Wrecked

by Deanna Wadsworth

  Is this what a swoon feels like? Get a hold of yourself! Only women swoon!

  “I was worried when Doc said you caught a fever,” the man went on, a soft, genuinely relieved smile gracing his mouth. He swept Mathew with a look, pausing on his leg. “You look well.”

  Such courtesy, in contrast to Father’s cold, calculated words, disheartened Mathew, and marked a return of his wits and a dash of control to his hormones. “Thank you for your concern. That makes one person at least.”

  “I wouldn’t take it too personal.” Rief offered him a wide, teasing grin. “That man has been huffing about like a bull and being an ass to everyone since he got aboard.”

  He arched his brow at such frank words. “That man is my father.”

  “Oh,” Rief said, with a contrite wince, and rather than say anything else, he began to study Mathew.

  It disconcerted Mathew the way he stared so boldly, those bewitching eyes roaming over his face, his hair, and clothing. Cheeks heating, Mathew returned his attention to the salvage, but that heavy gaze was still upon him. If he’d been given the time and circumstance to bathe and dress, properly attend to his toilette, Mathew might’ve felt more comfortable in his own skin.

  Why was Rief staring? Did he suspect Mathew’s impure thoughts? He knew he was small for a man, slight and bookish too. And his nose was crooked. Was Rief comparing Mathew to himself, finding him lacking somehow?

  Or did he stare with the same hunger that ate Mathew alive at night?

  Though the thought seemed highly improbable, his pulse quickened. What would it be like to kiss Rief for real? To be held close by those powerful arms that cut through the water with such ease?

  Feeling warm from his nearness, Mathew pushed the erotic imagery away and steeled his features. He could not look at Rief. The risks of discovery were far too terrible to think about.

  So they stood in silence, Mathew watching the salvage and pretending he wasn’t bothered by the way Rief stared at him. He tried to act casual, but it was near impossible with that hard, smooth chest a mere arm’s length away. The wind shifted and the sun disappeared, casting them once again in the shadow of clouds. A sudden, musky scent surrounded him like heady incense, making his blood race. Usually the men he associated with smelled of expensive perfumed soaps and toilet waters. This wrecker did not smell like a dandy at all, and the effect was thoroughly unsettling. Rief smelled of sea and sweat.

  Of pure man.

  “Ho, Rief!” a gruff voice shouted, startling them both. “Get your arse over here!”

  Breathing easier with a respite from the impolite gaze, Mathew turned to see who had yelled, his crutch and sore leg making the maneuver ungraceful and difficult.

  A large man stalked toward them. Though his hair and eyes were darker, and his build much wider, his remarkable similarity to Rief told Mathew this must be the brother he’d mentioned.

  Rief braced himself to greet the newcomer, feet apart and chin held high. Mathew found his intimidating posture extremely appealing.

  If only he could stand his ground against Father with as much courage.

  “I been lookin’ all over for ya,” the brother growled.

  “Been right here.” The anger and embarrassment on Rief’s face was like looking into the secret place of Mathew’s soul. How many times had he felt those exact emotions when dealing with Father yet been too afraid to allow them to have sway?

  “Well c’mon, then. We got a wreck to salvage, and I need your arse back in the water.” The man raked Mathew with a contemptuous glare, then turned on his heels.

  “I see what you mean,” Mathew observed. “He talks to you as if he were your schoolmaster.”

  Rief’s anger dissipated so fast Mathew had a hard time recalling if it had been real. A wide toothy grin broke across his face, a shock of white on tawny features. The smile traveled to his sinfully lashed eyes and dimpled his one cheek, completely altering his features and making Mathew’s knees turn to pudding.

  Thank goodness he had a crutch to lean on!

  “I hope we see each other again,” Rief said, his tone liquid fire on Mathew’s spine.

  Somehow he managed a reply before the man walked away. “Yes, as do I.”

  Chapter Three

  “Friendship at first sight, like love at first sight, is said to be the only truth.”

  —Herman Melville; an American novelist, 1819-1891

  Later that evening, one of the Sara Ann’s anchors dragged. The rigging off-loading the cotton collapsed, sinking two bales and knocking a man into the sea. It had been a terrible moment as she began to drift toward the reef, collision with the Lucky Clipper imminent. Just in time, they dropped another anchor and prevented her from striking. Thankfully, the man who fell overboard was uninjured and back to work moments after.

  Mathew watched the entire event unfold from his seat on the Mirabella’s forecastle, out of the way of the men working. Despite Father’s and Torino’s complaints, Mathew was quite impressed with the willingness of these wreckers to put their lives on the line and the expert skill they seemed to possess.

  Indeed, they must be the heartiest seamen in all the oceans.

  Maggie had left him to check on an exhausted Mrs. Cohen, and he relished the reprieve from company almost more than the fresh air in his face. Sometimes he could scarcely hear himself think cramped on a ship with naught to talk to but Maggie.

  In the fading daylight, three half-naked black divers were treading water near the hole cut into the hull of the Lucky Clipper. Two seemed to be working as a team, one tying a rope to his waist while the other held the end. The third fellow held the rope for what Mathew assumed was another diver already underwater. When the fourth head popped up, he was a bit surprised to see a white face among the black ones. The diver turned, and Mathew’s heart skipped several beats.

  Rief!

  Thrilled at a chance to spy on him, he fixed the spyglass on Rief and drank his fill of the shirtless figure, trying to commit the man’s tanned, well-chiseled body to memory for when he had a moment alone with his cock.

  Gad, he really was hopeless.

  After surfacing, Rief took his turn holding the rope as his partner dove. The diver stayed under an extraordinary length of time. Every now and then, a barrel would surface, sometimes two, while wreckers waited in quarter boats with hooks to retrieve the goods. When the diver eventually surfaced, Rief dove again. It went on like that for over an hour, and each time Mathew found himself holding his own breath, anxious until Rief surfaced.

  Amazed by Rief’s skill in the water, Mathew timed him at an average of almost four minutes per dive. It was no wonder Rief had been able to brave the treacherous sea and save his life. Witnessing such athletic prowess made his heart pound, along with other parts of his anatomy.

  When the evening approached and visibility underwater had to be near impossible, Rief and the three divers finished. His strong, muscular back glistened in the setting sun as he hoisted himself into a quarter boat. Mathew’s hands actually shook as he tried to keep the spyglass locked on Rief.

  “Oh, there you are!”

  Maggie’s voice startled him and he jumped, grateful the waning daylight concealed his flush of embarrassment.

  “Ho there, Mags,” he said with a hasty grin and a nod at the old woman with her. “Good evening, Mrs. Cohen. I am glad to see you up and well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Weston. And a good evening to you too.” Mrs. Cohen’s gray hair was tucked neatly under her bonnet, and her black widow’s dress fluttered in the evening breeze.

  Maggie leaned over for a chaste kiss on her cheek, which Mathew obliged. “Someone has made dinner. You need to eat.”

  Though he didn’t like her bossing him—it was just her way of taking care of people—his rumbling stomach wouldn’t allow for argument. He tucked away the spyglass and managed to get to his feet. “Lead the way, old gal.”

  Mrs. Cohen gasped.

  Maggie waved off her shock. “Oh, pish
posh, he’s talking to me, not you.”

  “Not a very polite thing to call one’s intended,” she muttered under her breath.

  The young couple shared a look, and Maggie rolled her eyes. They had been friends for so long, it was hard to take the leap into behaving as a fiancé, and they were often scolded by the woman for being too casual with each other.

  The support of Maggie’s arm and his crutch kept his gait straight as they joined the crew near the scuttlebutt. Mathew was more tired than he wanted her to know, the fever having left him weakened. The cook had made a batch of turtle chowder, cooking it right in the shell. Apparently a couple of turtlers from one of the wreckers had fashioned a kraal, or netted pen, where they’d trapped several of the large sea creatures earlier in the day, knowing the hardworking men would need to be fed.

  Grateful for such foresight, Mathew filed in line behind sailors lured away from the wreck by the delicious aroma. He heard another quarter boat being hoisted from the sea behind him, the men aboard declaring how famished they were.

  “Thank you, sir,” Mathew said, accepting a bowl.

  The cook grinned, a flash of crooked white teeth against ebony skin. “Ya’s verra welcome, sir.” He added something Mathew couldn’t make out due to a heavy island accent, but the tone had been polite, so he smiled as if he understood.

  “Are we really expected to eat this?” With a curled lip, Maggie scooped a bit of chowder and watched it drop back into the bowl.

  Embarrassed by her impoliteness, Mathew frowned. “Show some gratitude, dearest.”

  She gaped at him for a moment, her mouth opening and closing. Then the temperamental girl stomped her foot, her black curls bobbing. “You do not need to be so cross with me. I don’t like it, Matty. Not one bit!”

  She shoved the bowl at him, splashing hot soup on his shirt. Faltering on the crutch, he struggled not to drop both bowls or fall on his arse.

  He cursed as the hot chowder burned his stomach.

  “You can eat your dinner by yourself. See how you like that. Come, Mrs. Cohen. I am feeling tired.” With that, she twirled around and headed into the cabin. The old woman followed, smart enough to keep her own dinner.

  The rumble of male laughter filled the evening air. Flustered, Mathew tried to chuckle as he handed his fiancée’s uneaten food back to the cook.

  “Might be gettin’ to eat in peace now,” one of the men said.

  “Enjoy it while ya can,” another teased.

  Savoring the rare male camaraderie and once sure Maggie was far enough away not to hear him, Mathew said, “There was a little girl with a curl. When she was good she was very good and when she was bad she was horrid.”

  The apt childhood nursery rhyme elicited quite a few chuckles.

  “Aye, aye, it’s dem ones wit’ curly hair ya gotta be watchin’ out fer,” the first sailor agreed. “The Devil’s what makes dat hair curl up so tight.”

  “I would have to agree,” Mathew said with a sniff. He felt only a little guilty about mocking his fiancée. She could be quite rotten when she didn’t get what she wanted, but never so much so as when he pointed out her unladylike behavior. In reality, guilt made her so upset, which was why he always forgave these little snits.

  “Oh, but it all be heaven when ya get to the curly hairs between their thighs,” the second sailor said with a longing sigh.

  Several men cackled.

  Their laughter should’ve offended Mathew since they were discussing Maggie, but he knew it was how men, especially seamen, talked. And per his usual, such conversation just made him awkward and embarrassed.

  “Gentlemen, I shall leave you to your meals, then. Good evening.” He forced a smile, the way he always did when faced with these situations, then made his escape.

  The cook offered to carry his bowl and ale, to which Mathew was quite grateful, for the crutch had become a burden. He hobbled back to his secluded spot on deck, a place surrounded by nets and barrels. Careful not to overexert his leg, he eased into a sit on the hard deck, wondering how much his body would ache if he slept out here all night. But he was so tired, he didn’t really care. At least the air would be fresher than in the cabin.

  Once settled, the cook handed him the mug and bowl. “There’s ya be, young sir.”

  Mathew regarded the cook for a moment, wondering if he was a slave or a free man. Feeling a pitying kinship to the stranger, he smiled. “I thank you, good sir. Your hospitality is much appreciated. And I do apologize for any offense my fiancée may have perpetrated. I am sure your cooking is quite superior.”

  The man gave him a quizzical smile. “Pay no nevermind ta dat, sir.” He nodded a few times, then looked behind Mathew. “Tough one out dere taday?”

  “Aye, it was,” a tired voice said from the shadows.

  “You’s want some chowda?”

  “That would be wonderful, Hezekiah. Thank you.”

  Mathew nearly choked on his ale. Eyes burning, he struggled to turn around and not spill his dinner in his lap. Not five feet behind him, reclining on a pile of what appeared to be fishing nets, sat Rief Lawson.

  Mathew’s heart raced as the cook left.

  In such a hurry to get away from the sailors before the conversation became more colorful, he had not even seen the man. Rief was still wet, glistening like Adonis in the light of the pink and red streaks in the sky and the golden flicker from the lanterns. He must have been on the quarter boat Mathew heard earlier.

  What should he say? Would they talk? Should he get up and leave? No, he couldn’t do that. It would look suspicious. Besides, he’d overdone it today, not wanting to appear weakened, and his leg ached and his armpit felt bruised from the crutch. If he attempted to stand now, he would look like the buffoon Father had named him. But he couldn’t just sit there like a mute simpleton either. A normal man would just say “hello.”

  Then say hello and stop analyzing everything in your head, fool!

  Endeavoring to appear casual, he set his dinner beside him and wrestled with his leg until he found a comfortable place to face the man. Clearing his throat, he raised his ale in Rief’s direction. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Evening.” His bronzed complexion, dusted with a day’s growth of beard, was more heavenly than Mathew recalled.

  The cook returned with food and drink for Rief. After another exchange of appreciation, he left the two of them alone. Without hesitation, Rief began to shovel the soup in, like a man half-starved.

  “I never got a chance to thank you for saving my life. Mr...?” He paused, waiting to hear a name he’d been thinking about all day.

  “Rief Lawson,” the man supplied around a mouthful.

  He’d deduced that Rief was a Lawson after Mr. Kirkwood introduced him to the wreck master, the brother who’d demanded Rief’s attention earlier. “Thank you very much for saving me, Mr. Lawson. I’m in your debt.”

  Eyes wide, as if startled or embarrassed, Rief wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re welcome.”

  “My name is Mathew Weston,” he offered.

  “I know.”

  Pleased, he watched Rief take a long swallow of ale, loving the sensual way his throat muscles moved. Visions of the man swallowing something else accosted him, making his groin heavy. “If I can do anything to repay you at all, Mr. Lawson, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  He offered a small smile. “No need for that. I’m just glad I was there and that you’re okay.”

  “As am I.”

  Having no idea what else to say, Mathew took a few bites of food, the burst of rich flavor surprising him. The cook was extremely talented. The stew was delicious. Maggie should’ve tasted it before passing judgment.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched Rief set aside his empty dishes and pick up a pencil and a book. Since he didn’t seem inclined to chat any longer, Mathew finished his meal.

  The sounds of the sea and ships at night surrounded them. The pump still ran, but now he barely noticed the noise.
There were occasional shouts and answering calls from the men still loading cargo by the light of oil lanterns and the moon. Though most had taken a small break to fill their bellies and spin a few yarns, it seemed the wreckers intended to work through the night, ever diligent and tireless in their pursuits. Rigging rattled above and the flap of a sail played in rhythm with the splash of water on the hull. Whispered conversation and the laughter of the men on board the Mirabella created a peaceful backdrop, similar echoes drifting across the water from the other vessels.

  Rather than feeling awkward by the lack of conversation, Mathew felt content in Rief’s company. Like old friends who did not need to fill the air with useless chatter. Somewhere, on one of the other wreckers, the soft chords of harmonica music wafted over followed by twang of a Jew’s harp.

  A bellyful of warm stew coupled with the long day and exhaustion had taken its toll on Mathew. Aided by the strong ale, his joints began to loosen, and his inhibitions fell away. Tension in his neck uncoiled and his leg ceased to throb.

  Against his better judgment, he used the privacy of semidarkness to examine Rief.

  The sun had dipped below the horizon, the shadows highlighting every detail of Rief’s exposed chest. A chest so sharp and muscular... so much darker than his own. More hairy, more sculpted... just more.

  Savoring the warmth of budding arousal, his eyes swept Rief’s skin the way his hands longed to do, following the intriguing line of hair traveling from the navel to below his cut-off trousers. What he wouldn’t give to run his tongue along those hairs, dipping lower to—

  Face heating, he turned away. What was the matter with him?

  One mug of ale and he gaped openly at a man, wearing desire as plainly as the crooked nose upon his face! He shifted his injured leg in an effort to conceal his erection.

  Thank God, Rief had not been looking at him! Rather, he was writing on his paper as if Mathew did not exist. And why should he look at Mathew? He had no reason to stare at another man in the same fashion one should reserve for women. He was damn lucky Rief hadn’t noticed and tossed him overboard. Such a punishment would be tolerable, he supposed, if that was all that happened. Back home, men faced trial at the Old Bailey, imprisonment, exhibition in the pillory, or even a hanging at Newgate for crimes related to sodomy.