Wrecked

by Deanna Wadsworth

  “Oh yes, they will.” Mr. Kirkwood chuckled. Behind his genial personality lay a shrewd businessman and the source of Maggie’s cleverness. “I know we shall have to pay something, but I will be dammed if it is what they are expecting.”

  Though upset by the loss, he recalled the awe he’d experienced watching the wreckers work. How was it justice to blame those men for this debacle of an auction? While the dishonesty and greed of businessmen seemed to be a universal truth, Rief had been right when he said the hearty seamen of the Keys were not crooks.

  So why punish the men who saved their lives?

  Guilt filled Mathew when he realized he had unjustly grouped Rief in with the merchants of Key West, much the way Mr. Kirkwood intended to do. He’d been so upset when Rief compared him to a little girl that he’d thrown out accusations born of sheer humiliation and disgust at his own shortcomings. He wished he could apologize, but feared he might not get a chance. He could ask Chambers for his nephew’s whereabouts, but what if Rief regretted the kiss? Or worse... what if he was so angry over what Mathew had said about the wreckers he never wanted to see him again?

  “I won’t stand for this,” Father hissed. He had gained a healthy color on their travels, but his face was now an ugly shade of red. “When we go before Judge Marvin, I will have Chambers arrested and Lawson Salvage’s license revoked! I will find a way to ruin them after what they cost me.” His gaze raked over Mathew. “Every man has secrets. One only need find out what they are, and fear of exposure will take care of the rest.”

  Face hot, Mathew turned his attention to the area where buyers were paying for their goods, his heart pounding as he assured himself Father might have suspicions, but he could not know about the kiss.

  “I would be careful who you harass,” Mr. Fairfield warned.

  “Is that a threat?” Father asked in a controlled voice.

  The merchant laughed. “Oh, most certainly not, my lord. Aren’t you familiar with the stories they say of the Lawsons?”

  Mathew’s ears perked up. “What stories?”

  Mr. Fairfield’s turned his full attention to Mathew, a flirtatious twinkle in his eyes. “They say their mother was mad, and the youngest son is mad as well.”

  “It is hardly an issue,” Mr. Kirkwood said flippantly. “We already know these men are the lowest of low.”

  “Yes, but the youngest son is cursed with black magic.”

  Naturally, that caught Maggie’s attention. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Fairfield?”

  “People say he can draw the future.”

  “That is preposterous.” Mr. Kirkwood laughed out loud. “Let me guess, might his name be Fedallah?”

  While Maggie congratulated her father’s jest with a laugh, Mathew could not summon any appreciation for the literary humor.

  They were talking about Rief.

  “It is what people say,” Mr. Fairfield went on, toying with his shirtsleeve as if something there suddenly held great interest for him. “Just ask Judge Marvin’s assistant, John Bunden.”

  Though he recognized a storyteller’s trick to excite his listeners through delay, Mathew all but demanded, “What would this man say?”

  Obviously thrilled to be the center of attention, Mr. Fairfield gently touched his arm. “John paid the boy a nickel to do a likeness of his fiancée. Apparently, Rief was a gifted artist, even as a child.”

  “Rief? Isn’t that the man who saved you, Matty? The one you were going to hire to do my portrait?”

  “Yes,” he managed, a flash of guilt prickling his scalp.

  Mr. Fairfield’s brows shot up, and he placed his hand on Mathew’s arm once more. “I would advise caution, Mr. Weston.”

  Mathew frowned at the continued touching and shifted away. Good gracious, the man was forward!

  “Why?” Maggie cried, caught up in the drama as if it were one of her books.

  Blessedly picking up on Mathew’s disinterest, Mr. Fairfield looked at her. “Because when poor John received his drawing, Rief Lawson had drawn his fiancée dead in a casket!”

  Maggie gasped, then tittered with laughter. “Oh, Mr. Fairfield, you are teasing us!”

  “I am not teasing, m’lady. John was so upset he tore it up and took back his nickel. But that is not where the story ends.” Leaning forward, he widened his eyes dramatically. “Three days later, the girl died in a carriage accident. When John demanded how Rief had known, the boy’s reply was simple. ‘Sometimes I just know.’”

  “That is merely a coincidence,” Maggie said, laughing uncomfortably. “Don’t you think so, Matty?”

  His throat tightened, but he forced a smile. “Yes, of course.”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Fairfield said with a shrug. “But they say, with one touch, Rief can see how a person dies. And, if he draws you, you will be dead in three days.”

  Father curled his lip at the merchant. “Have you been drinking, man?”

  “Not one drop,” Mr. Fairfield insisted, fiddling with his stylish bowtie.

  Rief’s words came back to Mathew then: There’s very little one can do to convince people of something they’ve already decided to dislike you for.

  Could this possibly be what he meant?

  Mrs. Mabrity had told Rief it was best if he stopped his “drawing nonsense,” and Rief’s uncle had warned Mathew to stay away. Even Rief had been uncomfortable sharing his artwork, as if waiting for judgment. While he did not believe Mr. Fairfield’s nonsensical story, he wasn’t surprised superstitious people might shun Rief, believing him to be cursed. These uneducated seamen and rustic types were so immersed in old wives’ tales that often logic and science held no place in their lives. Mathew had assumed the dark depression in Rief’s beautiful eyes was due to their shared secret, but apparently there was more to the man’s story.

  Would Mathew ever get the chance to learn what it was?

  “Do you believe such rumors, Mr. Fairfield?” Maggie asked.

  “I am not entirely sure, Miss Kirkwood, but the people in this town avoid Rief Lawson most avidly. His own family won’t live with him, for fear he might cause their deaths.” Eyes wide, he pointed to the ceiling and whispered, “He lives in the loft of this very warehouse, all alone with his madness.”

  As if the man were telling tales of Quasimodo, Maggie gasped. “Right here? How frightening! And to think, we actually spoke to him. Can you believe it, Matty?”

  His knees threatened to give out, and he couldn’t respond.

  Rief lived here?

  Though he wanted to defend Rief, declare him a good person who saved his life and denounce the story as utter nonsense, his mind whirled.

  All this time, Rief had been right here.

  If Mathew wanted, he could go to him this very instant.

  But what would he say? Apologize for naming him a thief? Tell him that he’d heard fantastic tales of his fortunetelling abilities?

  Or could Mathew be bold enough to do what he really wanted and rekindle that kiss?

  Chapter Seven

  “A feeling of sadness and longing, that is not akin to pain, and resembled sorrow only as mist resembles the rain.”

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; The Day is Done St. 3, 1845

  “I should destroy it.”

  Sprawled out on the table beside the easel, purring with the kind of contentment Rief could not begin to fathom, Sully didn’t look up.

  “You’re no help, cat,” he told the animal.

  A large wall of northerly windows revealed a dark, cloudy sky. Not even a storm could hide his latest creation. Studying the painting with a mixture of self-loathing, pride, and arousal, he scowled.

  If Mathew didn’t hate him for being a wrecker, he would hate him if he ever saw this painting. He should destroy it, along with all the other artwork before anyone discovered it. If this were ever seen, he would be named a pervert as well as an abomination.

  In his house, surrounded by the comforting smells of his passion, his curse, the pungent scent of paint, l
inseed oil, wood, and salt suffused the air. Canvases and charcoal sketches littered almost every surface—the ordered chaos of Rief’s mind, the fragrance of art, and all its painful and fulfilling moments.

  Even in this place, he was alone.

  Inanimate drawings of a man and a cat were a poor substitute for trust and succor from someone who cared about him.

  Over the years, Rief had become very adept at picking up on the subtle nuances of attraction between men. It was a dangerous game one had to get good at if he wanted to survive long enough to steal a few moments of pleasure and imagined affection. And there had been no mistaking the hunger Mathew wore far too plainly on his face. Rief had foolishly imagined that something might come of their mutual attraction, instead they had fought.

  Ahhh, but then the kiss....

  A burst of arousal went through him as he remembered it. The way Mathew had grabbed his shirt, plunging his tongue inside his mouth and taking charge. Thrusting his hard cock against him. It had been so long since anyone had touched Rief with anything akin to real passion that afterward, he hadn’t been in his right mind. Like a coward, he’d fled, almost taking measures into his own hand in the bushes. As it was, he had to tuck the tip of his prick into his waistband like an adolescent boy just to make it past Mrs. Mabrity.

  Upon his return home, he’d locked himself inside his studio and painted like a fiend—the art his only source of comfort, the balm for his troubled soul.

  Since Dad’s death he hadn’t painted anything. Sure, he would sketch, but none of those charcoal lines found their way onto a canvas. Drawing was a soothing pastime, something simple. But to paint, that was much more permanent.

  So very intimate.

  With no other thought but his creation, Rief hadn’t even stopped to eat. Sheer exhausting terror and joy had consumed him. The painting had taken on a life of its own as he’d worked, the brushes and his fingers merely wiping away the whiteness of the canvas to reveal what was already there. His mind moved the brush, shaping the images, putting every color in place. He hadn’t needed to reference the other drawings of Mathew. His heart and hand had known the way around the canvas like a man returning to his home could find his way around in the dark. They had known where to place every line. How to blend each color. Drawing each eyelash with tender care. Shading the lips from memory—lips too pouty and pink to belong to a man.

  Yet as much as he knew Mathew’s image, he had not known the sound of his laughter. The lilt of his voice. The high-and-mighty way he held his posture, which Rief found incredibly adorable. Or the shy way his mouth turned up in a half smile that made Rief melt inside and harden everywhere on the outside.

  Naked to the waist, Rief set his palette down and stared at the unfinished work. It still needed some adjustments, a shadow or a highlight here and there. And the background wasn’t quite right either, but he would have to wait for the paint to dry to correct it. Even at this stage, it was a painting both wicked and alluring. The most beautiful thing he had ever done.

  How could he think of destroying it?

  A painful surge of want hit him, making his eyes sting. He’d been drawing Mathew most of his life, loving his image, and finding comfort therein. Even pleasuring himself to it, he was embarrassed to admit. The countless drawings of Mathew had been the one constant in his life. A bright spot in an otherwise wretched existence.

  Yet the moment he met the real man, his own pride had ruined everything!

  Knocking on the door startled him.

  Probably Uncle Richard again, telling him the Lucky Clipper had returned to port. Or worse—looking for an explanation as to why Rief has skipped the auction and hadn’t been answering the door. The man had been so strange lately, acting as if he had something of great importance to discuss. But Rief had too much on his own mind to bother with what might be on his uncle’s.

  “Go away, Richard.”

  “Um, it’s Mathew, um—Mr. Weston.”

  A long, resonant roll of thunder rumbled in the night, sending a wash of apprehension through Rief. He stared at the paintbrush in his hand, trying to decide if he was imagining things. He’d never considered himself insane, but he had spent the greater part of his life painting a man he’d never met, so having hallucinations was entirely plausible.

  “Hello?” Mathew’s tentative voice came again. “You weren’t expecting me, but I brought you that book I mentioned. The White Whale? The one about the mad captain and Moby Dick? And well... it’s raining now. Would you be so kind as to invite me inside, Mr. Lawson?”

  Nope, he wouldn’t have hallucinated that.

  After making sure the painting remained hidden, he raced to the door, stubbing his toe in his haste. He cursed and fumbled for the handle. Finding it, he threw open the door. A heavy gust of wind blew into the room, the droplets like stinging needles against Rief’s face and bare chest.

  “Hello,” Mathew said, fidgeting nervously. Impeccably dressed, he hunched into a coffee-colored jacket, hand on his top hat and bracing against the winds, a book pressed to his chest. His blue eyes darted behind Rief, then to the wharf below.

  Jumping back, he widened the door. “Please, come in.”

  Mathew expelled a breath and entered. Rief’s heart raced as he passed him, filling his nostrils with that alluring scent. Something faintly sweet, but underneath, the definite aroma of man.

  “Did anyone see you?” Rief asked.

  He paused in the middle of brushing water from his coat. “I-I don’t know. I suppose I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to....” As if their last meeting played out before them, his cheeks turned red. Then he straightened his shoulders and held out the book. “I wanted to bring you this. I found it in my belongings. It didn’t fare as well as I did in the storm, but all the pages are still legible.”

  Rief accepted the rain-splattered book, its pages wrinkled and swollen from being submerged. “Thank you.”

  “We discussed it, remember?” Mathew said with a flash of insecurity in his face. “Aboard the Mirabella? We were talking about making oil from sharks, and I mentioned Melville, then you said you hadn’t read it, and I—”

  “Yes, I remember,” Rief interrupted, stopping his rambling. I remember all of it. Every word you’ve ever said, each look you’ve given me. The way your lips tasted. The way I felt in your arms....

  “Oh good, then. Yes, good.”

  Rief cleared his throat. “Thank you for bringing it. I just finished The Count of Monte Cristo, so I’ll be able to read this and get it back to you.”

  “No, no,” Mathew said quickly. “You can keep it.”

  He smiled and set it on the table. “Thank you again.”

  Hands knotted in the small of his back, Mathew rocked up once on the balls of his feet. “It is the least I can do for the man who saved my life. And if you enjoy Dumas, you should like Melville, though his stories have a bit more introspection and adventure. They aren’t quite so dark.”

  “You didn’t like The Count of Monte Cristo?”

  “No, I enjoyed it very much. I had hoped for a happier ending, that’s all. But the French are so melodramatic, all thinking killing oneself is romantic. I merely wanted Edmond to marry Mercédès.”

  “Then it wouldn’t have been very realistic.”

  “True,” he said, his polite smile fading as he glanced at his feet. “We already know that most people don’t get what they want, do they?”

  Rief swallowed hard and thought about asking what it was he wanted but didn’t have the heart to be coy. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  His face lit up. “That would be lovely.”

  “Please, make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing to the chair as he retrieved a bottle.

  “Thank you.”

  Mathew sat on the edge, his back unnaturally straight as if he were sitting for one of those photographs that were so fashionable nowadays. If Rief were going to sketch him, however, he’d instruct him to relax, perhaps take off his top hat, attempting to
capture not just an image, but the true essence of the man.

  “Might wanna take your coat off to dry,” Rief suggested, wishing Mathew would shed all of his finery, from cravat to plaid trousers. Then he could blend paint directly on his flesh, searching for the perfect shade, the right tone of his alabaster beauty.

  “Yes, indeed.” He placed his top hat on the table, and then laid his coat on the back of the chair. The lining was made of fine silk, the high quality obvious even at the distance.

  Suddenly Rief felt conspicuous wearing only an old pair of trousers—vulnerable even. “Let me go put on a shirt.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that for me.” Mathew opened his mouth, then squirmed, looking away.

  Rief slipped behind the canvas sail hung from the rafters that served as a wall to separate the sleeping area from the rest of his upper loft. Sully followed him, jumping onto the bed. He imagined the animal mocked him with the question, Now what are you gonna do?

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he warned the cat. “I know I’m a fool.”

  “Did you say something?” Mathew called.

  When he cursed under his breath, he swore Sully grinned.

  Ignoring the precocious feline, he threw on a shirt and hurried back to Mathew. A flash of lightning pulsed through the room, illuminating him. Rief had to catch his breath. Reclining at the kitchen table, Mathew had one arm stretched over the back of the chair beside him, his leg crossed over the knee. His blond hair fell carelessly across his brow. He appeared deep in thought and probably had no clue how captivating he looked. How alluring.

  A confident, bold man lurked inside that small youthful body.

  Spying him, Mathew flinched and sat up rigid, the sensual man replaced once again by the nervous boy.

  “How about that drink?” Rief said around the lump in his throat.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  After fishing around the kitchen for two glasses, he filled them with rum. When Mathew took one, his fingers brushed Rief’s ever so slightly.