The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West
Page 59
As if sensing her eyes on him, Dante turned around, giving her a glimpse of the molded muscles of his chest and stomach. He smiled and waved. Heat expanded out from her belly until it flooded every inch of her. Still, she could not turn her eyes away. She returned his smile.
No doubt a man like him had been with many women—could have any woman he wanted. Why, then, did he stay with her? Surely it wasn’t the roof over his head. He slept in the barn. Nor the scant meals she served when, instead of beans, he could purchase a steak downtown. What other reason could keep him here other than the one that made her heart soar—the one that made her want to run to him and beg him to stay.
She huffed. She’d become a dreamer like François. The pirate was just being kind. Perhaps he liked playing the hero to the damsel in distress. Perhaps he enjoyed the adoration of her children. That must be it, for night after night he continued his treks downtown, where she’d heard he’d drained the pockets of many of the drunken gamblers. He was only biding his time until he could redeem his ship and leave. Still, she would cherish the moments she had with him, for he had proven himself a good man. A worthy man.
“I’m teaching your son how to chop wood,” he shouted.
Fear buzzed through her, and taking a step forward, she opened her mouth to tell him that it was far too dangerous, but he held up a hand and chuckled. “I know, señora. I’ll be careful. He’s using a smaller ax.”
Philippe hefted the small blade and stood bare-chested beside Dante. “Please, Mama! I’m not a little baby anymore.”
Abilene nodded her approval from the bench. Where was the thumb that was normally in her mouth—that had been in her mouth since her father had died?
Outnumbered, Caroline finally nodded her consent, but stood there for several more minutes watching the muscles roll across Dante’s back and arms while he raised the ax and chopped wood. Periodically, he’d set aside smaller branches on another hewn stump for Philippe to hack. The boy picked up instruction well, and assured that he was in good hands, Caroline decided it was best if she got back to work before she made a fool of herself gawking at the man like an innocent maiden—imprinting his image on her mind so she’d never forget him. Not that she could ever forget a man like Dante Vega.
Taking her children’s hands in hers, Caroline gestured for them to bow their heads while she thanked God for the food. On one side of Dante, Abilene slipped her tiny hand into his, while across the table, Philippe stretched his arm to grab his other. Dante’s eyes moistened, but he kept them open while Caroline prayed. She spoke with such honesty and sincerity and genuine thanks, as if she were speaking to someone sitting beside her, some generous benefactor who provided for all their needs. It baffled Dante. She was so grateful for so little, while his mother had been disappointed with so much. His mother’s prayers had been rote, austere, recited. Empty. But this beautiful señora’s prayers touched a place deep in his heart, a longing to believe in something more than himself.
The prayer ended, and they all enjoyed a supper of home-baked bread, frijoles with eggs, and squash from the garden. Though the food was slight—barely filling half of Dante’s belly—the joy and satisfaction filling his heart more than made up for it. At their request, he entertained the children with fanciful tales of sea storms and mermaids as they oscillated between oohing and aahing and giggling until tears flowed down their cheeks. All the while, Caroline ate and watched, casting him an occasional smile, despite the sorrow he sensed lingering about her. She’d been aloof since their kiss. He’d chastised himself more than once for taking such liberties with a lady like Caroline. But she’d been so beautiful in the moonlight, so easy to talk to, he’d been unable to resist. She’d not mentioned it since, nor had she allowed them to be alone.
Which was for the best. The way Dante was feeling—like he could find no joy in life aside from seeing her smile—he doubted he could resist her. And he must. A lady like Caroline would never settle for a scoundrel—should never settle for a scoundrel like him. No, she deserved a gentleman, someone with education and fortune and culture, a godly man who shared her faith. Someone who would raise her children right, not prune them to be pirates and ne’er-do-wells. Based on her offish behavior, she’d no doubt come to the same conclusion and was looking forward to him leaving after the harvest.
Which is why he intended to enjoy his remaining time with the Moreaus. But with each passing day, it grew harder and harder. This was true family. The family he never had. The family he never thought existed. The affection, the care and unity between mother and children, never failed to put a lump in his throat. The gentle way she scolded her children, always in love and with purpose, caused anger to well at his own childhood. But the look of trust and adoration in the children’s eyes, and sometimes in Caroline’s, when they looked at him made him want to give up the sea and become a husband and a father. Almost.
Later that night, after playing a game of jackstraws with the children, Dante headed to the barn as was his custom, not trusting himself to be alone with the lady after she put Philippe and Abilene to bed. He grabbed his rifle and strolled among the grapevines, ensuring all was well. The sweet scent of grapes and rich earth joined the salty brine of a sea that called to him from the distance with each mighty crash of its waves. Fog rolled in, masking the moonlight and muffling each tread of his boots, making them sound hollow. Like his soul.
A scream pierced the night. A child’s scream! Terror gripped every nerve as he dashed for the house, burst inside, and made for Abilene’s bedchamber. A single candle cast flickering light over Caroline holding her sobbing daughter.
“What happened? Is she hurt?” Dante dashed to the other side of the bed.
Caroline rocked Abilene back and forth. “Just a nightmare.” Concern moistened her eyes. “She’s had them since François died.” The little girl’s body shook as she glanced up, her face hidden beneath a web of auburn curls, and reached for him. Emotion clogging his throat, Dante swallowed her up in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Just a bad dream, pumpkin. All is well. You are safe.” Her sobbing stopped, and she melted against him as if she trusted him to protect her forever.
Caroline, her golden hair tumbling to her waist, gazed at him with such appreciation, it brought moisture to his eyes. Moisture! He lowered his chin to sit atop Abilene’s head and forced back his tears, ashamed.
Pirates didn’t cry.
He sat there holding the precious girl until slowly Abilene’s tight little body relaxed and she drifted to sleep. Setting her down on her pillow, he brushed curls from her face. She moaned in her sleep, peeked at him through slitted eyes, and said, “Thank you, Papa,” before her breathing deepened and she drifted off again.
Overcome with emotion, Dante rose from the bed and backed into the shadows, lest Caroline see his weakness. She stood and approached him. Her night robe clung to curves not normally revealed by her gowns. Her lips were red and puffy, her eyes shimmering.
And worst of all, they were alone.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Dante. You have such a way with the children.” She smelled of lilacs and life and hope. Candlelight haloed her in shimmering gold, making her look like the angel she was—an angel sent to rescue the wayward pirate.
He wanted her. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted to love and protect her and be a father to her children.
Instead, he grabbed his rifle and dashed from the room.
Two hours later, Dante was on his fifth mug of ale and his third game of faro. The more he drank, the more he seemed to win. And the more his heart ached. He cursed himself for growing soft. Since he’d been a child, he’d prided himself on being able to control his emotions. When his mother had ignored him, belittled him, punished him unfairly, and finally sent him away to school, he’d kept it all inside, never allowing her to see his pain.
But this woman and her children. They had bewitched him. A plague on all women! For they truly possessed the power to destroy men—just like
his mother had done to his father.
“Capitán!” A shout brought his attention from his cards to Berilo, his first mate, sitting down at a table beside his. “Do you win much?”
Tossing down his cards, Dante bowed out of the game, grabbed his mug of ale, and joined his friend. Two scantily dressed women sashayed up to the table. Berilo welcomed one onto his lap, but Dante waved the other away. Women were a curse. And besides, Caroline had ruined him forever to anyone but her.
Berilo showered kisses over the trollop’s neck until she giggled and slapped him playfully. “When do you get the ship back, Capitán? The men grow restless.”
“More than likely it is their pockets that are empty.” Dante snorted.
“Si. That is true. But they are anxious for the fight.”
Dante frowned and sipped his drink. Anxious to fight? Somewhere in the past few months, he’d lost that desire. But he would get it back. He had to get it back.
“Go get us drinks.” Berilo flipped the woman two coins and slapped her behind as she sped off, smiling.
Dante leaned back in his chair. “If I continue to win, I’ll have enough to redeem the ship in a month.” And his obligation to help with the harvest would be completed by then as well. Then he would leave. Leave behind the only family he’d ever known. But it was for the best. For him and for them.
“Let us drink to redeeming the Bounty!” Berilo took one of the two mugs the woman plunked on the table and slid the other to Dante.
“To the Bounty!” Dante raised his mug. “And to leaving this paltry town!”
They continued to toast everything from Mexico, to freedom, to the sea, to whiskey, to loose women, to frijoles, until the world spun around him. Stumbling home, Dante intended to tell Caroline that she could no longer trap him with her feminine wiles or her children’s adoring smiles.
He burst into her bedchamber, squinting against the darkness.
Shrieking, she tossed back her covers and leapt from her bed, grabbed her robe, and held it to her throat. “What are you doing, Dante? Get out of my chamber at once!”
Chapter 7
I have something to say to you.” Dante’s intimidating form stepped into a shaft of moonlight. Dark hair brushed his shoulders as he teetered where he stood.
“In the middle of the night?” Flinging on her robe, Caroline groped for a match on her bed stand, and after lighting the lamp, turned toward him. “Are you injured?”
Lantern light flickered over his handsome face as he studied her with an intensity that should have frightened her. But it didn’t. Perhaps she was a fool, but she trusted Dante Vega. With her life.
“No,” he replied, rubbing his stubbled jaw. He leaned one hand on the bed frame for support.
She inched closer and touched his arm. “Ill?” Surely that must be it from the way he seemed unable to stand straight.
“No,” he replied.
The smell of alcohol stung her nose. “You’ve been drinking!” Releasing him, she backed away.
“I have, señora. It is what pirates do. Or hadn’t you heard?” He huffed and crossed his arms over his thick chest as if proud of the fact. “And I’ve come to tell you … to tell you … that I’ll not allow you and those … children of yours to weasel your way into my heart and trick me into”—he waved a hand through the air—“staying in this house with your good cooking and charming family and your …”
Caroline’s face grew hot. “How dare you insinuate such a thing? We … I am not tricking you!”
He wobbled and took a step toward her, leveling a finger toward her face. “Then, stop being so kind and patient and gentle and”—withdrawing his finger, he rubbed his temple as if it ached—“absolutely wonderful. I’m not falling for it.”
Her anger dissipated beneath his compliments, no matter their drunken delivery. “You’re making a fool of yourself, Señor Pirate. I suggest you go back to the barn and sleep it off.” She attempted to turn him around and shove him toward the door, but even in his besotted condition, she couldn’t budge him.
He chuckled. “You call me Señor Pirate when you’re cross with me.”
“Then you have no doubt as to my current disposition.” She managed to turn him to face the door. “Nor that my anger will only rise if you do not leave immediately.”
“And one more thing.” He spun back around. “Tell your children to stop calling me Papa. I am not their papa, and I will never be.” Though his tone was harsh, the look in his eyes spoke otherwise. Was the moisture she saw there from emotion or alcohol? He stepped toward her and gently fingered a lock of her hair. “And stop being so beautiful.” His voice softened. “With your gold spun hair and sea-green eyes and skin a man longs to touch.” He ran the back of his fingers over her cheek.
Why, when he’d burst into her bedroom, shouting and accusing her of tricking him, did his touch feel so good? Stirring a longing in her she’d never felt before, not even with François. “I’ll do my best Señor Vega to not be so appealing,” she breathed out in a whisper.
“Impossible.” He huffed, dropping his hand to his side.
“Let’s get you to bed, Señor Pirate.”
He grinned, his gaze shifting to her tousled covers.
“To the barn I meant.” Shaking her head, she grabbed his hand and started for the door.
He pulled her to him, pressed her against his chest, and wrapped her in his thick arms. He smelled of leather and ale and the sea, and she settled her head against his shirt. Despite his drinking, despite his intrusion in her bedchamber, she felt safe in his arms.
For the first time in many years.
A shout and a crackling sound drew them apart. Dante darted to the window. In the distance, yellow flames reached for the sky.
“My grapes!” Caroline threw a hand to her mouth. “The vineyard is on fire!”
Dante instantly sobered. “Stay here. Protect the children,” he shouted before storming off.
But she couldn’t stay. Not when her livelihood, her very survival, was at stake. Instead, she got dressed as quickly as she could, roused the children, instructed Philippe to stay with Abilene on the veranda, and then sped into the darkness. But it wasn’t dark anymore. Fires had sprung up in every direction. Red flames licked the sky, casting a hellish glow over the entire vineyard. Where had they come from? Smoke burned her nose. Men sped past, hoisting buckets of water from the creek. First Sisquoc then Manuel, Diego, and finally Dante, who ordered her back in the house. Clutching her skirts, she grabbed a bucket to assist them. She would not stand by and do nothing.
The sound of rifle shots exploded over the crackle of flames. Pop! Pop! Pop! Halting, she spun around. The men crouched to the ground as more shots thundered. One zipped past her ear. Fury started its own fire in her belly. Señor Casimiro! It had to be him and his men. He would not burn her out! She would not let him! Dropping her bucket, she started for the house to get a rifle. Dante hid behind a large grapevine and returned fire, gesturing for the other men to stay low. But what did it matter? Half her vineyard was aflame. Flames she could feel from where she stood as heat seared her in rolling waves, bringing with it the sting of smoke and the sour scent of burning grapes. Halting before her house, she stared benumbed at the sight of everything she’d worked so hard to achieve devoured in an instant.
“Get in the house!” Dante shouted, his voice muffled by the roar of the fire. But she couldn’t seem to move. How would she support her children now? What would happen to them?
In the blur of heat and haze of smoke, she saw Dante running for her.
A shot fired. He clutched his shoulder, stumbled, and fell to the dirt.
Blackness as thick as coal surrounded Dante. Someone was hammering. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The vibration sent piercing pain through his head. He tried to rub it away but couldn’t move his arms. Make the pain stop. Oh, God, make the pain stop.
“Will he live, Doctor?” The words were distant and muddled yet distinctively Caroline’s.
; “Yes. He’ll recover in time. A quarter inch to the right and I’d be saying something different, but with lots of rest, your husband will be back on his feet in a month, maybe less.”
Light tried to penetrate the darkness. It failed. Dante was swept back into the night.
Sometime later—an eternity or only a moment, he didn’t know—he heard Caroline praying by his bedside, pleading with her God for Dante’s healing, thanking God that he lived. Oddly, it brought him comfort. Other moments came and went like scattered dreams. Children’s laughter, sunlight, darkness, someone spooning broth into his mouth, a weight on his chest. Pain that sent him back into the darkness. Heat … fire … why was it so hot? His mouth felt full of cotton. His head spun. Someone held his hand, caressed his skin. A kiss on his cheek. He smiled and fell back asleep.
Thoughts came alive in his mind. Instead of drifting atop a nebulous mist, they landed on reason, where they stirred more thoughts to life. Sounds alighted on his ears. Children’s voices, Caroline singing, birds chirping. The smell of smoke filled his nose. The vineyard!
He pried his eyes open and blinked to focus. The wooden ceiling beams of a bedchamber came into view. He lowered his gaze to a pair of walnut Victorian chairs then to the matching wardrobe and over to the lacy covering atop the dresser, the glass candlesticks, bottles of perfume, jars of cream, and the brush and comb lying before a framed mirror. Definitely a lady’s bedchamber. He pressed a hand against his chest and groaned.
“You’re awake.” Caroline entered the room, rubbing her hands on an apron, and dropped beside him, smiling.
“How long?” His voice came out scratchy.
“Four days. You had a fever.” Taking a cool cloth, she mopped his brow. He tried to move. Pain rumbled through his shoulder.
“You’re not going anywhere, Dante. You’ve been shot and you need your rest.” She propped the pillows up behind him then took a glass from the table and held it to his lips. He hated being coddled, but the water tasted so good.