Wrecked

by Deanna Wadsworth

  Thankfully the inn remained silent.

  The louvered shutters had been opened after nightfall to invite cooler air inside, bringing with it the scents he had come to recognize as that of a seaport town. Fish, salt, and earth mingled with the sweet scent of the white blossoms still dotting the abundant lime trees. Odd in a way, but invigorating in its rawness. He inhaled deeply the early morning air, and like a draught of the finest spirits, it calmed him, staying his racing heart. The faint hint of smoke lingered in his room, and with chagrin, he realized the source was the candle on the night stand. Had he forgotten to extinguish it last night?

  What is the matter with you?

  It had been six days since he’d seen Rief, but their all too brief encounters had left Mathew wrecked, both physically and mentally. His dreams kept getting stronger too, more lurid. He had not woken up covered in semen since sexual thoughts first teased his imagination as a young man. How could one conversation render him so lost? Was he really that lonely? So desperate for male companionship, he would form an attachment to a total stranger?

  When he’d awakened aboard the Mirabella to find Rief gone, he’d been relieved and disappointed. Thankfully, the rush to be out with the tide had prevented Mathew from finding him and saying or doing anything to expose himself further.

  Surely he had already revealed too much.

  With the winds in their favor, it did not take long to sail to Key West. The sojourn had been quite uneventful, other than enduring Maggie’s endless chatter. She’d readily forgiven him for scolding her, as he’d known she would. Captain Bauman had allowed Mathew to take inventory of everything aboard the Sara Ann. He’d gone over the Lucky Clipper’s manifest too, wanting a well-prepared account of all their goods when the wreckers returned everything to Key West. While busy hands during the day kept thoughts of Rief at a distance, at night he could not stop them from leaving him in various states of arousal, embarrassment, and irritation.

  Being a student of thought and higher learning, he tried to approach this new obsession logically. It could be some sort of hero worship. Rief represented every masculine quality and athletic endeavor Mathew had never been able to live up to himself. Naturally, he would admire such an epitome of courage and manliness. Not to mention, Rief was extremely attractive. That dimple on his left cheek when he smiled, his tousled hair, and those eyes....

  “Stop it!” Scratching his scalp, he pushed aside the images before he got himself so worked up he would need to take himself in hand again. An old schoolmaster had told him once that playing with your cock too much caused blindness. He doubted that very much, but he was beginning to wonder if doing so while dreaming of shirtless sailors might drive him mad.

  Splashing water on his face, he examined his reflection in the gilded mirror on the wall. His blue eyes no longer bore the signs of saltwater irritation, and the sun had lightened his blond hair and brought out a few freckles. Aside from his slightly crooked nose, which no amount of pushing or pinching had ever straightened, he thought he looked just like every other man.

  Nothing special. Nothing strange.

  But he was not like other men. He had far more in common—much to his constant vexation—with women. The words Rief had said in the dream made his stomach ache.

  Everyone knows you’re like a woman.

  Since a young age, he’d known he was different, and it scared the hell out of him that others could sense it too. What if someone discovered the truth? He didn’t want to be publically shamed or locked in a pillory so people could throw trash at him for being a molly.

  “Molly,” he muttered.

  Damn, he hated that word too.

  Someone had called him that at primary school once. Not understanding the insult, he’d asked James Meriwether.

  “They’re men that wear dresses and like to get buggered by other men,” James had said with all the authority of eleven years. “They kiss men too, and even take money to play with your willy.”

  Mathew had been horrified. He didn’t want to wear a dress, and he certainly didn’t want a man to bugger him. Just the notion of shoving something in his backside sounded extremely unpleasant, like a punishment.

  Of course, he couldn’t deny the powerful desire to do the other things James mentioned—like kiss a man or touch his private parts.

  A shimmer of desire trickled over him, and he dropped his head with a groan.

  Why couldn’t he stop this?

  Hopefully if he never saw that wrecker again, he could regain his self-control and willpower. Because Mathew would be dammed if he ended up in prison, ruining his life before it had even begun, just for sex.

  The private things he fantasized about, no one ever need know about.

  The cries of roosters announced the start of the day, harkening a chance to concentrate on the business and escape the loneliness tormenting him. Another ship bearing more of their cargo had arrived late last night. So far, two ships besides the Sara Ann had returned to port. His hopes were high that they might recover more cargo than originally estimated.

  After washing up quickly with a sponge and water, Mathew set aside his soiled nightshirt for the laundress to pick up along with his other dirty clothes. He prayed that servants on this continent had the same discretion as the ones back home.

  He loved the new trend of pairing contrasting prints and dressed in beige plaid trousers, a white linen shirt, and a sapphire-colored checked vest—one of several he’d had made-to-measure in New Orleans. Tying his black silk tie into a perfect horizontal bow over the high collar, he was thrilled the wreckers had saved all his trunks of clothing, hats, and shoes. Replacing the bespoke items would’ve been extremely costly, and he would’ve hated to see the one indulgence he’d allowed himself at the bottom of the ocean.

  Father had been disgusted when he’d seen all Mathew’s tailor-made clothes, calling him a dandy to rival Beau Brummell, the infamous fashion arbitrator and deceased friend of King George.

  Mathew had considered it a compliment, though he knew Father had not meant it as one.

  Favorite plush top hat in hand—the black silk one with a flared top and swooping brim—he donned his lightest weight frockcoat and headed for Maggie’s chambers to let her know he would not return from the marina until after tea. He’d arranged for the ladies to be just down the hall from him in the largest suite. Two bedrooms, no doubt designed for a married couple, sat on either end of a large private parlor with a piano, several bookshelves, and a few comfortable chairs. Mathew and Maggie agreed the suite was on the plain side and could use some art, but the book collection more than made up for what it lacked in style.

  “Maggie?” He knocked on the door and popped his head inside. North facing windows let in perfectly diffused light without the glare.

  The woman who owned the inn was straightening the room. “May I help ya, Mr. Weston?” She was plump, with salt-and-pepper hair and round cheeks made rosy from the sun.

  “I am trying to locate my fiancée.”

  “Oh, she went down to read on the veranda.”

  “Naturally.”

  Maggie adored reading. Whether romances full of murder and drama, like the works of Shelly and Poe, or the love stories of the Bronté sisters, she was always reading something. Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter was a particular favorite, though the injustice against Hester had outraged her for months. They had actually seen the author at a party, but Maggie had been too nervous to meet him, so they’d lingered near the edge of his circle of admirers, hoping to overhear something especially poignant.

  While some deemed such works inappropriate for ladies, Mathew gave all of his books to Maggie because he liked her clever perspective. They had been surprised and thrilled to see so many contemporary works at the inn.

  “I have been meaning to compliment you on your extensive library, madam. Are you a book collector?”

  “Nay, plenty of ships’ll wreck that’re full of books. I dry ’em out and put ’em up on the shelf. Buy
’em at the auctions for next to nuthin’. Reckon I’ve got the best library in town. Too bad I’ve gotta sell ’em all with the inn.”

  “You are selling the inn?”

  “Yup. Husband died,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Gonna move back up with my sister in New York. If ya hear of any buyers, make sure ya send ’em my way.”

  “Certainly,” he said, then excused himself.

  It seemed odd these course folks had so much wealth, things like libraries, gilded mirrors, fine china, and silks and fabrics of superior quality. Apparently a ship full of pianos wrecked once too and now everyone on the island was a musician. He’d learned yesterday that the town of Key West was the richest city in the entire country per capita, all because of the bounty from salvaging. With nearly one a week, exotic wares that had been destined for better places filled the stores and homes.

  Nose buried in a novel, Maggie was just outside with her companion. The morning was as crisp and lovely as the well-manicured trees and shrubs growing on the edges of the veranda.

  When Maggie spied him, she smiled and held out her cheek for a kiss. “Good morning, Matty.”

  “Good morning.” He gave her other cheek the same affection, then eyed her book with a scowl. “Another vapid Austen novel? Honestly, Mags, how can you not tire of those?”

  With a superior air, Maggie displayed the spine. “I rather like Ms. Austen’s Emma. I think if she were real, she and I would be bosom friends.”

  “Or you would hate her because she is too similar to you,” he countered. He’d read the book and had gotten quite exhausted halfway through the exploits of the spoilt matchmaker—he didn’t need to read about the very girl he was marrying. He was often grateful he was engaged to Maggie, or she, like that silly heroine, would be matchmaking him with any number of her title-seeking friends.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Cohen,” he said to the old woman.

  Though she gave him a sweet smile and returned to her needlepoint, Mathew could feel the watchful eyes of an experienced chaperone honed in on his every move.

  If she only knew how futile her endeavors to ensure the chastity of her charge were.

  “I have business this morning at the wharf again,” he said. “I trust you ladies can occupy yourselves until I return at tea?”

  “Indeed,” the old woman said. “We’ll be right here, resting and reading.”

  “Oh pishposh, Mrs. Cohn. We shall go with Matty,” Maggie announced, placing her book to the side. “This town has a ship’s chandlery and a shop on every corner. I want to visit them all. They have some of the most wonderful goods. Why, the prices are so reasonable I might have to purchase new trunks to fit everything.”

  Having more important things to do than visiting ship’s stores or shopping for new dresses and shoes, he said, “Not today, Mags. I have business—”

  “After your business, we will go back to The Emporium,” she interrupted. “The store with the bolt of lavender silk which complemented your eyes. You will have a vest made of it.”

  Not amused, he scowled. “I told you, that fabric is for a lady’s dress, not a man’s vest.”

  “Oh pishposh.” She waved him off. “What you are wearing now is as bright as a peacock. Why wouldn’t you wear lavender?”

  Knowing his attire was perfectly fashionable, he straightened the wide lapels of his frock coat. “You’re impossible, Margaret. This vest is practically Cambridge blue.”

  “When we are in London for the season, you will have a lavender vest and I shall match the ribbons in my bonnet. We will make quite a pair. Everyone will be envious.”

  “Whatever you say, dearest.” He sighed, knowing what Maggie wanted she usually got. Guilt over his own shortcomings never gave him the courage to deny her.

  He was comfortable with Maggie, despite her silly ways and selfish streak. She was his closest friend, and they enjoyed many of the same things, books, music, and museums. And she had a particularly sharp wit that always amused him. He supposed their marriage would be amicable, in the very least. He wondered how she would react, however, if he ever allowed her to meet the real Mathew.

  Would his free-spirited fiancée name him a sinner and hate him?

  As he waited in the foyer for the ladies to fetch their bonnets and other feminine paraphernalia, the thought crossed his mind, not for the first time, of pouring his heart out to Maggie. Telling her the truth about this never-ending, solitary struggle. He was so very damn tired of being surrounded by people yet feeling so utterly alone.

  Weary in mind and spirit, he leaned against the wall and toyed with the brim of his top hat. How long could he keep fighting with himself in this manner? If he felt this way now, what sort of insanity would he suffer from if it continued?

  Before melancholy consumed him, Maggie announced they were ready to accompany him—a half an hour after he’d intended to leave. Since their arrival in Key West, she had not taken his time seriously, insisting on behaving as if this were a holiday.

  Burying his irritation, he popped his hat on his head and offered Maggie an arm. The town of Key West was well laid out, and some of the homes on the coconut tree lined streets were quite desirable, many having verandas like the inn. The continuous sea breeze rendered the overly warm temperatures rather delightful, and he hoped a little exercise would ease some of his anxiety—at least for the afternoon. The wharf was a fair distance down Duval Street, so he was glad his leg had healed and he no longer needed crutch or cane. The scar, on the other hand, would be with him the rest of his life.

  “The innkeeper woman said the chickens were left behind in the fifteenth century by Spanish sailors,” Maggie said when a small group of scrawny fowl darted across their path. “They wanted to find food when they traveled back this way from Mexico. They just might be the oldest lineage of chickens in the world.”

  “Fascinating.” He allowed his sarcasm to show.

  “You seem cross.”

  “I apologize, dearest,” he said, forcing a smile. “The business with the ship and the wreckers has my mind elsewhere.”

  “It will be much better when Papa returns. He’ll take care of everything, and you won’t have to worry so much.”

  Words meant to reassure felt like a slap in the face. He was a Cambridge man, for Christ’s sake, not a fancy parasol designed to complement Maggie’s wardrobe. He had just as much at stake in this ruined business venture as the other men.

  So why couldn’t they see him as an equal?

  As a man?

  If he were more like Rief Lawson, a real man, he wouldn’t allow Maggie to make decisions for him—like ordering a vest made of that hideous lavender silk. If he were more of a man, he wouldn’t allow Father to talk to him as if he were a simpleton, either.

  Then again, what kind of man played with his twiddle-diddles while dreaming about other men?

  Frustrated, Mathew remained quiet for several blocks, allowing Maggie’s chatter to fill in the air. A hazy cloud cover filled the morning sky, keeping the harsh sun at bay. Ahead of them the towering, airy wooden structures that the wreckers used to survey the reef from all directions protruded from the mist, mighty sentinels. Pushing aside his pointless worries, he concentrated on the work at hand. Everything needed to be in perfect order when Father and Mr. Kirkwood returned.

  The wharf was already bustling with activity when they arrived. Large wooden docks had been constructed for the convenience of the schooners and fishing smacks constantly traveling in and out of the port. The island supplied only limited food for its inhabitants, so most of the groceries were imported from Cuba or mainland Florida. Some plots had been set aside in town for cultivation, but Mathew had been given the impression that they did not produce overmuch. Wheeling gulls flew overhead, their cries and the stink of fish, salt, and sweat accompanying the busy sounds of the waterfront. Small flies buzzed in and around his ears, but the wind from the ocean kept them from becoming a true nuisance. Littering the harbor, the masts of the moored ships looked
like pillars in a blue pasture.

  Weary of his companions, he unhooked Maggie’s arm and gestured to a bench near one of the chandleries that supplied the materials a crew might need while in port. “Ladies, you will wait here. I will return momentarily.”

  Not allowing a chance to argue, Mathew walked away, grateful they did not follow.

  Where the will is strong enough to command, obedience will follow, he supposed.

  “Good morning,” he greeted one of the sailors disembarking the wrecking sloop Josephine. When he inquired after the captain, the fellow pointed behind him. Mathew headed toward the man he indicated.

  After a brief introduction, he found Captain English to be most helpful.

  “Any word on the progress of the salvage?” Mathew inquired.

  “’Tis going purty well as ’spected. Haven’t kedged her off yet, but the cargo is coming off without overmuch problem.”

  “That is good,” Mathew said, eyes following the progress of the cotton offloaded with winches and lines.

  “Should be done within the next day or so,” Captain English assured him. He handed over the manifest and custom forms, and once more Mathew was impressed with the professionalism of these rough-speaking men. He had an excellent head for numbers, and after double-checking the inventory of this latest arrival, he would file it with the customshouse. One could not trust the math and accounting of others, not when money was on the line.

  That much he had learned from Father.

  “Will the ship be able to sail back to Key West?” Mathew wanted to know.

  “Nay, probably warp her back to town.”

  “Warp? I apologize, but I am not familiar with that term,” he told the captain, grateful Father was not there to belittle his ignorance.

  “Lucky Clipper’s too damaged ta sail, ’less ya want her to have a long visit with Davey Jones. Capt’n Lawson’s gonna drag her back to Key West.”

  “How?”

  “A couple men’ll take two anchors ahead in quarter boats and set ’em. Thataway the crew can pull yer ship forward. It’ll go on like that again and again, till they get her to port.”