Captive Innocence by Fern Michaels Page B

paddlewheeler arousing her interest. Worse yet, what if he approached them and revealed his acquaintance with her? No, she assured herself uncertainly; surely he would not be that much of a boor. Or would he?
    Royall watched the people boarding the steamboat. Her eyes took in the bright white vessel with its red and gold painted rails. The smokestacks were painted a bright orange, and the gangplank itself was a bright green. Anywhere else these colors would have been overstated, but on the graceful paddlewheeler they were exactly right.
    A steward came and relieved Royall of her bandbox, and she followed him as he expertly guided Mrs. Quince’s chair up the bright green gangplank to the promenade deck of the Brazilia. Royall held tightly to the hemp rope handrail as she ascended the slanting plank. She was still not sure of her “land legs,” and she felt she would be more secure on board ship on her “sea legs,” which she had learned to command over the several weeks’ journey from New England to Brazil. She wondered vaguely if it were possible to become “land sick.” She had certainly felt queer since her return to solid ground. Or was it the buccaneer’s influence on her? She said as much to Mrs. Quince.
    â€œOh, lord a mercy, yes, child. I, too, am feeling the effect of our long sea voyage. The layover here in port hasn’t really helped. We’ll be much more comfortable aboard the Brazilia. Truthfully, I can hardly wait to arrive at my plantation where I can be at my leisure and take life slow.”
    Royall found it hard to believe Mrs. Quince ever took life at a leisurely pace.
    They followed the steward to their respective cabins. The small, dark man opened the doors and led them into a cool, dim stateroom, furnished in quiet elegance. The theme of the room was that of a casual summerhouse, all cool greens and pale petal pinks. A deep rose carpet accentuated the light color of the draperies. Hanging from the low ceiling was a glittering crystal chandelier properly scaled to the diminutive proportions of the cabin.
    Mrs. Quince’s stateroom was similarly furnished, except that the carpet was a deep crimson.
    â€œThey will do nicely, won’t they? Royall, do you hear me?”
    Royall wasn’t listening to Mrs. Quince. Instead, her attention was directed toward the open doorway where she had glimpsed a tall figure dressed in a white suit. It had moved from the doorway just as she lifted her eyes.
    â€œExcuse me, Mrs. Quince, did you say something?”
    â€œI was just saying these staterooms will do nicely, don’t you think?”
    â€œYes, very nicely indeed.”
    â€œChild, you seem tired. Perhaps you should lie down and rest. You’ll feel more like yourself and you’ll be able to enjoy the evening’s festivities.”
    â€œPerhaps you’re right. I do feel a little tired.”
    â€œI thought so. Why don’t you go into your room and rest. I’ll make certain our luggage is brought aboard.”
    Royall sank down on her bed. Her innards were churning ominously, making her feel decidedly green at the gills. It was impossible! Impossible! He couldn’t be here, aboard this ship, traveling with them, his obvious destination Manaus. It was close, too close for comfort.
    Her thoughts raced, discarding one possibility after another. What would he do? What would he say? Was he a gentleman or not? Would he dare to refer to their meeting in Rio de Janeiro? Would he flaunt their intimacy?
    Questions boiled in her brain, and no solutions made themselves clear. At last, she decided there was only one possible course of action. Royall threw herself back against the pillows. There was only one choice. If he should dare to approach her, she would ignore him. Pretend that he was mistaken about knowing her. It would take daring and the skill of an accomplished liar, but her reputation was at stake.
    Why? Why, when for once in her life