Chapter Twenty-Seven
The schooner creaked and sighed as it eased against the dock, the great timbers groaning in relief after the night’s sail.
Abigail stood at the rail, fingers curled around the worn wood, as New Orleans rose from the thinning morning fog.
The city glistened in the morning sunlight, streets gleaming with dew and the promise of a new day.
“Secure the lines, tie her fast!” Lucien’s shouted orders from the helm snapped her head up.
Her heart thrummed against her ribs.
She could still feel him.
The memory of his hands on her skin, the fiery pleasure he’d wrung from her, the way he’d made her do wicked things—every part of it lived in her body with a vividness that made her knees weaken.
A new ache coiled between her thighs, warm and secret beneath layers of fabric, pulsing in time with the slow sway of the ship.
Would it feel that way for years to come? For a lifetime?
A lifetime of waking in his arms. Of being his wife.
The thought made her breath catch.
They hadn’t spoken of it again—not truly.
She’d drifted to sleep, utterly spent from their lovemaking, the moment he left her side to tend to ship business.
The rattle of anchors and the shouted greetings between river pilots and crew had woken her at dawn.
He had been gone, handling the business of docking, and by the time she’d laced her stays and found her shoes, the ship was already sliding into its berth.
Her cheeks heated as she realized she wasn’t even sure he’d come to bed at all.
Lucien moved from the quarterdeck, coat discarded, shirtsleeves rolled high, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he knotted a line with quick, sure hands.
The same hands that had pinned her against him only hours ago.
He halted a few paces away, voice low as he spoke with his French friend as a gangplank was lowered.
A shadow clung under his eyes, his dark hair wind tossed from his time at the helm.
When he turned, the early sun caught the hard edge of his jaw and the faint red imprint her nails had left along the side of his throat.
Heat burned through her, sudden and treacherous at the proof of her touch.
She jerked her gaze to the deck planks. Silence stretched between them, not cold, but weighted.
Fragile. So much had passed between their bodies, far more than the meager handful of words since.
She smoothed her silk skirts, still wrinkled from where he’d bunched them around her hips.
Her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth, desperate to ask him what last night truly meant.
What she meant. But every time she breathed in to speak, uncertainty pressed back down on her ribs.
He had asked her to marry him. He hadn’t said why.
Her traitorous mind turned on her, whispering doubts she loathed the moment they formed. Had he held her the way he did because he cared…or because he needed someone? Did he want her heart or only the heat of her body to keep the loneliness from swallowing him?
The gangplank crashed into place with a hollow boom that rattled her chest, and he finally glanced her way. For a heartbeat, the world steadied.
His gaze softened.
Then he looked away, jaw tight.
The fragile thread between them stretched, vibrating with all the things left unsaid.
Why couldn’t he just say something? Even a single word would ease her heart.
She forced a long draw of the humid air.
She was being unreasonable. Once they got back to Warstein’s, everything would be sorted out.
They could speak like civilized people instead of two souls who had given themselves to each other in the dark.
They descended to the dock, Lucien staying a careful distance behind her—as though one wrong step might send them spinning back into the wildness of last night. The harbor bustled around them with early-morning clamor, but she felt curiously detached from the noise.
He waved down a passing hackney, and they climbed in.
Each bump, every turn, pressed her thigh against his, sending her pulse skittering at the memory of his fingers clenched against the bare skin there.
The ride to Warstein’s townhome felt longer than the entire night’s journey.
When it came into view, its whitewashed walls and green shutters now familiar, Abigail let out a quiet breath.
Lucien vaulted to the ground and reached for her hand. His palm settled over hers, heat flaring up her arm.
A simple touch. A mere brush of his fingers.
Yet it jolted through her as if memory itself had come alive beneath her skin.
He drew back, his dark eyes hooded.
The butler ushered them into Warstein’s hushed foyer, so empty compared to yesterday.
They stood there, only an arm’s length away on the polished marble, silence swelling until it pressed against her eardrums. Footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs, and she twisted.
Samantha stood there, still wearing breeches, her red hair mussed.
“Abigail? I thought…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze slid to Lucien. “Oh.”
The knowing look on her face said it all. She smiled and descended, taking Abigail’s arm and tugging her toward the morning room. “I like him much better.”
Abigail flushed and followed her friend into the room, where Warstein sat at the head of the table, a cup of coffee before him as he flipped through a stack of correspondence.
Her stomach growled when her gaze fell on the breakfast spread.
When had she last eaten? She piled a plate with beignets, ham, and figs.
“Abigail?” Josephine stepped through the door dressed in a ravishing yellow morning dress. “Oh, thank goodness you’re back. I knew you’d come to your senses about that horrid man. Samantha and I were already plotting how to sabotage the wedding.”
A soft laugh pressed from Abigail’s chest, the tension there finally easing. Lucien cleared his throat behind her, and she turned to him, lips still curved. Now was as good a time as any to announce there would be a wedding after all.
A heavy knock echoed from the foyer, and the butler ducked out again.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Warstein pressed his fingers to his brow. “Now who?”
Footsteps sounded in the hall, measured and familiar. The butler reappeared with a gentleman trailing close behind.
Her father.
Ice slid through her chest as his gaze settled on hers. “Thank heavens you’re here. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to track you down in the countryside.”
Her mouth opened, then closed, words tangling in her throat as he crossed the carpet in long, purposeful strides.
“I received word from my solicitor yesterday.” He clasped her shoulders, his eyes shining with excitement. “We have access to funds again. Even with the fire, all my investments have been accounted for. We can return to Savannah. Rebuild. Begin anew.”
Her breath faltered, catching painfully behind her ribs.
Savannah.
Her old life.
There for the taking.
“What about you and Thorne?” The question left her lips before she fully thought it through.
A flicker of discomfort tightened his features. “I heard the news. There’s nothing to fret about. Turns out it was all just a misunderstanding. Nothing more.”
Her pulse hammered against her temples. “Nothing—”
Warstein cleared his throat. “Some explanations are better left unsaid. Indeed, many men have bled out and died over nothing more than a misunderstanding.”
Her father started to nod, then paused at the quiet accusation in Warstein’s gaze. He coughed into his fist. “Indeed. Come Abigail, we should leave.”
“I’m not going.” The words fell into the room like a gauntlet thrown down—quiet, unyielding, irrevocable.
He stiffened. “What did you say?”
She turned to Lucien, reached for him, ready to share their news.
But Lucien’s gaze locked with hers and held. And what she saw there wasn’t born of triumph.
It was pain.
Decision.
And something that cracked the breath in her lungs.
“Wait,” he murmured, stepping between her and the others before she could speak. He caught her outstretched hand—not in affection but in quiet restraint. “Abigail… you should go.”
Her heart lurched, plummeting like a lead weight. “What do you mean?”
“Listen to me.” He exhaled, the sound ragged, and lowered his voice.
“Ever since you arrived, all you’ve wanted was to return to Savannah.
To reclaim what was yours. Don’t let me be the one who keeps you from your dreams. I’ve spent all morning agonizing over the future you’d be shackled to by marrying me.
God knows, I’m no prize. You deserve better than this. ”
His gaze dropped to the floorboards. “And now you have the perfect opportunity. Take it. Go back and live the life you were meant to live.”
Her fingers went numb in his grasp. “Lucien, no—”
He gave a violent shake of his head. “You don’t belong here.” The declaration came out in a raw whisper. “The mud. The river heat. A name half this city spits on. You were made for more than this.”
Each word sliced through her with calm, devastating precision.
More than this.
More than him.
More than the wild, tangled swamp she’d begun to think fondly of, the life she’d let herself begin to imagine.
She tried to draw breath around the crushing ache, her throat closing around a sound she refused to let out. “I see.”
But she didn’t.
She wrenched her hand away as if his skin scalded her. “Once fooled, shame on you. Twice…” Her voice broke. “I suppose that shame is mine.”
Lucien flinched as though she’d struck him. “No. That’s not what—”
“Come, Abigail.” Her father stepped closer, giving Lucien a disapproving glance.
She nodded woodenly and took a step back. Another. “Yes. I’ll go.”
Samantha reached for her arm, fingers digging in. “Are you certain?”
Abigail nodded once, fighting to stay composed. “He’s right. Savannah is where I belong.”
Her friend glanced between her and Lucien, worry etching her brow. “Very well. But I want you to sail with us.”