by Raven, Sandy
"I'm sorry I'm late," she said after the carriage departed.
"You're—" Lucky cleared the toad from his throat. "You're not late." God, he couldn't wait to touch her. He leaned in and caught a whiff of her lavender scent on her still-damp hair. "We must make the best use of the time we have."
"I agree," she said as they climbed the plank to the deck of the Lady M. Once on board, she stretched onto her toes and whispered into his ear, "I'm not ready for food yet. Are you?"
He paused a moment as her words went straight to his groin, causing his cock to spring to life. This woman had the ability to make his body come to life with a mere whisper. It was as though he hadn't lived until he met her. He wanted to possess her and cherish her. The things he felt when he was with her, Lucky didn't think he would ever tire of. The unrestrained way she spoke with him on matters so intimate had to mean she cared for him as much as he did for her. It had to.
He led her to the steps down to his stateroom. "I can arrange for dinner to come later." She nodded once, her smile soft yet not quite reaching her eyes. He excused himself to see to their changed mealtime and when he returned he found Mary standing at the window looking out at the bay, her back to him.
She had her arms wrapped around herself tight, clutching her shawl to her breast. If she would only allow him into her mind and heart. He felt she kept it hidden from him to keep from feeling pain. Coming up behind her, he felt her exhale just before she turned into his arms. She pressed her face into his chest, and for a moment he thought he felt a hitch in her breath, but there were no tears.
Thinking to comfort her, he stroked her back, then released the pins holding her hair at the nape of her neck. The cascade of auburn hair felt like the smoothest, softest silk running through his fingers. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the lavender scent she favored. The one he would never smell again without thinking of her.
"I will come back, Mary. I will return." He had to get through to her that he would come back. To see her. To perhaps court her, if she was open to the idea.
She nodded into his chest, then lifted her head and met his gaze. "At least once more, if you return for your older boats," she said. "But, when your business is done, you will have no reason to again."
"You are my reason," he insisted.
She lifted her finger and placed it on his lips to silence him. "We haven't much time. I want you, Lucky. I wanted you so much today, but I didn't have the heart to take you from your wheel." A warm smile spread across her face, and he knew she was truly happy for him. "This was your day to sail your ship."
"She is amazing, Mary. I never imagined it would be like this." He motioned to the room around him. "I don't know how to ever thank you."
Mary stepped away then lifted a foot to a chair and began to remove her shoe. She dropped it and looked at him, cocking a brow. "I can think of a way," she whispered.
He had a fleeting sensation, if just for a fraction of a moment, of being a side of meat hanging in the slaughter shed. He shook it off just as quickly as it entered his mind. She was right, their time was soon to come to an end if she had her way. But if he had his, never. It would never end.
He held her gaze. The way her eyes grew dark with desire did something inside him, making him want to possess her, protect her and claim her as his. No affair was going to satisfy him. He wanted her forever, and resolved he would give her the time she needed. Crude as it sounded, her husband was not long for this world and he was going to return for her and make her his. Whether or not she could give him the children he desired. As was proved with Maura, and all the children in the orphanage at her church, there were more than enough children that he and Mary could adopt.
But he didn't want to think of that at this particular moment. Right now, he had to have her sprawling and naked beneath him, her legs wrapped around his hips. Lucky watched with torturous attention as the sweet curve of calf was exposed for him as she rolled her stocking down her calf. With a tug at the toe, she slipped the whole thing off, baring her beautifully-shaped foot to him in the dim light of his cabin. She did the same to the other leg, then gave her back to him for assistance with her buttons.
"You are so unreserved, yet shy at the same time." He felt the temperature in his cabin rise by several degrees, causing his mouth to parch as he remembered the taste of her. All of her. "You quite intrigue me, Mrs. Watkins."
She glanced over her shoulder at him and shot him a soft smile. "I am comfortable with you, Captain."
"I would hope so." He whispered the words into her curve of her shoulder as he slid her dress off of it, baring her skin to his lips. "I've had your naked body under me, my hands and mouth all over you." He turned her in his arms, and slid the bodice over her shoulders, dropping hot, wet kisses along the slope of her shoulder. He growled when he realized she wore no corset. "And I'm going to do it again."
Tilting her chin up, he lowered his gaze to her pale-raspberry colored lips. "And again."
He kissed the valley between her breasts, tempted to suckle one of her tight, hard nipples. "And again." Unable to restrain himself, he brought his lips down on one, flicking his tongue over the tip first. "Until I leave, Mary, I'm going to love you. And when I return in July, I'm going to love you more."
He sucked the tip of the other breast into his mouth and treasured the pebbled peak of her nipple. "Maybe, eventually, I will convince you to be mine."
Her breathless whisper told him she wanted this as much as he. "Let's enjoy now, Lucky. Please."
"Oh, my love," he whispered. "We're going to. I promise."
Chapter Sixteen
Six weeks to the day after Lucky and Ian sailed back to England, Mary-Michael realized she was carrying Lucky's child. But, before she shared the news with Mr. Watkins, she wanted to talk to Becky to confirm some of the symptoms she'd been experiencing aside from a missed monthly course.
When the office grew unbearably hot, she'd packed up her folder with her notes on the current project, and told Robert and Andrew she was going to work from home. As it wasn't her usual time to leave, Victor was not waiting for her, which was perfect for Mary-Michael. She much preferred walking home as it allowed her time to think about what ever was bothering her—like now. She was bursting at the seams to share her good news, but had to first be certain there was, in fact, news to share. Too, she wondered how she would share the news with her husband, and hoped he would still be happy for her.
Mary-Michael entered Becky's kitchen from the alley entrance, as her very pregnant friend was directing the women on the dinner menu. Mary-Michael pointed to the door of the dining room, letting her friend know she could wait for her to be done. Taking a seat at one of the three tables in the private dining room, she waited for Becky, making a mental list of her symptoms. She was tired more than usual. Her breasts were sore, but there was no morning sickness, just a queasiness at the thought of certain foods, that before now were sure to have her mouth watering in anticipation of the first bite. And, most importantly, she'd been experiencing some dizziness of late. This was the most serious sign. She prided herself on doing the various inspections herself. Yesterday she'd had to ask one of the crew chiefs to do some inspection on a new vessel under construction, telling the man that she'd been feeling under the weather. Which wasn't an untruth, but the circumstances of her illness is why she'd left the office at four in the afternoon.
She was unsure about her symptoms. Maybe she was coming down with a cold or stomach malady, but she didn't think so. Mary-Michael knew she felt differently, and had prayed daily for this miracle. Perhaps now all her prayers have finally been heard, and her dreams were about to come true.
Becky came through the swinging door, holding two glasses with what Mary-Michael hoped were cold water. Her friend came over and set the glasses on the table, before sitting on one chair and putting her feet up on another. Leaning back and rubbing her baby belly, her friend broke the ice. "Thank goodness you came when you did, I needed this brea
k. It's so hot back there."
"It is a kitchen," Mary-Michael replied before taking a big sip from her glass.
Becky gave her a concerned look. "What's the matter? Is Mr. Watkins well?"
Mary-Michael quickly reassured Becky that her husband was as well as could be expected, then she gave her friend a hopeful smile.
"Does this mean what I think it means?" Her friend's blue eyes grew as wide as her grin. It was a look filled with hopeful anticipation.
"Well, I'm not sure, but I think so." Mary-Michael recounted the list of symptoms, then added, "I defer to your experience and judgment, because I don't know."
"It sounds as if you're about to get that answer to your prayers, Mary." Becky took Mary's hand from across the table and squeezed it. "I'd get up and hug you, but God, having my feet up feels so good."
"I'm soon to understand that sensation!"
"How soon is Lucky coming back?"
"By my calculation," Mary replied, "if he were to leave the day after his niece's party, he'd arrive in late July."
"You would be three months along," Becky said. "With my first, I wasn't showing at three months. You could possibly hide it from him as you send him off with his older boats. If he notices anything different about your body, you could say you've been eating my wonderful cooking a few too many times."
Mary-Michael gave a nervous laugh. "I will do that." She shrugged her shoulders and stared at Becky. "Could you not say anything to anyone yet," Mary-Michael said. "I would like to first inform my husband that he is about to be a father. And we have to plan what we are going to say publicly about my condition."
"He... will be happy, yes?" her friend asked, without hiding the trepidation in her voice.
"He will be the happiest dying man in the world." Mary-Michael wiped a tear. "I hope he lives long enough see the child born, but—" More tears fell, and she paused to catch her breath and settle these emotions before she went home. "—that isn't likely now."
"Does he still want to go to the farm to—" Becky couldn't finish, but Mary-Michael didn't need her to.
"To die? Yes. That was his plan. He wants to be buried next to Abigail in the family cemetery."
"Maybe when he hears your news, he might find the will to hang on a little longer." She loved her friend for being so comforting and optimistic when Mary-Michael knew there was nothing further to be optimistic about where it concerned Mr. Watkins.
"Maybe." She drank the rest of the water in her glass, relishing the way the cool liquid made the lump in her throat disappear. "I will try to return before I expect Lucky. But if I cannot because of... circumstances, I will ask you to forward a message to him."
"What will you say?"
"I will have to think about it. But I cannot have him returning and discovering he has a child. If he suspected it was his, he would want to be a part of the child's life. If he was angry enough at me, he might want to take the child from me. Especially if it was a son." Mary-Michael placed her hand where she prayed a baby nestled. "And this child will carry the Watkins name, and inherit my husband's shipyard and fortune. It's what he and I have planned since Rowan and Emily..."
Becky nodded. "We'll come up with something to make sure the captain doesn't hold onto a false hope where you are concerned."
"Thank you." Mary-Michael stood. "I am going to go tell Mr. Watkins the news." She hugged her friend and left the tavern through the main dining room entrance. Her sadness over her husband's imminent death was now tempered with the thought of having her own precious little bundle one day soon. Carrying a babe meant no more climbing rigs and venturing into the holds on hastily-nailed together make-shift ladders that couldn't support a lad, much less a woman carrying a child in her belly.
During the rest of her walk home, Mary-Michael felt as though she walked on a pavement of clouds. But at the same time, those clouds had a very dark lining. While she was truly ecstatic to finally have her prayers answered, she was also terrified at the thought of losing the man who was the closest thing to a father-figure and mentor she ever had.
She greeted Sally as she entered the home through the kitchen this day, curious as to what the housekeeper was cooking. The smells of Sally's delicious fish stew and fresh bread cooking were at first tempting, but quickly turned her belly. She sped through the kitchen, calling behind her "It smells delicious, Sally. I can't wait. You know how I love your fish stew."
The lies were starting to come too easily now, and she hated herself for it. Had she never started on this path of deception to have the child she wanted, she'd never have become such an adept liar. Mary-Michael had to speak first with Mr. Watkins about her condition, so she could let everyone else know. She wasn't going to be able to hide it for too much longer.
His bedroom door was cracked a few inches and she knocked, waiting to hear if he was moving around inside. Mr. Watkins' bedroom was directly over the front of the house, facing the bay and catching all the afternoon breezes off the water. His room was the most comfortable one in the entire house. He needed it because he spent so much time here, and he deserved it because of the kind of man he was. The kind man he was.
"Sally, I told you I can't..." His voice didn't sound any more feeble than it had this morning, did it? She couldn't tell. She hoped not.
"It's not Sally, sir. May I come in?"
"As long you aren't going to force more of that vile tasting medicine down my throat, you're welcome to enter."
Mary-Michael entered the room and saw Mr. Watkins sitting in his favorite chair, near the window taking advantage of the breeze. He had the afternoon newspaper in his lap, and his reading glasses on his head. His gaunt features were not just pale, but also had a yellowish tint. She knew Sally had a difficult time getting him to eat, and made the meals she knew were his favorites. Mary-Michael and Sally both knew Mr. Watkins was not long left for this life. Mary-Michael hated the thought of it, but knew it was long past time to make that planned trip to the farm with her husband and Father Douglas. She and Mr. Watkins had even been preparing the shipyard for this day by giving promotions and elevating Andrew Nawton and Robert Temple to co-managers, and William Bailey to crew chief. She'd given them authority to run the yard in her absence, with Mr. Baxter and their banker having oversight for financial and legal matters. New orders would wait until her return.
She went to his side and knelt down next his chair. Resting back on her heels, she smiled at her beloved mentor. "I shan't force you to take your medicine sir, though after you hear my news you might wish to get well as quickly as possible." Their eyes met, and his took on a hopeful, optimistic expression as he scanned her face for clues.
"Is it... what I think, Mrs. Watkins?" His voice was hesitant, almost reverent. She smiled at him and nodded. For a man in his condition, he sprang upright in his chair, dropping the newspaper to the floor. Unable to stand on his own now, he pointed at the door with a shaky hand. "Get vellum, pen and ink from my desk. You have to send a note to Frank Baxter. We need our attorney right now. This evening. And send another to Gideon. Have them both come for dinner. Make it clear in your note," he said with more determination than she'd seen him have in weeks. "I will have no excuses this night."
"What do you plan on doing, sir?" Mary-Michael asked, a little confused. "Telling the entire village?"
"It might appear so, my dear wife," he said through his grin. It had been weeks since she'd seen him smile like he was at that moment. Not since the sea trials of Ian and Lucky's boats. "But in truth, Mrs. Watkins, I must protect you both, and this is the only way I know how."
"What are you going to do? I don't want you over-exerting yourself, sir."
"If dictating a codicil to my will to my attorney, with my priest as witness is over-exerting myself, then I might as well call the cabinet maker to measure me for a coffin now."
"Sir, I wish you would not speak so," she admonished as she crossed herself. "I feel as though you taunt the devil when you say things like that."
"Bah! Nonsense. Go write those notes and have Victor deliver them by hand to both men."
Mary-Michael gave him a glance before leaving the room, and the old man grinned and winked at her causing Mary-Michael to smile. "You did it, Mrs. Watkins. You will have that child after all."
"I certainly hope so, sir."
As she walked down the hall she heard him say, "Tell Sally I want a bowl of that blackberry cobbler she made yesterday."
"Yes, sir." She hoped this desire for cobbler meant his appetite for food was returning now. She'd do anything to make him happy. Anything he wanted.
On a warm July evening several weeks after moving the household to the family farm near Mount Airy, with just Mary-Michael in the room, Spenser Watkins slipped quietly into death. Father Douglas arrived at the bedroom door to find her kneeling at her husband's bedside, hot silent tears trailing down her cheeks as she held his hand. The priest called for Sally to help Mary-Michael to her room, as he began saying prayers over his friend's body for his soul.
The very next afternoon, Spenser Watkins was buried beside his first wife in the family cemetery behind the house, under a giant spreading oak tree. Mary-Michael watched as Victor, and several of the farm workers, shoveled dirt onto the plain wooden casket containing the body of the man who was the only father-figure she could remember. He had been her mentor, her teacher, and her dearest friend.
And to the rest of the world, he was the father of her unborn child.
Two younger black men carefully placed a marble cross-shaped headstone into a footer in the ground, the cross bearing simply Spenser Watkins' name, the year of his birth, and a space for that of his death. The stone had been prepared earlier, waiting for its proper time, yet another example of Mr. Watkins' attempts to make things easier for her.
She and Sally held on to each other as they turned and went back into the house. Mary-Michael had so much to think about now, so much to do, and so much life to live. She rubbed the barely-there bump below her navel and smiled, once again, thanking God for her beautiful good fortune.