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Synopsis
In sedate New Bedford mansions . . .
On slave ships battling turbulent seas . .
They played out a dangerous game of plunder and passion. . .
Captain Nathaniel Larimore: The golden-haired Viking dared to sail a contraband human cargo to freedom and claim passion beyond price. . . .
Laura Hardy: She was the fire in his blood, the woman he couldn’t forget, linked to him by naked lust, bound by destiny. . . .
Melanie Hardy: The late-blooming beauty, determined to get her due, to seize the heart of the one man she desired, to possess him, body and soul . . .
James Talbot: A rogue and ruthless slaver, bound to fight to the death for his lost inheritance, his stolen woman, and the sweet taste of revenge that made it all worthwhile.
They sailed towards a destiny darkened by sins they could neither forgive nor forget.
Release date: December 30, 2008
Publisher: Dell
Print pages: 304
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Shadows on the Wind
Rita Gallagher
PROLOGUE
JUNE—1850
The heavy carved door slammed shut and words spoken spitefully, in clipped, New England tones, rang in Nathaniel Larimore’s ears …
She is Mrs. Jared Hardy now, the old aunt had said, eyes gleaming with malice. She has a child, and expects another, come midwinter.
With sinking heart and the realization that Laura was lost to him forever, Nat turned away to begin the long downhill trek.
Massachusetts basked in late afternoon sunshine and New Bedford harbor resembled a brilliant blue sapphire accented by diamondlike whitecaps at the mouth of the bay. The hills of the town rose sharply from the water’s edge and lofty mansions, parks, and gardens were opulent. Long avenues of gold and green maples vied for attention against brightly flowered terraces rising, staircase fashion, up the steep slopes.
Descending slowly, Nat gazed down at the wharves in the distance. Mountains of empty casks, piled side by side, awaited oil from the depths of returning whalers. A few merchantmen were berthed among the whaling ships, loading or unloading, and from the holds of some issued the sound of carpenters repairing and refurbishing. The smell of pitch overrode the rank whaling odors as coopers blended their noises of fires and forges in preparation for new voyages.
Halfway downhill, Nathaniel paused to lean against a tall tree. His startling deep blue eyes stared vacantly into the distance as he sought to absorb the knowledge imparted by Laura’s aunt.
There were few passersby on the hill. At this hour only housemaids were about, returning from late market or rushing off on last-minute errands for dilatory mistresses. For those who saw him, however, a glance was not enough. Footsteps lagged while eyes rested overlong on the handsome blond man brooding beneath the huge elm and many a maid blushed unseen, yearning for his notice.
A tall Nordic man he was, with broad shoulders and wide chest tapering down to narrow hips and lean, muscular legs. His sandy hair was thick, sun-streaked golden blond. His nose, large and hawklike, betokened a sensual man with a lust for living. A firm, stubborn jaw jutted a shade too much and the rugged features lacked symmetry. But taken as a whole, Nathaniel Larimore was a vigorously masculine man whose stalwart body exuded an irresistible, magnetic virility. There was an air about him; an unmistakable stamp of authority. Those observing him now felt the impact of his very presence; that indefinable, nebulous charisma defying description and possessed by a privileged few. They had no way of knowing, in that brief glimpse, that the full-lipped mouth could curve in a broad smile, exposing large, perfect teeth, while deep-set piercing eyes could hold one mesmerized.
For a long time Nat stood there. He was only vaguely aware of the steady murmur of voices floating on warm winds from the streets surrounding the docks, where foreign sailors, oddly dressed, spoke with strange tongues and gestures, jostling the unwary and frightening the fainthearted.
Nat’s gaze sought his own ship, the Mirimar, berthed at the far end of the dock. Sails furled, she thrust three tall masts toward the bright blue sky while his men, scurrying like ants in the distance, carried heavy boxes and sailcloth bags into her bowels, returning with empty arms to roll kegs and barrels up the gangplank. She sailed again within a fortnight.
The beauty of the scene below escaped Nat. His thoughts were on the last evening he’d spent with Laura, three years ago …
“You are a flirt!” he’d accused. “A tease! Were it not for your high birth, you could easily be a woman of the streets! These past two months of our separation have taught you nothing! I warned you, Laura, an inconstant woman is not for me! You lead men on! Then, in the unreasoning way of women, expect me to defend your honor.”
His burning gaze had stabbed angrily down into her laughing green eyes as they stood, incongruously, over the fallen man between them.
“You’re jealous!” Laura had crowed. “If you want to keep me from other men, then seal the guarantee by marriage!”
“I would not wed one of your ilk!” Nat retorted heatedly. “I find such as you in all ports, on many a dock … and in every seaman’s tavern.”
His cheek stung with her slap.
“And you, fine captain! Are you so noble; so chaste? You admit to bedding wenches in seaports across the world! Yet, you condemn me for gazing with favor upon another man!”
Nat did not answer.
He’d bent down, nudging the stunned man with his foot.
“Get up, cur! I do not blame you for following her lead; I chastised you for believing she could be accosted in my company.”
He stood tall again, and his eyes met Laura’s. They stared at each other for a long moment.
Then, softly, she’d murmured: “Marry me, Nat. And there’ll be no more of these scenes.”
“You’re a fever in my blood,” he’d answered. “But you are not the woman I want to wife.”
“Who, then?” Laura whispered, sidling into his arms.
And his heart echoed the words: Who, then?
He’d sailed away the next morning, vowing to put her out of his thoughts forever. But he had not succeeded.
Laura stood beside him on deck with the wind blowing her long red hair. He felt her warm hand in his through dense fog and sudden squalls. And at night, her body, warm and supple, melted against him, matching ardor for ardor, hunger for hunger.
Now, three years later, standing on the hill just below her former home, Nat wondered.
If he did not love Laura enough to wed, why this pain, this longing, this agony at finding her life closed to him? For one mad moment, Nat thought of rushing up to Jared Hardy’s house and crushing Laura in his arms, husband or no. But sanity returned, and he resolved once more to end his yearning.
So, in the days that followed, he busied himself with ships and shipments—to forget Laura. But he knew, as long as he must remain in New Bedford, he could not refrain from raising his eyes, twenty, fifty, one hundred times a day, to the hill where she lived. He looked for her in the shops … on the street … in the park. His restless gaze searched passing carriages while he walked aimlessly through the town. Perhaps, one day, they would meet face to face …
Possibly, he reasoned, if I saw Laura once more, her ghost would be banished. If I became friendly with Jared, or even old Ephraim, I might be able to wangle an invitation, and accomplish my purpose.
Nat knew Ephraim and Jared Hardy by sight, though had spoken not more than a dozen words to either of them when they met now and then at the auctioneers. He knew the Hardy reputation as businessmen; both of them honest and unswerving in their integrity. Nat remembered Jared as quiet, reserved, but an astute and sharp-minded tradesman, following in his father’s footsteps in everything but love for the sea.
And so, Nat searched his mind for a reason to visit the Hardy warehouse, eventually coming up with a weak excuse which, he hoped, would hold under scrutiny. He decided to think on it for a while and went about his business in the meantime.
He had brought a cargo of tobacco from the southern states and, stopping at the tobacconists’ to confer a special tin upon him, saw a dainty, wide-eyed young lady whose femininity attracted him. When she blushed becomingly and rushed from the shop, he realized she had unwillingly responded to his masculinity. Intrigued, he questioned the shopkeeper. He was even more intrigued to learn she was Melanie Hardy; Jared Hardy’s sister, Ephraim Hardy’s daughter, and more important, Laura Hardy’s sister-in-law.
Thoughts of Laura once again rushed to mind, and no matter how busy he kept himself, he could no longer dismiss the yearning to see her.
On a bright summer day a week or so later, Nat walked by the Hardy warehouse and impulsively decided to pay a visit. He had no valid excuse, but figured that conversation might ultimately point the way for some sort of intercourse between them, thus bringing him closer to Laura without jeopardizing her position as Jared’s wife.
After a short wait in the entry room, he was escorted into the presence of Ephraim Hardy. Nat felt as though he were being impaled on a well-honed blade as Ephraim’s bright black eyes pierced through him.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Larimore?”
“I would like some conversation, Mr. Hardy. If you have the time.”
“I’ve been expectin’ you,” Ephraim answered laconically.
“Expecting me?” Nat’s astonishment was evident.
Ephraim nodded.
“Why?”
“Why are you here?”
“To discuss certain matters …”
This conversation wasn’t going at all as Nat anticipated, and he had not yet formulated his plan perfectly enough, he realized, to fool a man like Ephraim Hardy.
He took a deep breath and plunged on: “I have a shipment of tea from Ceylon—” he began.
Ephraim interrupted him with a knowledgeable smile.
“Mr. Larimore. You are a shipowner, so you don’t need my ships. You are a merchant, so you are not in need of my services. I understand you have warehouses in Boston and Maine, so you don’t need my space.”
Ephraim paused, puffing a pipe and observing Nat’s discomfort through amused, dark eyes.
“I know why you have come, Mr. Larimore. It is to request permission to call upon my daughter, Melanie, is it not?”
Nat dropped his eyes. His face was inscrutable and he maintained the mask for the moment it took to evaluate Ephraim’s words.
It would be dastardly unfair to Melanie to lead her to believe anything could come of their relationship. On the other hand, if he called upon her, he would satisfy his all-consuming desire to see Laura once more.
“Melanie has a suitor, James Talbot, who sails his own ship,” Ephraim continued. “It is said you shared the same father.”
“We did not!” Nat said explosively.
“Perhaps not.” Ephraim answered, ignoring his ire. “But there are those who insist he is Jonas Marfrey’s son.”
“Jonas always said ‘nay’ to that; and I believed him,” Nat answered, more quietly.
“In any case,” Ephraim went on, “I have not discussed with my daughter her feelings in the matter, but young Talbot approached me for permission to call upon Melanie shortly before his present voyage to the Indian Ocean. As to whether or not your suit would be welcome, I cannot say at this time. If my daughter loves young Talbot, your courtship would be futile. I will advise you of the situation at a later date.”
JUNE—1850
The heavy carved door slammed shut and words spoken spitefully, in clipped, New England tones, rang in Nathaniel Larimore’s ears …
She is Mrs. Jared Hardy now, the old aunt had said, eyes gleaming with malice. She has a child, and expects another, come midwinter.
With sinking heart and the realization that Laura was lost to him forever, Nat turned away to begin the long downhill trek.
Massachusetts basked in late afternoon sunshine and New Bedford harbor resembled a brilliant blue sapphire accented by diamondlike whitecaps at the mouth of the bay. The hills of the town rose sharply from the water’s edge and lofty mansions, parks, and gardens were opulent. Long avenues of gold and green maples vied for attention against brightly flowered terraces rising, staircase fashion, up the steep slopes.
Descending slowly, Nat gazed down at the wharves in the distance. Mountains of empty casks, piled side by side, awaited oil from the depths of returning whalers. A few merchantmen were berthed among the whaling ships, loading or unloading, and from the holds of some issued the sound of carpenters repairing and refurbishing. The smell of pitch overrode the rank whaling odors as coopers blended their noises of fires and forges in preparation for new voyages.
Halfway downhill, Nathaniel paused to lean against a tall tree. His startling deep blue eyes stared vacantly into the distance as he sought to absorb the knowledge imparted by Laura’s aunt.
There were few passersby on the hill. At this hour only housemaids were about, returning from late market or rushing off on last-minute errands for dilatory mistresses. For those who saw him, however, a glance was not enough. Footsteps lagged while eyes rested overlong on the handsome blond man brooding beneath the huge elm and many a maid blushed unseen, yearning for his notice.
A tall Nordic man he was, with broad shoulders and wide chest tapering down to narrow hips and lean, muscular legs. His sandy hair was thick, sun-streaked golden blond. His nose, large and hawklike, betokened a sensual man with a lust for living. A firm, stubborn jaw jutted a shade too much and the rugged features lacked symmetry. But taken as a whole, Nathaniel Larimore was a vigorously masculine man whose stalwart body exuded an irresistible, magnetic virility. There was an air about him; an unmistakable stamp of authority. Those observing him now felt the impact of his very presence; that indefinable, nebulous charisma defying description and possessed by a privileged few. They had no way of knowing, in that brief glimpse, that the full-lipped mouth could curve in a broad smile, exposing large, perfect teeth, while deep-set piercing eyes could hold one mesmerized.
For a long time Nat stood there. He was only vaguely aware of the steady murmur of voices floating on warm winds from the streets surrounding the docks, where foreign sailors, oddly dressed, spoke with strange tongues and gestures, jostling the unwary and frightening the fainthearted.
Nat’s gaze sought his own ship, the Mirimar, berthed at the far end of the dock. Sails furled, she thrust three tall masts toward the bright blue sky while his men, scurrying like ants in the distance, carried heavy boxes and sailcloth bags into her bowels, returning with empty arms to roll kegs and barrels up the gangplank. She sailed again within a fortnight.
The beauty of the scene below escaped Nat. His thoughts were on the last evening he’d spent with Laura, three years ago …
“You are a flirt!” he’d accused. “A tease! Were it not for your high birth, you could easily be a woman of the streets! These past two months of our separation have taught you nothing! I warned you, Laura, an inconstant woman is not for me! You lead men on! Then, in the unreasoning way of women, expect me to defend your honor.”
His burning gaze had stabbed angrily down into her laughing green eyes as they stood, incongruously, over the fallen man between them.
“You’re jealous!” Laura had crowed. “If you want to keep me from other men, then seal the guarantee by marriage!”
“I would not wed one of your ilk!” Nat retorted heatedly. “I find such as you in all ports, on many a dock … and in every seaman’s tavern.”
His cheek stung with her slap.
“And you, fine captain! Are you so noble; so chaste? You admit to bedding wenches in seaports across the world! Yet, you condemn me for gazing with favor upon another man!”
Nat did not answer.
He’d bent down, nudging the stunned man with his foot.
“Get up, cur! I do not blame you for following her lead; I chastised you for believing she could be accosted in my company.”
He stood tall again, and his eyes met Laura’s. They stared at each other for a long moment.
Then, softly, she’d murmured: “Marry me, Nat. And there’ll be no more of these scenes.”
“You’re a fever in my blood,” he’d answered. “But you are not the woman I want to wife.”
“Who, then?” Laura whispered, sidling into his arms.
And his heart echoed the words: Who, then?
He’d sailed away the next morning, vowing to put her out of his thoughts forever. But he had not succeeded.
Laura stood beside him on deck with the wind blowing her long red hair. He felt her warm hand in his through dense fog and sudden squalls. And at night, her body, warm and supple, melted against him, matching ardor for ardor, hunger for hunger.
Now, three years later, standing on the hill just below her former home, Nat wondered.
If he did not love Laura enough to wed, why this pain, this longing, this agony at finding her life closed to him? For one mad moment, Nat thought of rushing up to Jared Hardy’s house and crushing Laura in his arms, husband or no. But sanity returned, and he resolved once more to end his yearning.
So, in the days that followed, he busied himself with ships and shipments—to forget Laura. But he knew, as long as he must remain in New Bedford, he could not refrain from raising his eyes, twenty, fifty, one hundred times a day, to the hill where she lived. He looked for her in the shops … on the street … in the park. His restless gaze searched passing carriages while he walked aimlessly through the town. Perhaps, one day, they would meet face to face …
Possibly, he reasoned, if I saw Laura once more, her ghost would be banished. If I became friendly with Jared, or even old Ephraim, I might be able to wangle an invitation, and accomplish my purpose.
Nat knew Ephraim and Jared Hardy by sight, though had spoken not more than a dozen words to either of them when they met now and then at the auctioneers. He knew the Hardy reputation as businessmen; both of them honest and unswerving in their integrity. Nat remembered Jared as quiet, reserved, but an astute and sharp-minded tradesman, following in his father’s footsteps in everything but love for the sea.
And so, Nat searched his mind for a reason to visit the Hardy warehouse, eventually coming up with a weak excuse which, he hoped, would hold under scrutiny. He decided to think on it for a while and went about his business in the meantime.
He had brought a cargo of tobacco from the southern states and, stopping at the tobacconists’ to confer a special tin upon him, saw a dainty, wide-eyed young lady whose femininity attracted him. When she blushed becomingly and rushed from the shop, he realized she had unwillingly responded to his masculinity. Intrigued, he questioned the shopkeeper. He was even more intrigued to learn she was Melanie Hardy; Jared Hardy’s sister, Ephraim Hardy’s daughter, and more important, Laura Hardy’s sister-in-law.
Thoughts of Laura once again rushed to mind, and no matter how busy he kept himself, he could no longer dismiss the yearning to see her.
On a bright summer day a week or so later, Nat walked by the Hardy warehouse and impulsively decided to pay a visit. He had no valid excuse, but figured that conversation might ultimately point the way for some sort of intercourse between them, thus bringing him closer to Laura without jeopardizing her position as Jared’s wife.
After a short wait in the entry room, he was escorted into the presence of Ephraim Hardy. Nat felt as though he were being impaled on a well-honed blade as Ephraim’s bright black eyes pierced through him.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Larimore?”
“I would like some conversation, Mr. Hardy. If you have the time.”
“I’ve been expectin’ you,” Ephraim answered laconically.
“Expecting me?” Nat’s astonishment was evident.
Ephraim nodded.
“Why?”
“Why are you here?”
“To discuss certain matters …”
This conversation wasn’t going at all as Nat anticipated, and he had not yet formulated his plan perfectly enough, he realized, to fool a man like Ephraim Hardy.
He took a deep breath and plunged on: “I have a shipment of tea from Ceylon—” he began.
Ephraim interrupted him with a knowledgeable smile.
“Mr. Larimore. You are a shipowner, so you don’t need my ships. You are a merchant, so you are not in need of my services. I understand you have warehouses in Boston and Maine, so you don’t need my space.”
Ephraim paused, puffing a pipe and observing Nat’s discomfort through amused, dark eyes.
“I know why you have come, Mr. Larimore. It is to request permission to call upon my daughter, Melanie, is it not?”
Nat dropped his eyes. His face was inscrutable and he maintained the mask for the moment it took to evaluate Ephraim’s words.
It would be dastardly unfair to Melanie to lead her to believe anything could come of their relationship. On the other hand, if he called upon her, he would satisfy his all-consuming desire to see Laura once more.
“Melanie has a suitor, James Talbot, who sails his own ship,” Ephraim continued. “It is said you shared the same father.”
“We did not!” Nat said explosively.
“Perhaps not.” Ephraim answered, ignoring his ire. “But there are those who insist he is Jonas Marfrey’s son.”
“Jonas always said ‘nay’ to that; and I believed him,” Nat answered, more quietly.
“In any case,” Ephraim went on, “I have not discussed with my daughter her feelings in the matter, but young Talbot approached me for permission to call upon Melanie shortly before his present voyage to the Indian Ocean. As to whether or not your suit would be welcome, I cannot say at this time. If my daughter loves young Talbot, your courtship would be futile. I will advise you of the situation at a later date.”
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