Captive Innocence

by Fern Michaels

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance; Multicultural & Interracial Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

A young widow is lured by the siren call of an exotic land in this steamy historical romance from the #1 New York Times bestselling author. Fern Michaels takes us on a riveting journey, where a young woman finds her destiny opening new vistas of promise and hope . . . Royall Banner ventured into a lush new unknown world to claim her family’s heritage. There, far from the reaches of civilization, she became entranced with the exotic, enigmatic Sebastian Rivera. As excitement with her new life consumed her, Royall found herself in the midst of a strange and troubling culture where stunning opulence mirrored terrible bondage. In the center of it all stood the plantation owner, who controlled the land and everyone on it—and who meant to have Royall for his own. Praise for the novels of Fern Michaels “Heartbreaking, suspenseful, and tender.”— Booklist on Return to Sender “A big, rich book in every way . . . I think Fern Michaels has struck oil with this one.”—Patricia Matthews on Texas Rich

Release date: May 1, 2014

Publisher: eClassics

Print pages: 334

Sample

Words and foreign phrases rioted through her head. Belém. Rio de Janeiro. Impressions of a world far from the one she knew. Sparkling opalescent waters of Guanabara Bay stretching across the Tropic of Capricorn. Names and places on a map—places she never dreamed she would see. Sun. Heat. Throngs of people, darker skinned, wearing brighter colors. A people of the tropics in this land south of the Equator where unfamiliar languages were spoken. This land called Brazil.

A thrill of anticipation tingled Royall Banner’s spine as she watched the natives of Rio de Janeiro ready the streets for Mardi Gras. It seemed so strange to be here, on the other side of the world from her native New England, where dark skin was more familiar than white, where colorful dresses and bare feet were the norm. Royall’s amber-gold gaze peered through sooty black lashes, preserving the memory of her first day in Brazil’s seaport city.

“This must seem like a fairy story to you, Royall,” her companion, Rosalie Quince, smiled. “Traveling by ship to a tropical city south of the Equator, seeing things that you’d only read about in books. I grant you, Rio is a far cry from Boston.” The older woman’s bright eyes took on a gleam as Royall’s infectious excitement made her remember her own experiences at Mardi Gras. She sighed. That was so long ago—when she herself was a lovely young woman like Royall. When her own complexion would flush to pink, and her own eyes couldn’t see enough. Where had those days gone? “It’s a pity we can’t stay for the celebrations, but we must leave on the boat that will take us to Bel6m and then by paddlewheeler up the Amazon to the plantations.”

Royall nodded her bright golden head, her amber eyes never leaving the far side of the cobbled street where vendors were preparing their stalls and arranging their merchandise of huge paper flowers and glittering sequined masks. From the distance came the beat of drums and the sound of musicians tuning their instruments. Tonight there would be music, dancing, revelry, the last celebration before the start of Lent. Shrove Tuesday, Mrs. Quince had called it. Tomorrow would be Ash Wednesday, when the predominantly Catholic population would flock to church where a priest would smudge their foreheads with holy ashes and intone the message, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”—a reminder of man’s mortality.

A frown etched itself between Rosalie Quince’s sparse brows. She sensed in Royall a desperate need to join the revelry, to tap her feet to the music and dance in the streets. Scandalous behavior, since Royall was still in her period of mourning—highly improper for a widow whose husband had been buried less than a year before. And it was unheard of to wear a carrot-colored silk dress while still in mourning. The frown etched deeper. Royall said she had done her grieving at the gravesite and left it there in the clammy dampness. This was a new life, and she wouldn’t be bogged down with heavy black bombazine. Rosalie Quince had never truly seen the imp of devilishness in anyone’s eyes in all her fifty-two years, but the unmistakable gleam in Royall Banner’s eyes clearly stated that she meant to get on with her life and enjoy it.

Royall whirled around suddenly and exuberantly threw her arms around Mrs. Quince. “This is an adventure, and I don’t want to miss a minute of the excitement. I’ll stay here and watch the preparations while you go back to the ship and take a nap.”

Mrs. Quince was properly horrified at the suggestion. “You’ll do no such thing. Whatever would Baron Newsome think of me leaving you to your own devices? Royall, you must come with me,” she scolded as she hooked her arm through the younger woman’s. “You can watch the activities from the deck of the clipper ship. I take my responsibilities very seriously. This country is a far cry from what you’re familiar with in Boston. Now, come along. You’ll positively wilt in this heat. We’ll have a nice cool drink, and then I’ll take my nap.” The plump little woman gathered her old-fashioned voluminous skirts in hand and proceeded down the street that would lead them to the wharf.

Royall’s back stiffened. It was no different here than back in Boston. Someone was always telling her what to do, how to behave. She was, after all, a responsible woman of twenty-three years, and a widow. She hadn’t needed a nanny since she was a little girl and she didn’t need one now. Especially a self-appointed nanny like Rosalie Quince, who was determined to perform her Christian duty by playing duenna. What had begun as an adventure to remove herself from the cloying overprotectiveness of friends and family in Boston had ended in her becoming a prisoner of propriety under Mrs. Quince’s tutelage.

Matching her steps with Rosalie’s, Royall craned her neck to see a group of women with wide, bright-banded skirts and white peasant blouses pulled low over their smooth brown shoulders, cooking chickens over an open fire. Children played nearby, and she saw one little boy get his hand slapped soundly when he attempted to steal a piece of delectably crisp, spicy meat. “Royall, I declare, must you see everything? Come along. This heat has just about done me in.”

Royall obeyed, as she had always done. Obeying first her father and then her husband and, most recently, her husband’s grown sons and daughters with their narrow-minded New England sensibilities. When, oh when, Royall silently cried, would she be allowed to follow her own instincts and seek her own adventures?

What in the name of all that was holy did Rosalie think would happen to her if Royall was out of her sight for a few hours? Was she afraid of Royall being robbed, her money taken? Impossible! The only funds she carried in the little reticule that swung from her arm were small amounts, for shopping and gratuities and perhaps for carriage fare.

A small giggle erupted in Royall’s throat, making Rosalie turn and look at her askance. She could just imagine Rosalie having fears that her charge would be kidnapped, sold into slavery, carried off by a dashing dark-haired scoundrel who was intent on ravaging her slender, young body.

Ignoring Mrs. Quince’s quizzical glance, Royall kept her eyes straight ahead, kept her feet in rhythm with the older woman’s step. In spite of herself, moisture gathered at the corners of Royall’s prettily pouting mouth at the silly thought. What would it be like to be ravaged, loved, desired by a handsome, hard-muscled man? A man who could fulfill those longings in her that her marriage to MacDavis Banner had only hinted but had never accomplished.

Guilty at such a disloyal thought, Royall felt her cheeks coloring. No! she thought sternly, what’s fair is fair; and MacDavis, while a gentle, considerate man, had never imagined the fires that burned within his young wife, much less done anything to satisfy them. Older than Royall by almost thirty years, Mac had never been her choice for a husband. It was in deference to her father that Royall had agreed to accept his proposal.

MacDavis was a wealthy man, and he had promised Royall’s father that he would always see to her needs. And he had, while he was alive, at least. Soon after his death, his four children, each of whom was years older than Royall herself, took control of the family fortune. Her allowance, once so generous, became a mere pittance. They became intent on selling their father’s home, and there was nothing Royall could do to stop them. MacDavis’s will read that his sons were to see to their stepmother. He had relied on the honesty and generosity of his children. How wrong he was. Royall had little more to show for her two years as MacDavis Banner’s wife than her jewelry, her yearly stipend, and his name.

So it was with a clear conscience that Royall was able to put those two years behind her. She owed MacDavis nothing and owed his memory less. While he had provided her with a beautiful home and jewels and standing in the community, she had provided him with the comfort of a wife, tender care during his last days, and tolerance for his inept and impotent lovemaking.

A slow, rosy-hued flush crept up her slender neck. Actually, all things considered, she was almost a virgin. Almost. Her sexuality had been aroused but never fulfilled, her appetite whetted and left unfed. She was no longer an innocent, young girl, unaware of the ritual of the marriage bed. She was a woman, awakened and aware and needing. She wanted a man, someone who would make love to her, caress her body with strong, sensitive hands till she cried out with desire, not with frustration as she had done so many times with MacDavis and his Puritanical Scottish morals that preached a “good woman” saw the marriage bed as one of her duties, not one of her pleasures. But there had been times ... times when a strange and forbidden pleasure was within her reach; as if sensing this, MacDavis would push her away, leaving her with needs and desires that had no name.

The sparkling blue waters of Guanabara Bay could be seen at the end of the wide thoroughfare they were walking. The wharves were straight ahead, where cargo ships and passenger ships alike were anchored in the deep harbor. Tall, ranging masts seemed to scrape the sky in stately parade. Although their sails were reefed, the majesty of the ships was still evident. Ships that had sailed the world, gathering goods for distant markets. Names and places that were unfamiliar to the tongue and held all the dark mystery of romance. Royall’s house had had a spectacular view of Boston harbor, and she had never tired of looking through the brightly polished windows down to those wonderful ships that circled the world. A world she hungered to learn about, to experience. Coming to Rio de Janeiro was the farthest she had ever been away from Massachusetts. She had always envied the young men of her acquaintance who had been allowed to take the “grand tour” of Europe before settling into life and responsibilities. She remembered remarking upon it to her father, who was properly aghast at the idea that his daughter, his lovely feminine daughter, would dream of traveling abroad without proper chaperones.

“But, father,” she could hear her own voice come down to her through the years, “what would be the sense of chaperones? I would not have any more freedom than I do right here in Boston!”

Freedom, it seemed to Royall, was something that women were denied. It was a right and privilege reserved only for the opposite sex.

Their ship was docked at muelle doce, pier twelve, reserved for passenger ships. Their own vessel was a sleek-lined clipper, boasting seven sails and fast as the wind. From Boston they had stopped in several ports before reaching their destination in Brazil’s largest seaport. From here they would sail north again, to Belém, where they would board a paddle-wheeled steamship to take them up the Amazon to the wilds of the jungle, to plantations near the new city of Manaus. Traveling by one of the new steamers would have been quicker, but Mrs. Quince would have none of it. God gave us the wind to sail by, she told Royall indignantly when a steamer was suggested. If He had meant for us to travel by machine, it would say as much in the Bible. Royall didn’t dare remind the lady that the paddlewheeler that would carry them up the Amazon River had no sails.

“Here we are, safe and sound,” Rosalie Quince chirped as she maneuvered her bulk up the gang plank.

“More’s the pity,” Royall grimaced as she daintily lifted the hem of her orange-gold skirt and followed behind. “I don’t want to be safe. For once in my life I want to be free. If I have anything to be sorry about, I can worry about it later. I want to taste life. Here! Now!”

“And now for a nice, cool lemonade. Let’s sit here on the deck and relax a bit.”

“Mrs. Quince, that’s all we do! Relax! That’s all we’ve done since we boarded the ship in Boston that brought us here to Rio. I don’t want lemonade. I’d like a nice glass of port wine.”

“There is no such thing as a ‘nice’ glass of port. Now claret, that’s something else. Port is too heavy, too potent. Why, in this heat it could go straight to your head and you could fall overboard! These roughnecks and dock workers would have the time of their lives hauling you out!” The older woman was obviously agitated, but Royall was feeling too restless to care.

“Not to fear,” Royall snapped. “With these petticoats I’d go straight to the bottom, and this damnable bustle would keep me there. I’d like to take this dress off and strip down to bare skin ... feel the sun on my body ...”

“Child, child! You must not speak that way! Good Lord, what if you were overheard? Why, we could be raped in our beds!”

Royall smiled.

“Child, you must learn to curb your tongue. Why, there are savages all about us, lusting after fair-skinned women. I can’t believe my ears. You really do need someone to look after you, and I, for one, intend to do my duty until you’re safely in the hands of the Baron.”

Royall sighed wearily. How dreary this all was. All she wanted was a little harmless adventure before she settled down into her new life on one of Brazil’s lucrative rubber plantations. Just a harmless little adventure—was that too much to ask?

Rosalie Quince tapped the tip of her parasol on the deck to gain the steward’s attention. “Two lemonades,” she said firmly, eyes daring Royall to contradict or defy her.

Leaning back, sipping the tart drink, Royall decided that she would give anything if she could walk down the streets of Rio, join the festivities tomorrow. She could pretend to be anyone other than who she was. She could throw caution to the winds and never once worry about her reputation. She would flirt with handsome men, and if there happened to be one in particular who caught her fancy, why she would just ... she would.... Her eyes darted to Rosalie Quince, who was busily draining her glass. Why, I’d just take him to the bushes and I’d ... kiss him soundly! A wicked gleam shone in her amber eyes. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way.

“Mrs. Quince, I know I’ve shocked you. I don’t know whatever possessed me to say those things. I suppose MacDavis’s death is still a shock. I apologize, sincerely. Perhaps you should nap here in the shade. I don’t imagine there’s the slightest breeze in our cabins. I’ll sit here beside you.”

“I knew you were just playing a game with me, Royall. Why, no lady of quality ever talks that way. But you’re right, I am sleepy. I’ll remember you when I do my God-blesses this evening.” Within a few moments, she was asleep, low, rumbling snores coming from what Royall thought was the tip of Rosalie’s toes.

The lusty snores, ricocheting off the deck, made Royall smile in spite of herself. Poor Mrs. Quince. She was always so worried about being the proper lady, and look at her now. Plump cheeks mushroomed out and then deflated as her lower jaw hung slack with each raucous snore. Royall was just about to inch herself gingerly from the deck chair when Mrs. Quince’s triple set of chins quivered, making the poor lady gasp for breath. Royall resembled a bird poised for flight until once again the rumbling sounds wafted across the polished deck.

Holding her skirts in both hands, Royall raced along the companionway until she came to her cabin. Pell mell, she tossed the contents of one bag onto the hard bunk, followed quickly by another, till she found what she was searching for. A thin packet of white powder lay in the palm of her long, slender hand. Tilting her head to one side, she tried to recall how much of the feathery granules was required for a good twelve hours’ sleep. Quickly, she multiplied in her head for the time she felt she would need to elude the ever-vigilant Mrs. Quince. Recklessly, she decided two quick shakes would make the ponderous lady sleep for an entire day. Royall excused her actions by telling herself Rosalie needed a long, relaxing sleep tomorrow while she, Royall, went out to meet whatever Mardi Gras had to offer. Her decision to administer the sleeping draught to her traveling companion so exhilarated her, she felt decidedly weak in the knees. Mentally, she cursed Mrs. Quince for not permitting her to have the glass of wine. If ever there was a time for sampling the spirits, this was it. Throwing caution to the winds, she left the cabin in search of a steward. Briskly, in a no-nonsense voice, she ordered a glass of wine brought to her stateroom and then, at the last minute, changed her order and haughtily demanded an entire bottle.

The steward knocked and entered her cabin and deftly placed the small tray on a table next to the bunk. He refused to meet Royall’s eyes as he backed out the door, closing it softly behind him.

“God only knows what rumor will be going around this ship tomorrow,” Royall muttered aloud. With no wasted motion, she uncorked the decanter of port wine and then poured until the goblet was full to the brim. “To Mardi Gras and freedom,” she said softly to herself. She held the glass high, marvelling at the scarlet liquid. By this time tomorrow I will be tasting life in a new land, having a high adventure and enjoying every minute of it. “To freedom,” she sang aloud as she once again held the glass high.

By the time the decanter was empty, Royall was twirling around the room, humming to herself. The decanter slipped from her hands and rolled under the bunk. Laughing delightedly, Royall tossed the goblet under the bunk, where it came to rest next to the sparkling bottle. Long, sooty lashes closed momentarily and then flicked open. Now, all the evidence was gone. Just like tomorrow. She would leave no telltale clues or evidence behind when she set off for Mardi Gras ... alone.

Rosalie Quince poked her head around the half-open door. She had knocked softly, and when there had been no response, she opened the door. Seeing her charge sleeping peacefully, she quietly withdrew. Sleep was exactly what the poor child needed. Sleep would help her cope with her bereavement. Only in sleep could one forget. Yes, sleep was what the child needed. Even if she slept through the dinner hour, she wouldn’t wake her. Later, if she was hungry, she could get a snack from the steward. Sleep was more important than nourishment.

An hour before dawn, Royall woke, uncertain of her surroundings. The ship rolled sickeningly against its moorings. Lordy, her head throbbed and her stomach felt sour and queasy. Then she remembered. She sighed heavily as she swung her legs over the side of the bunk. “Oh, no,” she groaned aloud. Holding her hand over her mouth, she raced to the pail in the corner of the room.

Exhausted, Royall sat down on the hard bunk with her head bent, palms massaging her throbbing temples. She winced at the loud knock on the door. She wanted to snarl and spit at the cheerful countenance of Rosalie Quince.

“Dear child, didn’t anyone tell you that the early bird gets the worm. Come along now, we don’t want to be late for breakfast. You know what happens; all the breakfast buns are cold and the coffee gets flies in it.”

“Well, if that happens, we’ll just give the flies to that early bird you’re so worried about. You go along without me, Mrs. Quince. I want to ring for the steward to have some warm water for a bath. I’m really not very hungry this morning. I think I ... I think I may have slept too much. My head is throbbing unmercifully.”

“Miss breakfast!” Rosalie Quince was aghast. “But, child, you had no dinner last evening. You should be starving. We don’t want you wasting away to nothing. You realize, or you will soon, dear child, that nothing is going to bring back your dear, departed husband. This life is for the living. I know you must feel that you are being sorely tested, but there is really nothing else for you to do but make the best of your bereavement, and by that I mean not missing your meals. I’ll let it go this time, but I expect to see you at the luncheon table. Here,” she said fishing in her reticule, “eat this bit of sugared ginger. Ginger cures any and all ills. Join me when you’ve freshened up. I’ll be on deck with my needlework.”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. Quince. Join you later, I mean. And, Mrs. Quince, thank you for being so concerned about me. I’ll be fine, truly I will.”

“I know you will, child. You’re young and beautiful. Before you know it, the suitors will be lined up all around the Baron’s plantation. I know you can’t possibly be thinking of taking a new husband, but after all, we have to face life. A man needs a woman, and a woman, it doesn’t matter who she is, needs a man. You just think on the matter while you’re soaking in your warm tub.” With a swish of her long skirts she was gone, leaving Royall feeling confused and slightly embarrassed.

The cabin was hot and airless as Royall stepped from the tepid bath. She toweled herself dry and lay down on the bunk unclothed. Her headache seemed to be abating. Perhaps it was the sugared ginger Mrs. Quince had given her, because her stomach had settled back to normal while she had relaxed in the warm, wet bath water. Her eyes took on a dreamy look as she contemplated the prospect of Mardi Gras. What to wear in the way of a costume? She had nothing that would be appropriate, but she did have a mask that she had bought the day before, telling Mrs. Quince it was a souvenir. It was a gay, scarlet half mask that had small wires to attach it to her hair. A new hair arrangement, and who would know who she was? For that matter, who would care except Rosalie Quince? She was feeling better by the minute with the anticipation of the coming afternoon. First came the big parade where everyone walked in costume. Then there was the music pavilion, along with assorted food stalls. Contests and wine would be more than abundant for all the happy frolickers. Then, in the evening, after a large dinner in the center pavilion, would be the masked ball, and wine would flow and spirits would soar.

Royall’s eye fell on the packet of sleeping powder, knowing a twinge of guilt. What in heavens was she thinking of? How could she give sweet, well-meaning Rosalie Quince a sleeping draught? What kind of person was she that she would contemplate such drastic methods? For all she knew the dear Rosalie might never wake up, and then she would have it on her conscience for the rest of her life. She shuddered—she would be a murderer! All for a day at Mardi Gras. There must be some other way to evade her ever-watchful guardian.

An hour passed and then another as Royall massaged her temples, her mind racing, negating one idea after the other. She was just about to get up and get dressed and tell Mrs. Quince the truth —that she was going to Mardi Gras with or without her—when a disturbance outside her door startled her from her thoughts. Quickly, she threw on a dressing gown and opened the cabin door a cautious crack. Two heavy-set stewards were escorting Mrs. Quince to her room. On closer examination, it appeared they were carrying the portly lady. Their breathing was labored, and Mrs. Quince made no effort to soften her moans of agony. Alarmed at the look of pain on Mrs. Quince’s face, Royall hastily closed her door and raced after the struggling men. “In the name of God, what happened, Mrs. Quince?” she demanded.

“A very foolish thing on my part, Royall,” Mrs. Quince said through clenched teeth.

“Is there anything I can do? What can I do to help you?” Royall cried wretchedly, her plans for thwarting the older woman forgotten.

Carefully, the two stewards laid Mrs. Quince on the bunk and then propped her leg on top of several hard pillows. “The captain has sent for a physician, Miss,” one of the stewards gasped as he straightened his shoulders. “It would be best if you stayed with the lady until he arrives.”

Royall’s eyes were wide. “But of course I’ll stay with her. I wouldn’t think of leaving her.” Her gaze shifted from the steward to Rosalie’s tight, pain-racked features. “You must tell me, Mrs. Quince, what happened?”

Rosalie Quince leaned back against the pillows at the head of the bunk. Her plump, pink cheeks were white with strain as she struggled with her pain. “As I said, a very foolish thing. I keep forgetting I’m not as young as I used to be. I thought I saw a neighbor of mine and I got up from the table so I could call to him. In doing so, my foot caught in the rung of the opposite chair, and down I went for all members of the dining room to see. I feel such a fool. A clumsy fool.”

“A sprain or a bad bruise, Mrs. Quince. A few days of rest and you’ll be as good as new,” Royall said, trying to make her voice sound reassuring.

“I’m afraid not, Royall. I heard the bone crack as I fell. That’s what happens when you get to be my age. Bones snap like twigs in a strong wind. No, my ankle is broken. Poor Alonzo, when he hears of this, he will say he told me so. Husbands are like that, Royall. He didn’t really want me to make this trip, but I insisted and he went along with my idea after he saw how much it meant to me. Now look at me. I do so hate to be a burden to anyone. In Manaus when a horse gets old and limps, they shoot him. That’s how I feel right now.”

“Please, Mrs. Quince, just lie there and rest. Talking is too much of a strain. You’re pale and exhausted. Perhaps a cool cloth on your forehead will help.” Not waiting for a reply from the woman, Royall dipped a soft cloth in a basin of water that stood near the bunk. Tenderly, she placed it on the older woman’s face. “Mrs. Quince, I’m going to my cabin to dress and I’ll be right back. You must not move. Promise me.”

“Child, where could I go and what could I do?” Her tone was tart, and she immediately apologized to the young woman. “The thing that bothers me the most about all of this is I still don’t know if it was Sebastian or not that I saw down on the wharf. It must have been. There aren’t two such handsome devils in the world. I’m just a foolish old woman. I thought if it was Sebastian Rivera he could perhaps take you to Mardi Gras, as I know how badly you want to see the festivities. Sebastian would keep you safe.” Tears of self-pity gathered in Mrs. Quince’s eyes as she stared at Royall.

A lump of something she had no name for settled in the pit of Royall’s stomach. And she had been about to administer a sleeping draught to this wonderful old woman. For shame, Royall Banner, she scolded herself on the way back to the cabin. God will punish you, she told herself as she hastily dressed. I deserve to be punished, she almost wept. The poor old lady was thinking of her all along, and here she was acting like some ... some ... some damn criminal. She dressed quickly in a light green morning gown, and after several quick swipes with her hairbrush, she was ready to return to Mrs. Quince’s cabin.

Voices from within the adjoining cabin startled her. The physician must have arrived. Nervously, she paced the corridor for what seemed like hours. When the cabin door opened, Royall reached out to grasp the doctor’s hand. “Tell me, did Mrs. Quince break her foot? You must tell me so I will know what to do. I want to take care of her.”

“My dear young lady, please calm yourself,” the tall, thin man said in a quiet voice. “The lady did indeed break her ankle. I’ve set the bone, and she’ll mend when God is willing that she should walk again. There is nothing you can do for the lady now. I’ve administered a sleeping draught that will take effect soon. She’ll sleep off and on for the rest of the day and into the night. When she wakes, she’ll have some mild discomfort, but that’s about all. I’ve seen to it that there are biscuits and tea next to her bed. The captain will have one of the stewards bring it along any second now. If the lady awakens, they will be within her reach. She’s not to have any heavy food for the rest of the day. So, you see, there is nothing for you to do or for you to concern yourself with. Go to Mardi Gras with all the other young people, and enjoy yourself.”

Royall wanted to throw her arms around the doctor. He was giving her an order and at the same time absolving her of her guilt. She was used to obeying orders, and obey this one she would.

“If you’re sure, doctor.” Her voice was hesitant, almost pleading.

“Open the door and see for yourself,” the doctor said jovially.

Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, Royall opened the cabin door a bit and peered into the dimness. Rosalie Quince lay on the bunk with her hands folded over her ample chest. There was a peaceful half smile on her face as strange sounds erupted from her throat.

“You see, the lady is sleeping quite peacefully. There’s nothing you can do. If only all my cases were so simple. Close the door now and prepare yourself for the grand parade. I’ve told the captain I’m sending a woman to stay with her until the boat departs.”

Royall was still unsure, her own guilt riding her shoulders like a devil imp. He was a doctor. After all, he must know what he was talking about, and Mrs. Quince did look peaceful. “Very well, doctor, I think I will take your advice and do as you suggest. Thank you for taking such good and prompt care of my ... of my friend.”

“My reward will be that you enjoy yourself. That’s what Mardi Gras is all about. I’ve had my day of revelry, as has the lady inside. It’s your turn this year. Enjoy yourself, a