to keep things proper.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, the blue looking more like ice in the afternoon sun. A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them, thick with calculation. Then he exhaled through his nose, a sound of exaggerated patience. “It’s a good thing you come with money.”
She blinked, the words landing like a slap. “Excuse me?”
He laughed again, softer this time, as though they were sharing a private joke. “Come now, my dear. You must know not every man courts you for your… charms. Especially a man in my circumstances.”
“Your circumstances?” Unease curled in her stomach.
He paused, tilting his head as he regarded her with cool appraisal, then delivered the truth with casual precision, as if remarking on the weather. “I did not come to New Orleans for you, Abigail. I came for your fortune.”
Her stomach twisted, betrayal and disbelief warring with indignation. “Surely, you jest?”
He raised one pale eyebrow in amusement. “No need to get upset about it.” Another low chuckle, as though her shock were charmingly na?ve. “You didn’t truly expect to marry for love, did you?”
Yes.
The word came hot and fast, threatening to tear its way from her throat. She clenched her teeth instead. Love. Of course, she had dared to hope for it, had clung to the fragile, foolish dream of it.
But she was done being the fool. Something hardened inside her, sharp and bright as steel drawn from fire. She lifted her chin, meeting his smug gaze without flinching.
“Well…” She let the word linger, shifting her weight with deliberate calm. “You may find yourself disappointed.”
The ice in his gaze shifted to his voice. “What do you mean?”
“We lost everything in the fire. My father has been unable to secure funds since we left. We may not have much of anything anymore.” Saying it aloud tasted like freedom.
The words rolled from her tongue smooth as truth. She had no idea if her family’s fortunes could be salvaged, but in this moment, it did not matter. Let him believe her penniless. Let him choke on it.
He stared at her a beat longer, color rising in his cheeks, then let out a rather ungentlemanly curse. “All this time wasted on you.” Disgust dripped from his words as he turned away. “Well then, there is no use in marrying you at all.”
“I believe we are in perfect agreement,” Abigail whispered the words to the empty space he left behind.
She remained at the railing long after Mr. Ainsley’s retreating footsteps had faded. Wind tugged at her skirts, tossing her hair across her flushed face, but she barely noticed.