WIFE BY DECEPTION Read online

  Kate frowned. She hadn't intended on upsetting his sister. Unless, of course, she heard anything that indicated she wasn't caring for Arianne properly. But then, how could she be sure of anything from a mere phone conversation? Tense with renewed worry, Kate nodded her cooperation, trying to ignore her stomachache and dizziness, which worsened with every treacherous dip and toss of the boat.

  "Hello?" A hushed feminine voice wafted from the radio. As Mitch exchanged brief greetings with his sister, Kate heard the now-familiar Cajun dialect spoken with the genteel cadence of a young southern woman. "Fine, she's fine. Fast asleep. Finally," she said in response to Mitch's question. "Can't talk any louder or I might wake her up. She fussed for hours, I swear. Our li'l Arianne sure can yell. But, hooo, Mitch, you should see her. An angel straight from heaven! All blond ringlets and big brown eyes. And your dimples. You really can see 'em now dat her cheeks have filled out. Rosy li'l cheeks. I told you I saw dimples."

  Tenderness, awe and the huskiness of tears held in check sounded so clearly in Joey's voice that a lump rose to Kate's throat. This woman wouldn't hurt Arianne. At least, not intentionally. Whether she was a competent baby-sitter wasn't clear yet.

  "Have you fed her?" Mitch's voice had taken on an odd huskiness, too, and Kate peered at him in curiosity. His dark, stoic face gave nothing away of his feelings, though.

  Joey assured him she had fed her with the formula he had specified earlier, and Kate bit her tongue to keep from asking her own questions. If she wanted Mitch to call Joey for her on a regular basis throughout the trip, she'd have to respect his request to keep quiet.

  "Does she look—" he glanced awkwardly at Kate, then away from her "—well cared for?"

  Kate stiffened in affront.

  "From what I can see." The surprise and skepticism in Joey's reply added insult to injury. What had these people expected—to find Arianne neglected and abused? How dared they! She'd been with her own mother, as far as they knew.

  Kate's heart then gave a disquieting thump. Would Camryn have taken good care of the baby? If she'd fallen back into her drinking and gambling addictions, Kate really couldn't be sure of that. She couldn't deny that she herself would have had the same qualms, had she known.

  She then thought of the numerous times Arianne had startled awake from a sound sleep with an agonized wail, then cried and trembled as if her little heart were breaking. Maybe Camryn had left her alone for long periods, or in the care of negligent strangers. Kate couldn't bear to believe that, though. It seemed more likely that the episodes were caused by feelings of loss after Camryn's death. Although Arianne called Kate "Mama," she might have recognized on some level that she wasn't Camryn. Her sweet little Arianne was probably mourning her mother's death—not reacting to the trauma of neglect.

  But the acute worry over both those possibilities exacerbated Kate's nausea … and strengthened her resolve that Arianne would not lose her own steadfast, loving care, no matter what she had to do to reclaim her.

  "Camryn, do you want to talk to Joey?" Mitch asked, clearly hesitant to allow the conversation at all.

  Kate ignored his reluctance and determinedly reached for the handset, but Joey cut in with startling sharpness, "I have nothing to say to her … except that I hope she gets what she deserves. A good long prison term."

  Mitch pulled the handset back from Kate. "Let's not get into that right now, Joey. No sense in—"

  "And if you start feeling bad, Camryn, it's because of Tante Louise's voodoo."

  Kate shot an alarmed glance at Mitch. She was feeling pretty bad.

  Mitch slanted his mouth in mild scorn, and his gaze held a hint of droll humor. "Come on, now, Joey. You know Tante's spells never work."

  "She used powerful gris-gris dis time, Mitch."

  Kate couldn't help reflecting that Camryn had died.

  Realizing the crazy turn of her thoughts, Kate shook her head to clear it. Voodoo, of all things! As a professor of history, she knew all about the practice of voodoo and black magic in Louisiana … and the power of simple suggestion. She wouldn't allow it to affect her.

  A peal of distress suddenly shrilled from the ship-to-shore radio, followed by an infant's sobs and a pitiful wail of "Mama-Mama!"

  Mitch winced. Kate's heart dropped.

  Joey groaned. "She's up. Gotta go. Don't call again till I'm home, Mitch."

  Choked with the need to comfort Arianne and a sharp, futile longing to hold her again, to take her back to their safe, sane, normal world, Kate gasped and lurched from the chair. Her nausea had risen to a desperate peak. Grabbing onto the nearby doorjamb, she propelled herself out into the bracing wind and salty sea mist.

  And to the side rail.

  Voodoo or not, she'd never been as sick in her life.

  When Kate awoke the next day, bright sunlight streamed through the curtains of the captain's quarters. Although the doors had been closed at both ends of the central walkway, the breeze swirling in from the open window blew refreshingly cooler than it had yesterday. Her head was no longer spinning. Her stomach wasn't churning. She still felt the rocking motion of the sea in the pit of her stomach, but her nausea had abated. At least, for now. And she was hungry. Ravenous, really. Maybe she was on her way to developing "sea legs."

  To her surprise, she also found that she'd been covered with a light blanket. Had Mitch drawn it over her? She then remembered with almost dreamlike vagueness that he'd looped a steadying arm around her as she'd bent over the bulwark. When the worst of her seasickness had passed, he'd practically carried her to the bed, then wiped her forehead, face and throat with a blessedly cool washcloth.

  He'd been unexpectedly kind.

  Gratitude bloomed in her at the memory, and she had to remind herself not to read too much into his chivalry. Many factors could turn a basically decent man into an abusive beast—anger, drunkenness or mood swings. She couldn't assume that he hadn't abused Camryn just because he'd been nice this one time.

  But she could no longer assume that Camryn's accusations against him were true, either. She had to set aside her anger, her fear, her personal bias and honestly get to know him. To do anything less would be terribly unfair to both Mitch and Arianne.

  Lost in thought, she sat up in bed, cast off the blanket and paused at the sight of the pillow beside her. There was a dent in it. A head-size dent. And the bedcovers were rumpled … as if someone had slept on them. She supposed she could assume that she herself had rolled onto that side of the bed, but she wasn't a restless sleeper. At home, she never disrupted the other side of her queen-size bed. Perhaps the rocking of the boat had caused her to thrash about more than usual.

  But she didn't think so. Leaning close to the pillow, she swore she detected a familiar masculine scent lingering on the linen. The scent conjured images of a bare, muscled body … and virile warmth and strength … within easy reaching distance, there in the alien darkness…

  Flustered by her thoughts, she pushed abruptly away from the pillow and its subtle scent.

  Dear God! Had Mitch slept with her? This was, after all, the captain's quarters. He probably felt it was his right to sleep here. And he did believe her to be his wife.

  Those reflections shook her. She hadn't given a thought to the sleeping arrangements, mostly because she hadn't realized the journey would take several days. By the time she'd learned that disturbing fact, she'd been too sick to think straight. She was thinking quite clearly now, though. She had to know if he'd spent the night beside her. It hadn't been right of him, even though she'd been fully dressed and sound asleep the entire time.

  She'd have to speak to him and set the situation straight. They had another night, possibly two, remaining of this wretched journey. She couldn't spend them in bed with Mitch!

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Knowing that she had to speak with Mitch about the unsettling question of last night's sleeping arrangements, yet concerned that she may have only imagined his scen
t on the pillow, Kate reluctantly opened the fore door of the captain's quarters and ventured into the sunny wheelhouse, trying to think of a way to pose her question without humiliating herself if her suspicions were wrong.

  Mitch, however, wasn't at the wheel. Darryl sat there alone, his beefy, tattooed shoulders resting low in the captain's chair, his hefty legs propped up on the ledge beside the polished oak wheel, his mittlike hand wrapped around a steaming mug of chicory-scented coffee.

  "Good morning," she greeted him.

  Darryl responded with the briefest, surliest of nods, then returned his gaze to the sea.

  Somewhat surprised that he'd acknowledged her greeting at all, Kate retraced her steps through the captain's quarters and followed a delectable aroma to the galley. She found Remy at the narrow gas stove, turning strips of sizzling meat in an iron skillet and singing a ditty about rabbit hunting in the swamp. Metal guardrails secured the skillet, a simmering kettle and a coffeepot on the burners. The redolence of the food wafted on the cross breezes from the open doorways of the galley. Beyond those doorways, the silent swells sparkled royal blue beneath a bright sky. Kate didn't believe she'd ever seen a more beautiful morning.

  Breaking off his song, Remy nodded his ponytailed head, grinned and wished her a good morning. Kate wished him the same, then asked, "Where's Mitch?"

  "Down in da engine room. He'll be working dere for a spell."

  She relaxed slightly at the news, and realized she was actually glad for the reprieve. She'd much prefer brushing her teeth, combing her hair and showering before she met up with him again. Not because she cringed at the thought of Mitch seeing her looking her usual morning mess, she hastily assured herself, but simply to appease her own need to be freshly groomed. Nothing out of the ordinary about that.

  Before she had the chance to duck into the bathroom—or the "head," as seamen called it—a loud, rhythmic banging forced her to glance back through the captain's quarters. The doors to the wheelhouse and galley, both of which she'd opened just moments ago, now swung on their hinges with the rocking of the boat, slamming against the walls in unison.

  "You forgot to secure da doors," Remy noted from his post near the stove.

  "Secure them?" she repeated.

  "Hey!" Darryl bellowed from the wheelhouse. "Hook da damn doors, will ya?"

  Hook. Good clue. Bristling at the rude command, though, Kate aimed a disapproving frown in his direction as she caught hold of the nearest swinging door. "Is he always such a ray of sunshine?"

  "Oh, don't mind him. He and Mitch, dey grew up like brothers. Lived on da same bayou. Worked on da same shrimp boats from da time dey were kids. Darryl don't like no one who does Mitch wrong."

  She flushed at the implied criticism but had to admit she understood Darryl's sentiment. She certainly found it difficult to like anyone whom she believed had hurt her friends or loved ones. What concerned her more than Darryl's dislike of her was the idea of kids working on shrimp boats. Stooping to latch the hook at the bottom of the door to the eye on the baseboard, she asked, "How old were they when they started working?"

  "Seven, eight … some'm like dat. All us boys from home started around dat age. Dat's what makes us da best shrimpers in da Gulf."

  Despite the pride in his voice, Kate was appalled that parents would allow young children to labor on commercial vessels. She frowned up at him from her stooped position beside the door. "Didn't they go to school?"

  Remy grinned. "When dey had to. But truant officers never liked coming down to da swamps much. Or to da shrimp boats, when dey could even find 'em."

  Biting her lip in consternation, Kate awkwardly rose, paced through the captain's quarters and stooped again to latch the wheelhouse door, resolutely ignoring Darryl's nearby presence at the helm. The roll of the boat pitched her sideways, and she grabbed for the doorjamb, missed it and landed solidly on her posterior. Wincing, she fervently hoped Darryl had missed her clumsy fall. Not bothering to check to see if he was watching, she pulled herself to her feet.

  Life at sea was proving to be a complicated affair.

  And the more she learned about Mitch's upbringing, the less she liked it. Swamps, voodoo and now child labor. And a clear disregard for education. Did he plan to raise Arianne in that environment?

  Horrified at the very idea, she frowned as she made her way back to the galley. The hearty redolence of chicory coffee, baking bread and other appetizing aromas distracted her from the troubling thoughts and piqued her hunger. Despite her many concerns, she couldn't help feeling pleased that the seasickness had left her. "What are you making, Remy?"

  "My famous grillades and grits." He glanced at her then, as if expecting some reaction.

  "Grillades?" She pronounced the unfamiliar word as he had: gree-odds. "What are they?"

  His brows converged. "You really don't remember my grillades?" He sounded incredulous. Apparently, he, like Mitch, was having a hard time accepting her amnesia tale. She supposed she didn't blame them. It was, after all, a lie … but the only way she could think to explain her ignorance. If they never really believed her, so be it. She was sticking to her story. Until she spoke to the judge, of course.

  "I told you my memory isn't very reliable."

  "Ca c'est dommage," Remy murmured as he turned toward the stove to stir a simmering kettle of grits. "Den da grillades will be a nice surprise for you, eh?"

  "Is that what's baking?"

  "Non. I'm baking da best croissants you ever put in your mouth. We have mayhaw jelly, too, made by my own sweet nainaine."

  Knowing only a smattering of rudimentary French from her undergrad years—which had sounded very little like the French he spoke—she asked, "Is Nainaine your wife?"

  "Wife!" He barked a brief laugh. "Me? Nah. An old salty dog like me don't have time for no wife. I was talking 'bout my nainaine. My godmother. She gathers da mayhaw herself from da swamp."

  Ah. The swamp again. Kate really preferred not to think about the swamp. But his comment about salty dogs having no time for wives made her wonder how often Mitch went to sea. If he earned his living by shrimping, he wouldn't have much time at all to spend with Arianne, even if he did win custody. Who, Kate wondered, would keep her?

  Too upset by the idea that anyone other than herself might end up with the baby—her baby, the one she'd sworn to love and protect for the rest of their lives—she forced her thoughts away from the painful subject.

  "Can't wait to try the grillades and the jelly," she said, managing a small smile for Remy. That much, at least, was true. She loved sampling unfamiliar regional foods and learning the history behind them. For now, though, she sorely wanted a shower. "While the croissants are baking, I think I'll take a shower." At a sharp glance from Remy, she added, "Would that be all right?" She'd almost forgotten that boats carry only a certain amount of fresh water in their tanks. She assumed, though, that this boat would have plenty, considering its size and the length of its journeys.

  An odd look of uneasiness crossed Remy's face. "A shower? Sure, you can take a shower." He then raised his voice to a yell. "Hey, Darryl … is da shower set up yet?"

  "Yeah, it's ready" came the reply.

  "You in luck, chèr'" Remy stood stirring the grits. "Da deck hose is hooked up to da ladder on da stern, all ready for your shower."

  "Deck hose?" Kate repeated, uncomprehending. "On the stern?"

  "Yeah, you know … on da back deck."

  "But I … I thought I saw a shower stall in the bathroom."

  "Oh, da shower stall in da head, you mean?" His swarthy face turned slightly red. "We don't carry enough fresh water to use it. But don't worry—a saltwater shower on da back deck feels just as good. A li'l colder, is all." His gaze flickered over the rumpled khaki shorts and sleeveless white blouse that she'd slept in. "Might wanna wear a bathing suit. Dat white blouse would turn yellow."

  Kate gaped at him. "B-but I didn't bring a bathing suit. I … I don't have anything I can wear to take a shower in."


  He lifted his shoulder and slanted her an amiable grin. "If dat's okay wit' you, chèr', it's damn sure okay wit' me."

  Mitch paused, wrench in hand, over the auxiliary bilge pump he was repairing as the intercom in the engine room transmitted Remy's conversation with Camryn. He'd asked both Remy and Darryl to tune him in whenever they put their schemes into action.

  Last night, after she'd gone to sleep, the three of them had plotted out a few ingenious tests to try today. He had no doubt that before the sun set, his crafty wife would trip herself up in her lies.

  Amnesia. Hah. They'd see just how much she remembered.

  Any moment now, she'd be demanding a freshwater shower. She knew damn well that the only time they took saltwater ones was when the freshwater ran low—usually near the end of a week-long trip, and only if someone got careless with the supply. She'd learned that lesson during their very first outing, after taking leisurely hot showers every day. When the water ran out, she'd had to settle for cold saltwater showers beneath the deck hose. She'd been none too happy about it.

  Never had they run out of fresh water on the very first day of the trip, though. She would know that.

  Her voice, soft and tentative, sounded again over the intercom. "Would it be okay if I fill the bathroom sink with fresh water for a sponge bath?"

  Mitch stared at the intercom in disbelief. A sponge bath? Was she buying Remy's story that they were already low on fresh water? And was she really ready to settle for anything less than a full shower?

  "I'm not sure Mitch'll like dat" came Remy's hesitant reply. "We try to save da fresh water for cooking, and … uh … you know, coffee."

  Mitch waited, certain that she'd scoff at the idea that one little sinkful of water might deprive them of coffee. Sacre Dieu! She knew the water tanks held three thousand gallons.

  "Is there a way, then," she asked, "that we can rig some kind of privacy booth where I could take a saltwater shower?"