Ride the Wind: Touch the Wind Book Two

by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  Given the circumstances of just getting started and needing a continued presence, he’d opted to secure contracts for indentures, guaranteeing him seven years of service, at which time, he hoped it would be mutually beneficial to keep them on as hires. He’d done that already with the Marshall brothers, whose indentures had been transferred with the property. One of them was sweet on Beth.

  She seemed not to notice Thomas’s glances in her direction when he came with his brother to give their report to Ian, as owner, in lieu of an actual overseer. Ian needed to hire another man to replace Philip, but he had to get himself better first. He’d beaten the fever that had almost taken him, but he still hurt like hell and he still needed laudanum for the pain.

  He didn’t like what it did to him. It seemed to have cracked open his mind, enough to allow Beth Gordon to get in his head and read his thoughts. Equally disturbing, though rarer, was that sometimes he read her thoughts, too. Of course, she was selective. Little witch, she only let him peek, while she could ice skate circles around the inside of his head without so much as a by your leave. But he didn’t know what would happen if he stopped the laudanum. Would she still be in his head while he lay wracked with pain? Would she see how much he wanted her to climb in bed with him again, to lay the length of her nude form against him and tempt him with her soft pink lips and pomegranate breasts and pretty feet? Would she come because she felt sorry for him, or because she wanted it, too?

  And if she did, could he even do anything about it?

  Hardly. Not unless fingers and mouth and tongue counted.

  If Ian couldn’t love her like an Irishman, he could kiss her like a Frenchman. Which was more than most men knew to do.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Beth Gordon ascended the stairs, announcing her presence with a knuckle rap on the frame of his opened bedroom door. It was their morning ritual. The dance upstairs, the descent downstairs, ending in the library, where he would be installed on a daybed, not because he was less of a bother that way, although that much was true, but for his comfort in the increasingly climbing June temperatures. Upstairs was hotter, so she kept him downstairs until long past sunset, before she and Theo helped him back to bed.

  From the first, Beth Gordon knew that she needed more help than her five feet four inches could provide. She’d arranged to borrow Theo from the stables twice a day, pulling him from his horse grooming to help Ian get cleaned, shaved, dressed, voided, and downstairs for the duration of the day. Then after dark, once the upstairs began to cool, Theo would come back to get him settled for the night. It was humbling to need help, but he was grateful he had it, even from someone who ice skated in his head.

  An odd image, that, and he couldn’t help wondering if she’d put it there when he was burning with fever, that she’d somehow imagined him packed with ice, outside and in, cooling his body, cooling his blood, cooling his fever enough to keep him here even when he’d begged her to let him go.

  Beth Gordon, ice queen.

  No, thought Ian. No ice queen, that one. Not with those wild red curls and sultry mouth and pretty feet. She hated shoes, and for that, he was glad. The best parts of some days were when she would sweep into the room with enough energy that her skirts would keep moving, exposing inches of shapely ankle and dainty feet that would fit in the palm of his hand. He dreamed of holding them, dreamed of holding her, but so far she seemed as clueless as Dulcinea del Toboso. If that made him Don Quixote, at least his library was still open to him.

  When he’d won The Oaks, he was expecting a house. Something practical. Something that would meet his and Christiana’s needs. Instead he got eighteen rooms, eight down, ten up, fully furnished, with more treasures stored in the attic. Christiana had been as excited as a boy on Wren Day.

  They’d never had a home, and even then, they couldn’t stay. Christiana had school in France, and he had to earn the money to pay for it. Once she was done, he’d brought her back and left her to manage the house. She’d done a fine job of it, taking some things up, bringing some things down. One of her letters spoke of finding a fiddle in the attic, in poor shape but repairable. Seeing the promise in it, she’d had it put back together and restrung and bought a horsehair bow to replace the one that was missing. He found them in the music room his second day out.

  He didn’t tell Beth that he played. It was too soon for him to try. Playing fiddle would bring back memories, some of them painful, and he had enough hurt to deal with for now. Later, he would see. Later, he might tune it, and pluck it, and see what kind of melodies it called to play. Years ago, when he’d left home, music had drawn him across the channel to France. It was a Breton folk song he’d just learned to play that had attracted Marie Delacorte. He didn’t know her before that night, but she’d sung with him, and that had pissed her uncle. If Ian had known then what he learned later, he would have beat him to a bloody pulp.

  The aunt helped Marie get away, or it would have been worse. He would have killed her uncle, then. As it was, he took Marie back to Ireland, where they should have made a passel of children, not just the one.

  Ian smiled, remembering story time with Christiana. She was eight years old when he found her, and for her own safety, she had sailed as his nephew. “Christian” would beg his friend Justin Vallé for another tale from the four corners of the world, then drift off to sleep between them, curled up or snuggled against Justin’s back, while Ian protected hers.

  As hard as it had been, sometimes he missed it. Not the pirate raid part of it, but the sense of belonging to someone, like having their own little band of merry men, with King John Stede Bonnet none the wiser. The High Sheriff had been the problem—a lieutenant a little too sharp-eyed for their own good. When he noticed that they left the killing to the others and focused on the looting, they knew, next time out, they’d be forced to commit mayhem or have it done on them. It was risky—Christiana couldn’t swim and he wasn’t that strong a swimmer, but Justin was, and together, the three of them jumped ship and managed not to drown.

  Ahead of that, he’d bargained with God like he’d bargained with him in Jamaica, making promises that he fully intended to keep. Maybe the second go-round was pay-back for the first, a celestial slap on the wrist when he hadn’t followed through. He’d promised to raise Christiana in the true faith, to give her a good home and bring her up proper, and instead, he kept finding something else needing done first, or next, and before he knew it, she was starting to bud.

  If he ever married again and had more children, they were going to be good Irish Catholics and that was that.

  Today, Beth wanted to check his wound and change the dressing before Theo helped him get dressed. The infection was clearing, the fevered warmth was fading, and the Captain had stopped asking to leave. She still didn’t trust him with the bottle, of course. One suicide on the property was one too many. But all things considered, Beth was pleased.

  She’d fixed the daybed in the library for him. It was on the east side of the house, opposite the music room, and as comfortable a space as to be had downstairs in June. Of course the heat would only get worse, but in a few more weeks, he would have choices he did not have now. He would be recovered enough to seek out the cool shade north of the house, or sit in his gardens, or go for a dip in any number of places nearby. And the more he could do for himself, the less he would expect of her.

  People were already talking.

  It was not meet, they said, for her to stay the night in the big house. An unmarried young woman, alone with an Irish captain who’d come from the sea. She refused to dignify rumors and innuendo. If they imagined something more going on, that was their issue, not hers.

  The trouble was, there was something going on, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

  She dreamed of the Captain.

  And the Captain dreamed of her.

  It must be the laudanum. Somehow, someway, he slipped into her consciousness. And while that was disturbing, it was the exception to the rule. No, it w
as at night, when he came to her in his dreams, and remembered her in bed with him and wished her there again. She knew what he wanted—he wanted his manhood back, wanted to know that he could make love to a woman. Not just that, he wanted to make love all night. At first she had thought that it was just wishful thinking, like a goal he had yet to achieve, until she’d touched on his memories, and seen the pair of buxom twins. Like stars in the heavens, they were just two among the many women he had known. Known, not loved. In that corner of his heart, there was only one, and her name was Marie.

  Beth wondered at the hurt around the name. She sensed a sadness that still echoed from the distant past, and hoped that one day it too would be healed. So many pieces, she’d put in place already. So many parts yet left to find.

  Every day, they made progress. The Captain grew stronger, and she worked harder, listening to his stories, finding clues that led to one piece or another, or more, bringing them back when she found them, patching them in with love and with light.

  Very soon, he would be healed enough, physically, that she could go back to her cottage on the edge of the orchard and sleep alone in her single bed. Beyond the broken bones, the gunshot wound, and fever that nearly took him, the real challenge had always been, and continued to be, the healing of his heart and of his mind.

  How could she share what she’d seen when she touched him? How could she tell him what she knew to be true? The night she’d done her new moon ritual in the overseer’s cottage, she’d gone farther and let him see more than anyone ever had. He was fevered, of course, and willing himself to die, but his consciousness was still present, whether in or out of body, and that part of him, at least, knew what she was. Somewhere, in his heart, or in the echoes of his mind, he knew her secret.

  And in sharing it, she had given him the power to destroy her.

  This year, they’d burned a witch back home. Beth’s siblings were still there, a large family, and fewer friends, and letters had followed her, urging caution. If they still burned witches in Scotland, it could surely happen here.

  She was aware of the danger, but she’d had no choice if she wanted to save the Captain. And she had wanted to save him, even though he’d begged her to let him go, even when he had sworn he was ready to die. It was her credo to honor free will, but when he admitted that he could not see the future, she knew that she needed to keep him here long enough to make a clear choice.

  She’d wanted to save him, and not just for himself but because, in her mind, she saw her future unfolding, and nothing had happened to change that much, at least. Some things were still nebulous, yet to be determined, but when she had looked into his green glass eyes and had seen the promise of their children, what else was she to do?

  Beth’s instincts were proving to be right. The longer he stayed, the more his desire to live increased.

  And now he dreamed of her.

  She knew there were things she could do—or try to do. She could come to him in spirit, and join with him, even before his physical body was up to the task. It was something she’d heard about, that few mastered and she had never attempted. She wondered if such ability had spawned stories of incubus and succubus. But joining like that was not what she wanted, not what she needed. For the first time since Scotland, she felt her body quickening.

  She told herself it was only normal. She was twenty-one, and she had known a man. But to have her thoughts go, so often, to where her body longed to follow was disconcerting. She’d had to discipline herself to keep from such indulgences when there was nothing to be done, not yet. The Captain had too much healing yet to do for anything more.

  Meanwhile, she must have patience. Patience. From the first, she had feared that he would take more than she had. But they’d come this far, and she sensed the future drawing closer all the time, as if she could do a ritual and bring it to her like drawing down the moon. It was getting harder and harder to wait.

  She longed to lie with him, to welcome the weight of his body on hers and finally experience what she’d only dreamed about since the new moon when he’d slept in her arms.

  She wanted him. If she were honest with herself, that’s why she refused to let him die. That’s why she kept him here. Not just so he could choose to live. She wanted him to choose her, too.

  Theo followed the Captain into the library and stood by, ready to help, watching as the Captain got himself settled on the daybed. She was almost afraid to touch him, afraid he would read her and sense this growing fever in her blood. Once she had tried to cool it with water and ice and had ended up doing lazy circles around the issue. Granted, it had helped the fever, but it was a temporary fix. It had done nothing to solve her problem.

  She was a healer, and he was her patient. It was one thing to lie with him; to lie with him too soon would do more harm than good. She must wait for him, as difficult as it was, when he was what she wanted, what she needed. She felt it with every fiber of her being.

  The Captain felt it too, she could tell. Even before she sat his breakfast tray in his lap, even before she touched him. Today she’d forsaken gruel or drammach or caudle for heartier fare, something he could sink his teeth into. But it wasn’t the slab of fried ham, or this morning’s freshly gathered eggs fried in bacon drippings, or the biscuits with butter that she herself had churned. It was the fresh strawberries she’d thought to add to his platter that tipped everything over the edge.

  For the first time since his coming, she felt hunger beyond hunger. She felt a need that reached further, one that would not be sated by food alone. Until today, he’d eaten what she forced on him; in consuming it, he gained the sustenance necessary for survival and a return to health. But the sight, the smell of the strawberries sparked memories in him, of passion’s promise and carnal cravings satisfied. And tonight, while she slept in the diamond of light she would build around herself, to clear and charge, replace and renew all that she’d given today, lest she shorten her own life, he would remember the strawberries and dream of even sweeter things.

  She could feel the anticipation humming in him, like a laddie poised for his first kiss. He wanted the strawberries, badly, but when she put the tray in his lap, he waited, denying himself the pleasure. Instead, he worked his way through the food that would give him the most strength and help rebuild his body. Then, and only then, did he pick up the first of the berries she’d gathered, still damp with the morning dew, and put one in his mouth.

  Heaven.

  For the Captain, heaven felt like a fair wind and a woman’s arms, but surely heaven tasted like strawberries.

  Beth watched his face transform with bliss and could only marvel at how right she’d had it, when she’d seen him in her dreams, had seen them coming together, had seen that look and more on his face, only it would be for her, for them, for the pleasure to be found in their joining.

  The way he was eating her berries, it was only a matter of time.

  Chapter Four

  With the exception of the electrick strawberries, the rest of the morning was rather routine. The Captain received the daily reports from his managers and his farm foreman: Jason on livestock, Dylan and Thomas on the stables, George on the fields. Those were done soon enough, and if he seemed less settled afterwards, Beth blamed the berries.

  She gathered up the emptied tray, intending to remove it.

  “Stay.”

  Beth braved a glance at him, trying to decide how wise it was. She looked toward the window, where dust motes rode on rays of sunshine poking through the window, looking very much like she imagined pixie dust. Would that she had some, to fly away from here. She could go to the spring and strip off her clothes and slip into the spring-fed water and cool this growing fever in her blood.

  “Red?”

  Just the way he said it, less like teasing and more like an endearment, made her waiver in her resolve to maintain distance. He crooked a smile, despite his pain, as added incentive, and she felt her will washing away.

  “Thank you,” he
said. “For breakfast. It was a welcome change. And the berries….”

  The berries. Electrick, clearly with the power of attraction: him to eat, her to watch, both of them feeling his pleasure. Her loins were still buzzing with the energy of it.

  “Please stay?” he asked again. “Talk to me. My cracked ribs are complaining of a change in the weather and I’d welcome the distraction.”

  His ribs, broken by the day guard in prison. When she felt the Captain start to go back to it, she yielded, for his sake. He had made so much progress, she would hate to see him lose any ground that had been gained.

  Once he’d agreed to take a reduced dose of laudanum, just enough to take the edge off, Beth surrendered graciously, and with no little sense of anticipation. She had never explored the Captain’s library, whose offerings had come with the house that he’d won. Aware of her place and respectful of his position, she had resisted the temptation to look at any of his books. She had her own—some of her father’s and a few from her mother—that she kept on a shelf in the cottage at the orchard’s edge, but she couldn’t imagine the people who’d lived here before owning the kind she most wanted to read.

  “Do you see anything you like?” he asked.

  She paused from running her fingers along a shelf and slanted a look at him. Her lips formed a mysterious smile. “What I’m looking for, ye’re nae likely tae hae.”

  “Really?” The Captain leaned back, considering her. “And what are you looking for?”

  “Etruscan history. Sabine women. The founding of Rome, when it was fresh and new, before aw the imperial corruption. The poetry of Sulpicia, although she comes later, doesnae she now?”

  “Oh, aye,” he agreed, sounding facetious. “Sulpicia. I would have figured you for a Boudicca or Marie Queen of Scots kind of girl. What spurred your interest in early Italian history?”