Read Online HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado by Lisa T. Bergren - Free Book Online

Parisian gowns with a tiny feathered cap to match and a net that descended from it to capture her mass of blonde curls. She had always created a stir in Paris when she wore the dress; the reaction from the men around the table who rose in respect told her a man was a man was a man in any locale, be they on the street or at sea. The lone other woman at the table, the dowager Mrs. Jones, perused her with cool eyes and then looked to the captain, a married man of about forty with a trim brown beard, who flashed her a polite smile and then waited for someone to seat her.
    Gavin Knapp, as was quickly becoming his habit, had saved the last chair for Moira, and he graciously helped her into her seat. He was as smooth as Jesse, like a dancer in his movements, and she found comfort in his attention. It felt like a bit of home, normalcy, after the upheaval she’d experienced of late. The seas were mild tonight, but still the water and wine in the goblets before them rocked back and forth—or rather the goblets rocked and the liquid within remained level. She reached for her wine as the captain raised his own for a cheers, and that was when she noticed Mr. Adams directly across from her.
    Mr. Adams’s expression was more kind than it had been that afternoon, his lips even tilting a tad in a smile as he raised his glass an inch higher in her direction. But his gaze did not linger upon her as the others’ did. He looked down the table to the captain, as if eager to look anywhere but at her, and then he leaned toward Mrs. Jones to hear a word from her that Moira couldn’t make out. His movements said, I’m not interested; leave me alone. No doubt, he’d prefer a transatlantic voyage on a sailboat by himself, rather than in the company of all of them.
    Well, Moira thought, a ship was no place to hole up, withdrawing from others. One could take their ease for a time, on their own, but a voyage was all about getting to know one’s shipmates. Servants arrived, placing heavy plates loaded with lovely roasted chicken, hearty mashed potatoes, and cinnamon apples before each person at the table. But Moira barely glanced at the food; her eyes were upon the man across from her.
    She cleared her throat and smiled. “Mr. Adams,” she said pertly. He looked at her and frowned slightly, but she ignored it. “I do believe we’ve heard from everyone at this table about what occupies them day to day except for you.”
    He took a sip from his goblet and stared at her. “What is it you wish to know, Miss St. Clair?”
    “Please, everyone calls me Moira. We’re all on a first name basis after a week at sea, aren’t we, Captain?”
    “Yes, yes—” the man grinned—“by all means. We leave only the most necessary of social contrivances dockside, I believe.”
    The others smiled around the table, each eating, but their eyes drifted between Moira and Mr. Adams. “What is your given name, Mr. Adams?”
    “Mr. Adams is good enough for me,” he said, a hint of an impish grin soon hidden behind a napkin.
    Moira ignored the small slight. “Oh dear, Mr. Adams, I don’t suppose you are ashamed of your name? Is it something frightful, such as Horace? Or Archibald?”
    “Thankfully, no,” he said, retreating, now clearly wishing the attention off of him and on to other matters. “It is Daniel. So please, Miss—Moira,” he said her name slowly, and Moira found herself thinking only of the low, mellow timber of his voice. A baritone, she imagined. “What is it you wish to know?”
    Moira ignored Gavin’s irritated shift beside her. He clearly didn’t like her attention on anyone but him. But she stared across the table. No man ignored her. Why was this one so different? “Your occupation, please. Let us begin with that.” She looked down the table. “Among the gentlemen here are three seamen, three bankers…” she smiled at Gavin as she continued, “a commodities broker, a politician, and a real estate tycoon.” She looked back across