Dragon Tamer Page 11

  They sat together in silence, then. Horace finished his drink and stood. “Will that be all, sir?”

  Dante nodded. “Thank you, Horace. Would you extinguish the lamps, please?”

  Horace nodded. “Shall I prepare your bed clothes, sir?”

  “No,” Dante answered. “Go on to bed. And thank you, again. Good night.”

  Dante sat in the library, the only light coming from the waning fireplace fire. Was that what was missing from his life? An intelligent woman who could match him wit for wit?

  He swore. In his own house this evening, he had been in the minority. Sylvester and Horace, both honest, honorable men, admitted to preferring intelligence over beauty.

  And if Sylvester did, indeed, marry Eleanor, he would certainly be gaining an intelligent woman. But…beautiful? No. She wasn’t beautiful.

  But a part of him, some deep, dark, secret pocket inside him, didn’t want her wasting her time with a mama’s boy. A milquetoast. She deserved someone who could match her ire. Her fire.

  What Eleanor had learned from Cappy Galvin kept her thinking of little else. She had pored over The Dragon’s log, reading and rereading the section involving the fatal accident, and each time she wondered if such an incident could have caused Dante to still carry a grudge against Amos. He had been, after all, just a boy at the time. It would be natural for him to carry around some grief. And obviously, at the time he had himself tattooed, he was still angry about the incident. But would any sensible, reasonable adult continue to go through life with a chip on his shoulder because of something that had happened fifteen years before?

  Perhaps she was reading something into Dante’s treatment of her. Perhaps he simply didn’t like her. He had told her plainly enough that he didn’t care for intelligent women. And she was certain he didn’t believe she could handle a ship and a crew. It was possible that he didn’t even remember Amos’s name, and had put the entire incident aboard The Dragon out of his mind.

  No matter what he felt, he had no right to treat her as he did. She wanted to have it out with him, once and for all. It ate at her day and night, and she thought she might go mad if she didn’t face him.

  She got her chance the following week, when he sauntered into the music room at the orphanage as she was straightening up. She had kept The Dragon’s log with her, just in case she was able to confront him. Now, it sat on the bookshelf, a tattered reminder of a truth she was certain Dante Templeton didn’t want to know.

  They were alone, a situation she normally tried to avoid, because he caused so much destruction—mental, emotional, and physical—inside her, despite her vow to the contrary.

  They didn’t speak at first. He took a leisurely stroll around the room; she watched him. He was tall and straight, yet he did not carry himself like a seaman, not like Amos had. This man before her carried himself like a panther.

  His shoulders were wide and thick. His waist was minimal; his hips more so.

  He briefly turned away from her, and she cast a furtive glance at his buttocks. She told herself she was merely assessing him, nothing more. But as she noted that his trousers fitted over his bottom, sculpting them, making them appear as hard as a flexed forearm, she felt that awful fluttering in her stomach, and glanced away.

  “How is your job?” he asked, interrupting her appraisal.

  She blushed at where her thoughts had been and gave him her back, making a great show of stacking some songbooks onto a shelf. “Fine.” Her voice was terse, more out of anger with herself than with him.

  She turned. “Might I have a word with you?”

  His response was to raise his eyebrows. They arched over heavily lidded dark eyes. Eyes that had a fringe of black, spiky lashes above and beneath. But they were menacing eyes. Bedroom eyes, she realized, that he undoubtedly and intentionally used to reel female victims into his bed like flounder into a fishing boat.

  She shoved away the vision and concentrated on the result—he was a user. Women meant nothing to him. She had seen that first hand, by the way he had treated his mistress. And, she realized, trying to force down the flush that seeped into her face and neck, the way he had treated her that same night.

  She exhaled, the sound loud in her ears, and suddenly she didn’t know how to begin. For days she had been planning this. For days she had thought of nothing else. He was such an exasperating man, one who could, without even trying, scramble a woman’s brain.

  Nervous, she blinked and cleared her throat, bringing her hand to her collar to stop the erratic pounding of her pulse. “I think I know why you won’t release my whaler.” She still didn’t know this for certain, but she didn’t know how else to begin.

  One jet-black eyebrow went up, and Dante leaned against the wall, his thick arms bulging against his crisp white shirt as he crossed them over his chest. “Enlighten me.”

  She sucked in a gulp of air, and on its release, the words tumbled out so quickly, she nearly tripped on them. “I think it’s because you blame my late husband Amos for your brother Damien’s death and since you can’t take it out on him, you’re taking it out on me.”

  Dante’s menacing eyes narrowed. He shoved himself away from the wall, crossed the room, and stood so close to her, she could see the flecks of fire in his irises.

  “Don’t you dare speak my dead brother’s name.” His breath smelled of sweetened coffee and his words were quiet, but his rage was palpable.

  “Wh—”

  “You, of all people,” he spat, glaring at her with loathing.

  Eleanor stepped back, suddenly afraid.

  He stalked her. “Their names should not be used in the same sentence. Even the thought of him,” he accentuated, “fouls the very air I breathe. And you,” he growled, pointing at her, “are every bit as bad as he was.”

  He had backed her up against the wall. His nostrils flared, his eyes filled with fire. Angry heat flowed between them, and there was a trace of man-smell that heightened her fear.

  “Me?” she squeaked. “What did I do?”

  He grabbed her chin, his touch surprisingly gentle considering the level of his ire. “You married the son-of-a-bitch. You let him put his disgusting hands on you.”

  She stared at him, startled at his words, and flinched with rage. “How dare you! My marriage is none of your business and has nothing to do with this.”

  Other than disgust, his gaze was unreadable. “Did he beat you as he did me?”

  Astonished at such a question, she replied, “He was not a monster.”

  “Like hell he wasn’t.” Dante tore open his shirt, the buttons scattering. He exposed the expanse of the dragon she had seen the first time she laid eyes on him. In spite of her revulsion, her gaze was riveted on his chest.

  The sight of the dragon was nothing compared to the scars it was meant to cover. Long, angry lashes, healed into tough, fibrous furrows crisscrossed his chest, from the base of his neck to the waistband of his slick, black trousers, where they disappeared. Woven into the disfigurement was the dragon, the ragged, puckered, tattooed skin looking like the dragon’s scaly hide.

  “You can’t believe it, can you?” His voice was deadly. “But it doesn’t end here,” he added, running a finger along the top of his trousers. He unbuttoned the top button. “Do you want to see the rest?”

  Eleanor turned away and brought a hand to her mouth, shuddering against it. Never had she imagined such a thing.

  “Do you think I enjoyed these beatings?” His voice was threatening.

  She couldn’t speak. She glanced back at his torso, feeling her own skin ache as though it had been scalded with boiling water.

  He shoved his shirt into his trousers. “I did not enjoy it, and I did not deserve it.” His wrath was unmistakable.

  A muscle in his jaw worked and his eyes were mere slits in his face. He spun away from her and strode to the window.

  Eleanor could not have imagined his reaction. She had thought to have a civil conversation with him. She had thought
to make him understand that he had altered the facts in his own mind. Oh, what a stupid ninny she was! If he had once thought her a sanctimonious fool, his instincts were no doubt now carved in stone.

  “I had no idea it had been so severe…” She inhaled, surprised to hear the rattle of tears in her voice.

  He spun from the window, his emotions barely leashed. “Now. What was it you were going to discuss with me?”

  She couldn’t back down. Surely the worst was over. Braver because of that thought, she said. “You and Damien were cabin or steerage boys aboard The Dragon.”

  She waited for a response; she wasn’t disappointed.

  His features hardened further. “And what fairytale did that murderous bastard tell you? That Damien’s death was my fault? That I am to blame for his fall into the ocean?”

  She refused to falter. “Yes.” Her voice was barely audible.

  He stood still as stone; the only thing moving was a muscle in his jaw. The air between them was thick with emotion.

  Suddenly he was at the piano, and he brought his fist down hard upon the top. The harp encased in the cherry wood hummed. “He let him drown. He let my brother sink to his death! I ran to the side.” His eyes were bleak. “I had to save him. He was my brother, don’t you see?”

  His fingers raked through his hair. “They pulled me back. I watched him go under. Do you know what that vision does to me every day of my life? Do you?”

  She, too, had watched someone die, but she said nothing. She feared that Dante had suffered more from Damien’s death than she had from Amos’s. But she continued, intent on saying everything she had started out to.

  “It…it didn’t happen that way,” she argued softly, understanding his pain.

  He had gained control, eyeing her dangerously. “And how, madam, did it happen?”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “If it were just Amos who claimed that he had tried to save Damien, I might have wondered at the truth. I knew he could be cruel,” she admitted. “But one of his crewmen remembers it the same way. You…” She hesitated. Dante had turned away from her again and was staring out the window.

  “You were playing on the rigging. Damien tried to coax you down.”

  He didn’t turn, but he didn’t interrupt her.

  She licked her lips and inhaled a shuddery breath. “When you wouldn’t come down, he climbed up to get you. He…slipped and fell into the sea.”

  “And Amos Rayburn let him drown.” There was curdling bitter-tasting hatred in his voice.

  She shook her head. “No. The weather was bad, the sea choppy. The log indicated that was the case. Here,” she said, pulling the log from the bookcase where she had put it. “Amos’s crewman confirmed it. He said there had been an attempt at a rescue, but to no avail.”

  When he would not take the log, she dropped it onto the top of the piano and released a breath.

  He still stared outside, not moving.

  Eleanor walked to the door. “For what it’s worth, Amos felt responsible, nevertheless. I know he was a hard taskmaster, I saw that first hand.

  “But…I always believed he truly cared for the boys who sailed with him. He was hard on them because he wanted them to learn. To survive. He—” Her throat clogged and her eyes stung. “He always wanted a son of his own,” she finished, her voice breaking.

  She hurried out of the music room, closing the door quietly behind her, anxious to lick her own wounds.

  Dante’s insides were cold. He had heard the hitch in her voice, knew she was thinking of her own child, lost at sea. It hadn’t touched him. Had he wanted to, he could have reduced her to a quivering mass of sorrow and disbelief: He could have told her Amos Rayburn’s history. Yet he had not. He didn’t know why.

  He didn’t want to believe a word of what she’d told him. That would make him responsible, and God help him, he couldn’t live with that. He couldn’t.

  His memory of the events leading up to Damien’s death was the only thing he’d had all these years. It couldn’t have been any other way. It couldn’t.

  Slowly he turned and eyed the leather-bound book on the piano.

  Ten

  At first, Dante had thought to drink himself into oblivion. One brandy had turned into two. With the third, he poured in some schnapps he had picked up in Holland the year before. He drank two of those as well.

  All the while he drank, he stared at the log, which sat on his nightstand, the battered cover beckoning him. Finally, he swore and picked it up, opening to the first page. There, in Amos Rayburn’s script, was the date, the name of the ship, and the destination.

  Dante pushed away the black, blinding anger and began to read. At first, he looked for falsities so he could prove to himself that what Rayburn had written hadn’t happened. He read into the night, very often reliving sightings and kills, even remembering the smells that had permeated the deck, smells he had found exhilarating—at the time. Now, when he watched a whaler sail into port, heavy with barrels of oil, he was offended. Angry. Frustrated that he could do so little about it.

  At last, as the dawn crept into his bedroom, he admitted to himself that for fifteen years he had altered the truth to save himself from blame. For fifteen years he had carried around a pocket of bile near his heart, a hatred so strong it was a wonder he hadn’t killed someone, or himself.

  In his youth, he had been defiant and disorderly. He had hated the captain’s strict rules, his dour expression, his humorless attitude. He had pushed everyone’s patience to the limit, even Damien’s.

  Damien. Dante slouched on the bed, the log dangling from his fingers. How many times had he wondered what he and his brother would be doing if Damien hadn’t died?

  But he had died. And Dante was responsible. He tossed the log onto a chair by the bed. Maybe he had known that all along. Some small part of his brain, some missive that had been neatly folded and tucked away until now made him realize that he wasn’t all that surprised to learn the truth.

  He missed Damien. He always would. He blamed himself for what happened; he should be held accountable. It was a burden he would carry with him for the rest of his life. But he would punish no one, not even himself, any longer.

  And, if he were a vindictive man, with information only he had, he could cause Eleanor’s life to tumble down around her. But there were things better left unsaid. Had he wanted to use his ammunition, he should have done it months ago. And for some reason he couldn’t understand, he hadn’t.

  Glancing at his pocket watch, he realized he had the morning free. He had scheduled a meeting of some of his investors after lunch. There was one errand he wanted to run before his day was filled up.

  He called for Horace and ordered a bath and a shave, anxious to be on his way.

  Eleanor knew she would be late getting to the orphanage because Willa insisted she do a few chores first. It was her way of punishing Eleanor for not showing more interest in Sylvester.

  The doorbell rang as Eleanor was dragging a rolled up rug through the foyer. She dropped the end, stepped to the door, and opened it.

  Her stomach dropped. She automatically started to smooth back her hair, then stopped herself. “Mr. Templeton,” she said with a nod.

  His smile was wide and friendly. “When are you going to start calling me Dante?”

  She brought a finger to her chin and appeared thoughtful. “When swine take flight, perhaps?” She didn’t hide her sarcasm.

  His hearty laugh so startled her, she nearly stumbled backward.

  “I am returning The Dragon’s log,” he said, producing it with a flourish.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a wary look, then took the book from him.

  “Now, as a way of apology, I would like to show you something.”

  Surprised at his attitude, she answered, “You…read the log?”

  “From cover to cover. And then again.”

  “I see.” Did she? “So, you no longer believe Amos was responsible for your brother’s death?”


  “That is correct.”

  That had to mean he finally had come to terms with what actually had happened. “Then, you’ll release my whaler?”

  He continued to smile. “No.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t be held accountable for allowing another whaler on the seas, Eleanor. However,” he said, holding up his hand to keep her from speaking, “it’s not for the reason you think.”

  Exasperated, she placed her hands on her hips. “Then, why?”

  “Eleanor,” he began, ignoring her pique, “do you like dolphins?”

  Puzzled, she said, “Of course. Who doesn’t?”

  “Do you believe that a man could dive underwater and swim with one?”

  She laughed, surprised. “Well,” she said giving it some thought, “I’ve never heard of it.”

  She recalled dolphin sightings at sea, remembering how playful and almost intelligent they appeared. They didn’t seem dangerous, like the sharks or whales, but no one entertained the thought of diving in to find out. “It seems unlikely, but…I guess anything is possible.”

  He seemed pleased with her answer. “I’d like to show you something. Will you accompany me to my townhouse?”

  She was taken aback. “You want me to go to your home?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?” he said with a laugh.

  She tossed a quick glance at the clock. “I’m already late for the orphanage, and I haven’t finished my chores…”

  “I’ll haul this rug outside for you and drive you to the Sheltering Arms if you will do this one small thing for me.”

  “You will?”

  “Indeed,” he responded, still sounding friendly. It was as if someone else had taken control of his body.

  She glanced down at her clothes. “I really should change into something else.”

  “You look fine,” he assured her.

  She raised a cynical eyebrow. Well, that was a first. “What will this serve?”

  Suddenly he was serious. “You will learn what it is that I do. And you will understand why I can’t deliver your whaler.”