Bride of the Baja Read online

  Bride of the Baja

  By

  Jane Toombs

  ISBN: 978-1-77145-119-2

  Books We Love Ltd.

  Chestermere, Alberta

  Canada

  Copyright 2013 by Jane Toombs

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2013

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  CHAPTER ONE

  From the deck of the Flying Yankee, Alitha Bradford idly swung her white bonnet of pleated silk by its ties as she watched the rising sun burn through the Valparaiso harbor mist. A dark shape slid from the fog in front of her, a brig taking advantage of the first of the ebb tide to weigh anchor and sail out into the Pacific.

  She looked up at the red, white and blue flag fluttering from the halyard at the stern. It was an American ship, the first she had seen since her father had sailed the Flying Yankee around Cape Horn three weeks ago. Seeing the flag with its fifteen stars and fifteen stripes in this foreign port thrilled Alitha, and she peered into the mist at the brig as it plowed slowly past the Yankee's bow.

  Suddenly she drew back, one hand clutching at her cashmere shawl to draw it together across her breasts. A man stood at the brig's taffrail, hands on hips, staring at her. A tall man with black hair and a short black beard, wearing a visored cap. He was the captain of the brig, she was sure. He looked like a man accustomed to command. His eyes left her to probe the mist ahead of his ship as though, Alitha thought, he could see to the next landfall, see across the Pacific to the Sandwich Islands.

  She sighed. Thomas. Thomas Heath awaited her on the Sandwich Islands. If only she could see that far, and not only beyond the great expanse of the ocean but into the future as well. If only she could discover the fate predestined for her on those islands thousands of miles to the west. She shook her head, impatient with her fancy. Time will tell, she thought.

  Don't be afraid of the day you never saw, she remembered her mother telling her. What made her think of that? She wasn't afraid. Not of Thomas, certainly, for he was a gentle man. Nor was she afraid of marriage. She wanted to marry. And have children, of course. That was what all young women of eighteen wanted. Then why did she feel this unease, this uncertainty? Was it because of that night on the banks of the Charles, that night she and Thomas had agreed never to mention? Was there something wrong with her?

  Alitha's eyes returned to the taffrail of the two-masted brig. The captain had turned toward her again, raising his hand to his cap in a salute. The sound of his voice drifting over the water was so faint she couldn't make out his words.

  Should she acknowledge a man she'd never met by waving back? Alitha glanced down at her green-sprigged lawn gown, at the frills of her petticoats below the gown. Hastily she put on her bonnet. Perhaps he hadn't thought her a lady. But this isn't Boston, she told herself. Manners are freer here and besides, she would never see him again. Who would know if she waved? Taking a handkerchief from her sleeve, she returned his salute with a flutter of the handkerchief, seeing him smile at her as he raised his hand to his cap once more before he and his ship were shrouded by the fog.

  She strained to make out the name on the brig's stern. She saw two words, the first beginning with a K. And then the brig was gone. What was its name? And who was her black-haired captain?

  "Mr. Jordan Quinn, master of the Kerry Dancer out of the city of Portsmouth in the state of Maine."

  Alitha whirled to find herself face to face with Amos Malloy. The Yankee's first mate, only inches away, smiled down at her. She tried, with only partial success, to smile back.

  "Thank you, Mr. Malloy," she told him. "I couldn't help noticing the brig was from the States. I was only ..." She stopped. She would not make excuses to Amos Malloy.

  "The pleasure was mine in being able to help you." Malloy's bow was as stiff as his words.

  Looking up at him, Alitha pulled her shawl yet closer together, resisting an almost overpowering impulse to move away. Why? She had no reason to fear him. Amos had never been other than a gentleman, both before he had asked for her hand two years ago and after she had refused him. He seemed to harbor no grudge against her because of her refusal, was always civil and courteous, even going out of his way to be helpful. Why, then, was she so wary of him?

  He was good-looking, clean-shaven with curly black hair and long side whiskers--a well-built, stocky man. With his fair complexion, reddened now by the wind, his eyes, which should have been as blue as her own, were a dark, mottled brown. Small, furtive eyes. Yet there appeared to be nothing else furtive about him. Slow and steady, that was Amos Malloy. And a good seaman.

  "One of the best mates who ever sailed with me," her father had told her. "In time he may be the equal of Mr. Jones." Although Ephraim Jones, now dead, had sailed under her father for ten years, he was still "Mister" to Captain Bradford.

  Was it Malloy's hands, Alitha wondered. How foolish, to dislike a man because of the size of his hands. He couldn't help it if they were the largest hands she had ever seen, huge work-hardened hands with long, thick fingers, hands large enough to encompass a woman's waist and still have the fingers interlock at the small of her back.

  Amos shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. She frowned, wondering if she'd been staring at them.

  "If I might, Miss Alitha," he said, "I'd be pleased to accompany you into the city this forenoon. I've been to Valparaiso before, as you know." He nodded to the white buildings only now beginning to emerge from the morning mist.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Malloy," she told him. "I'm going with my father to visit Mr. Burns, the American consul."

  "Of course, I understand perfectly. Perhaps later in the day then?"

  "Perhaps, Mr. Malloy."

  He bowed, turned on his heel and crossed the deck to the wheel. Alitha looked past the Yankee's bow, trying to catch a last glimpse of the Kerry Dancer, frowning with disappointment when all she saw was a gray swirl of fog.

  Holding the rail with both hands, she breathed deeply of the salt air. A gull screeched above the mizzenmast, under her feet she felt the anchored ship's gentle rise and fall. How she loved the sea! How she savored the blue expanse of water on a clear day when white puffs of clouds scudded overhead and the sails billowed in a freshening breeze. How she thrilled to rough weather when the wind sang in the rigging and heavy seas crashed onto the maindeck. The excitement and danger of a storm were best of all, rousing something within her, making her want to brace herself at the bow with the salt spray lashing her face, making her want to cry out her defiance and her joy.

  She could understand why her father loved the sea. It had been different for her mother, waiting, always waiting at home. She would never marry a sailor and spend the rest of her life waiting.

  Aware of being watched, Alitha turned her head slightly, seeing Amos Malloy staring down into the binnacle. He couldn't really believe she would think he was taking a compass reading while they were anchored in this well-charted port. Actually, she knew, he had been watching her. She shivered. This was why she disliked him, she decided, this sensation of having his gaze constantly following her. Only in her cabin with the door closed and latched did she feel safe.

  She would not be intimidated! She turned so her back was against the rail and for a moment their eyes met. He lowered his glance, yet she felt him still appraising her, almost as though he could see through the cotton cloth of her high-necked dress, through her petticoats and chemise, almost as thoug
h he knew . . .

  Reddening, she looked quickly away and thought she saw him smile. As if he had read her mind, suspecting the truth—that she felt not only distaste, not only apprehension, not only the beginnings of fear, but something else besides. Alitha pushed the unwelcome idea away.

  No! She told herself. Face the truth. You promised when you left Boston that you'd be true to yourself. And to Thomas as well, of course. Her mother's fault would not become hers—she would not practice self-deception. Alitha frowned as she thought of her mother during her last illness the year before.

  "Nehemiah's been a good husband to me," Norah Bradford had said, "all in all. He's been a good provider and a temperate, God-fearing man."

  And an adulterer, Alitha thought. Adulterer. What a terrible word. A terrible word for a terrible sin.

  Alitha remembered her horror when her mother, delirious with the fever that went with her consumption, had told her the truth. The shock had overwhelmed her. Her father, the man she loved, the man she respected above all others, had been unfaithful. Yet her mother had never told him she knew. How could she maintain her silence, blinding herself to what her husband was? A man who broke one of God's commandments placed himself beyond the reach of Christian charity.

  At least she'd never have to worry about Thomas in that way. Hadn't he pledged his life to serving God? Hadn't he ventured forth to the Sandwich Islands as a missionary to lead the heathen natives to the Savior? Thomas was, in fact, much too good for her--he was an idealist in all things. If only . . . No, she mustn't doubt. She was unworthy of him. She could only hope to become more like him, a better Christian. Perhaps then she would find a way to forgive her father.

  Alitha had vowed never to practice self-deception as her mother had. No matter how painful it might be, she would face the truth. And it was painful to admit that she didn't find the attentions of Mr. Malloy completely unwelcome. After all, he was a fine-looking, capable man--any of the girls she'd known in Boston would have accepted his proposal in a minute. I'm glad I waited for Thomas to ask me to marry him, she told herself. I love Thomas more than I could ever love a man like Amos.

  Yet when Alitha saw Amos watching her, she admitted she felt more than an instinctive distaste. That was her secret and her shame. She felt more than an innate revulsion. In fact, at times when she lay restlessly in her bunk listening to the rush of the sea only a few inches away on the other side of the oak hull, as she tried to let the cradle like rocking of the ship lull her to sleep, she had imagined Amos Malloy touching her, imagined the feel of his strong hands circling her waist and drawing her to him.

  As Alitha relived her daydream, the memory returned of that soft September night along the Charles where she and Thomas had strolled hand in hand listening to the murmur of the water below them. She remembered the two of them stopping, as though of a single mind. His lips found hers in the chaste kisses she was accustomed to, then, as a kiss lengthened, his lips grew more insistent, more demanding. His hands slid awkwardly up along her sides to her breasts, touching them tentatively and, when she didn't thrust his hands away, cradling them.

  She lay on the grass of the riverbank, her hands behind her head, and he lay beside her. His lips met hers again, and she drew in her breath as she felt the length of his body touching hers. Quite unexpectedly an unbidden fire rose in her, a trembling starting in her legs and pulsing up through her, a surging response to his touch, a feeling she had never experienced before, a sensation she had never imagined possible.

  “Thomas," she whispered.

  "Thomas," she said again, wanting to hear the sound of his name. Her cold hand slipped under his shirt to the warm flesh of his back, and she felt him shiver at her touch. His hands clumsily caressed her breasts, cupping them through her dress and chemise, his fingers circling her breasts as the fire mounted higher and higher in her.

  He leaned over her, his lips still locked to hers. Her mouth opened to say his name and she felt his tongue lightly touch her lips and, as quickly, withdraw. She moved back but he kept kissing her, almost angrily she thought, as though to punish her, his mouth nipping her neck and ear until his lips covered hers again. Her arms circled his neck, drawing him to her, her body arching to his, pressing against a hardness that thrilled and frightened her at the same time. She wanted, she wanted—oh, what did she want?

  Thomas rolled away, his lips and hands leaving her. He stood up and in the moonlight she saw him standing a short distance away, with his back to her.

  "Thomas," she cried without thinking, "don't go, don't leave me now, you can't."

  Through a humming blur of passion she heard his quick breathing, saw him walk away to stare out over the river. Slowly she sat up, then rose to her feet, pushing her hair from her eyes. She went to him, her arms going about his waist as her breasts pressed against his back. He disengaged her arms and stepped away. She seemed to hear his words indistinctly, in snatches, words she didn't want to hear yet, afterward, words she couldn't forget.

  "Sins of the flesh," he said. "Wait . . . wrong . . . evil . . . don't tempt me, Leeta, don't tempt me. ."

  She ran from him, ran as fast as she could, finally tripping over a root and sprawling on the ground with her hands clutching at the mounds of grass, her fingers clawing the loose earth, hearing, as from a distance, sobs. Only after several minutes did she realize they were her own.

  She sensed someone beside her, felt Thomas's hand on her shoulder. He gently smoothed her hair.

  "Tell me the truth," she said, looking over her shoulder at his face dark above her. "Is it wrong to feel as I did? Is there something wrong with me? Is there, Thomas?"

  He hadn't replied, not then or later. She had answered the question for him, though, a hundred times and more, in the lonely emptiness of her room, later as she slept on the cot in her mother's sick chamber, later still in her cabin on the Yankee during the long voyage around the Horn.

  Yes, she told herself, there is something wrong with you. You're weak, Alitha Bradford, your flesh is weak, a prey to temptation. If you don't beware you'll become a handmaiden of the devil.

  Yet no matter how many times she told herself this, she never completely believed her own words. There was always a part of her that seemed to stand aside and protest, "No! It's not true!"

  "Alitha, are you ready?"

  Startled, she swung about to see her father standing at the top of the companionway leading from his cabin. He wore his best shore clothes—his blue trousers, the blue jacket with the gold buttons and gold braid and a black cap set squarely on his head—Nehemiah Bradford could never be accused of being rakish. He had trimmed his beard and shined his boots mirror-black. Alitha wanted to run to him, throw her arms about him, press her face against his chest. She couldn't. Six feet tall, a head higher than his daughter, Nehemiah seemed to her the reincarnation of a Biblical patriarch.

  She could never really talk to him. Their conversational voyages, she fancied, took them on a triangular course from the weather to their journey to her mother. Then back to home port, the weather. Could you talk to a Noah, to a Moses? If only there were someone to hear whatever outrageous thoughts, dreams and desires might sail through her head. And understand. Someone—a man, yes, it had to be a man—who would accept her as she was. Not someone who wanted to change her. Change her for her own good, of course.

  "I'm ready, father," she said, going to him and brushing a fleck of lint from his jacket collar. "My father is the handsomest man in the entire Southern Hemisphere," she told him.

  Nehemiah stared down at her in surprise. "And you, Alitha," he said awkwardly, "must be by far the most beautiful woman."

  As he looked at her, she saw his eyes mist and she knew he must be thinking of her mother, seeing her mother in her. Nehemiah reached out and for a moment Alitha thought he meant to take her in his arms. If he did, she thought, she could almost forgive him. His hand held in midair and, after a pause, he crooked his arm. She pulled on her gloves, laid her hand on his sleev
e and they crossed the deck to the ladder and the waiting ship's boat.

  As they were being rowed to the wharf, Alitha glanced behind her toward the Pacific. The fog had risen, and in the distance she saw the Kerry Dancer under full sail.

  "Jordan Quinn," she said half-aloud.

  "I beg your pardon," her father said.

  "Nothing, father. I'm just daydreaming again."

  Jordan Quinn. She repeated the name to herself, liking the sound. I don't know when, Jordan Quinn, she thought, and I don't know where, Jordan Quinn, but one day we'll meet, you and I.

  The compass read north by northwest. Captain Quinn nodded with satisfaction.

  "Steady as she goes," he ordered the helmsman. Already he could feel the well-remembered surge of the ocean beneath his ship.

  "Aye aye, sir," Jack McKinnon said.

  "Ah, and wasn't she a beauty, Mr. McKinnon? Have you ever seen her like before?"

  "The Flying Yankee's been the pride of the Beachum Yards ever since she was launched."

  "You know as well as you know port from starboard that I wasn't referring to the ship."

  "Might you mean the lass who waved to you from the rail then? The bonny lass with the long golden hair?"

  "You know damn well I mean the lass. Did you ever see such a beauty in all your days?"

  "A likely looking wench, I'll admit, but not one for me nor for you, either. Myself a happily married man and you about to join our fraternity. In another two months or sooner if this wind holds." He tapped his knuckles on the king-spoke of the wheel.

  "A bit of dreaming never harmed a man."

  "In another year," McKinnon went on, "if I know the ways of these senoritas, your new bride'll have you living ashore, a Californio like the rest of them, complete with a rancho, herds of cattle and all."

  "You're mistaken, Mr. McKinnon. I'll never leave the sea, not for long, certainly not for any woman. My father always said if they sliced into a Quinn's veins they'd find a generous portion of salt water mixed with the blood. When my time comes, I'd like to go as he did, struck down on the deck of a frigate trading cannon shot with a Limey man-o'-war."