by Jane Goodger
To his disgust, he felt his cheeks flush scarlet. “Because you are beautiful and very few men would have had the,” he stopped to search for the right word. “…fortitude to…Well, you understand.” He cleared his throat again.
Instead of just her cheeks, her entire body was suffused with heat. Up until that moment, Sara had a schoolgirl’s vision of West; he cut a romantic figure, one that few girls were immune to, including Sara. But she’d always thought of him as West Mitchell, of the Hill Mitchells, as remote and distant as a statue. While she’d always been aware of West as handsome—didn’t her fluttering heart tell her that?—she’d never truly looked at West as a man. As a man who would want a woman to share his bed. She finally had a name for that strange feeling that sometimes overcame her when she looked at him: desire.
Her awareness of him, standing only inches from her sleeve, became almost painfully acute. She couldn’t stop her mind from picturing herself in bed with West. It was an innocent image, of her lying beside him fully clothed, but it was enough to make her feel hot and distinctly different. Sara swallowed, grasping the one part of this conversation she deemed safe. “You think me beautiful?”
“Of course.”
“Of course?”
He turned, looking at her almost angrily. “Every man on this ship thinks you beautiful,” he said in a harsh whisper.
“They do?”
West looked at her with bafflement, and Sara was quite sure he was telling the truth.
“You must know that you are. Good Christ.” She blinked at his harsh tone and West forced himself to soften his expression. He looked across at the Huntress again, and didn’t like what he saw—the leers the other men were giving Sara. He didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to touch her, but he wasn’t about to put her in any danger. “I think you should stay in the cabin tonight. I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to hearing their tales.”
“You want me to stay below? All night?”
“I don’t like the look of those men,” he said tightly. “They haven’t been home for years and whatever refinement they had is long gone. Please, Sara, I don’t want to worry about you.”
She looked up at him and it was all he could do not to draw her into his arms, to reassure her that he only meant for her to be safe. “All right. If you think it best.”
“I do.”
When she was gone, West relaxed slightly. He didn’t want to have to worry about her wandering about the ship, perhaps stumbling into one of Jared’s crew. He’d been a whaler for years and had not seen a crew as disreputable as this one in a long time. It hurt him to realize it was his brother’s crew that was so shockingly unkempt.
In short order, his brother and much of his crew were climbing up onto the Julia. They were a loud and raucous bunch, with language so colorful it even gave West pause. West grinned at his brother and the two men shook hands and slapped each other’s back.
“It’s good to see you, Jared. You look like a bloody pirate,” West said, laughing.
“And you look like a banker,” his brother said, but he quickly lost his smile. “A banker who’s gone mad. Who the devil is she?”
“She’s no one. Not my wife, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His brother sneered. “So, you’re taking on whores now to entertain the men? No wonder your crew looks so happy.”
West clenched his jaw, not liking what he heard or saw his brother’s hard features. “She’s not my wife, though the crew believes she is,” his voice low so he would not be overheard. “She is my third mate’s sister who got into some trouble in New Bedford. It’s a long story and one I’ll not bore you with now. But you should know that Sara is off limits to you and your crew.”
“So, you’re keeping the whore to yourself, are you? Not very generous of you, West. From what I saw of her she looked fetching enough. If you like Quakers.”
“I have not touched her. Nor will you or your men,” West said, too close to losing his temper. He could only think that Abigail’s death had driven any kindness from his brother’s heart.
Jared gave him a hard and searching look as if he could see into his soul—or into his heart. Then he shrugged as if he didn’t care if he had twenty women on board.
West steered the conversation to safer ground as they walked to the aftercabin. They talked about Jared’s trip, the number of barrels of oil he’d got, whether he was heading home. West was surprised to hear that Jared had no plans to head to New Bedford, and instead planned to sail to the North Atlantic, to the Azores, then to Australia.
“But you’ve been gone more than three years now. You’re talking another year at least.”
Jared only shrugged.
“Surely the men want to go home.”
“They can leave if they want. They all know there’s more money if they stay. I’m sending more oil home than any ship out of New Bedford.”
“I’ll not dispute that, Jared.”
“There is nothing in New Bedford for me.”
“There is mother and Gardner. I know they would be pleased to see you. Mother does worry.”
“I don’t see why. I hardly know the woman.”
“Hell, Jared. She is your mother.”
Jared gave him a withering look, filled with an impatience meant to make West feel foolish for harboring such soft sentiments toward his mother. His brother looked about the cabin with idle curiosity.
“Ship looks good,” he said, and for the first time West saw the veneer crack on Jared’s forced indifference.
“It must be difficult to be aboard her,” West said softly.
Jared only shrugged. “Just wood and canvass. Like any other ship.” But his hand moved softly over the smoothly polished railing that separated the sofa from a shelf stacked with Sara’s sewing projects.
“Busy little wife you have,” he said with a small sneer, as if realizing he’d almost given in to sentiment.
“She’s making the best of things.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you, little brother,” he said, pulling out a whiskey flask. “I’d never take you for a saint, even with your high principles. If it were me, she’d been well used and passed on to the crew by now.”
West swallowed down the anger that surged at Jared’s callous words. “I think you have as much or more honor than I. At least you always did.”
Jared took long pull on the whiskey, gasping with satisfaction as the fiery liquid went down. He let out a small, humorless chuckle. “Honor. Love. The things that kill a man,” he said softly. Then he flung his feet upon the floor with a loud thud.
“What’s Cook got to serve up? Smells like fish chowder.” As quickly as that, Jared became amiable, nearly the man West remembered. He began filling West’s ear with funny tales of greenhands and rotten meals that nearly caused the poor cook to be thrown overboard more than once. By the time they sat down to eat, West was beginning to relax, especially when he noted that Sara had opted to eat in the stateroom. Her absence was not noted, except by Jared, who politely inquired whether she would be joining their party. Only West and perhaps Oliver heard the mockery in his voice.
Sara listened to the men talk, her ear pressed against the door that separated the dining cabin from the passage. It was a loud and raucous group, and Sara did not recognize many of the voices. The Huntress’s officers were a rowdy bunch, their captain the loudest of all, and the reason was all too apparent. The distinctive scent of whiskey was strong in the air. Once in a while, Sara heard West’s low, mellow voice as he made some dry observation, followed by hooting and hollering. West did not allow alcohol on his ship except for medicinal purposes from what Sara had learned. He was a strict master in that sense, handing down quick punishment for drunkenness, according to Mr. Mason. Thus far, no one aboard ship had broken that rule of his, and Sara wondered if it were only the Huntress’s officers who were imbibing.
Hearing the men’s loud laughter, Sara was glad she decided to dine alone. The Huntress�
��s men were rough and crude, their language such that Sara blushed more than once. She stood with her hands pressed against the door ready to push off and run should she hear anyone approach. When she heard what sounded like the men getting ready to depart, Sara hurried back to the stateroom. For the first time since being on this ship, she was aware of the danger of being the only woman on board. The Julia’s men liked and respected her, and their loyalty to their captain would have made even a rude glance unacceptable. But these men were different. They were hard and crass, the sort who had chased Sara from New Bedford.
She could hear only the low rumbling of voices now, and felt herself relax. Mr. Mason had made a gamming seem a wonderful thing, but she wished the Huntress would pull up anchor and leave. Sara heard the splash of a boat hitting the water, the sound of oars slapping the surface. The men were leaving, thank God. Feeling as if the ship had been rid of vermin, Sara decided to go above deck to look at the other ship. She’d been below for hours and needed some fresh air. And besides, she was curious about the other ship and its men and hoped her brother was on deck so she could talk to him.
Letting herself out the door, she saw a shadow by the companionway, and stopped, her heart beating hard. It was Jared Mitchell standing there, smoking a fragrant pipe, the smoke just visible in the light of a lamp hanging from the paneled wall of the mostly-dark dining room.
“Hello, Mr. Mitchell.” Her voice sounded normal even though she felt as nervous as a mouse standing before a cat.
“Ah. The wife.”
Sara became even more wary. She didn’t like the way his voice sounded, the way he seemed to stare at her.
“I was going to get some fresh air.” He stood in her path and she waited for him to move out of her way. When he remained blocking her, Sara felt something close to fear envelop her, though she told herself she was being ridiculous to fear Jared Mitchell.
“I need to go up the stairs,” she said, hearing the fear in her voice and hating it. She lifted her chin to show him she was not afraid, and he smiled. He looked like the devil himself standing there towering over her, his hair in disarray, his dark eyes gleaming in the soft lamplight.
“I find I’m in need of a wife tonight,” he said with menacing lightness. He took a step toward her and stumbled, righting himself only by awkwardly grasping the thick rope strung taut along the stairs.
Jared gave her a sheepish grin that was almost charming. “I’ve ruined the moment,” he said. “Here I was thinking I looked dashing.” There was a certain brutal self-deprecation to his words, and Sara frowned.
“Don’t scowl, pretty Miss Dawes,” he said, stepping toward her. He stopped, and placed his pipe on a stair, and in that moment Sara almost darted away. She immediately cursed herself for losing her opportunity to escape, for when he turned to her again, the look in his eyes made her turn cold.
He came toward her, and Sara could do nothing but retreat backwards until she was against the far wall, the oil lamp too far away to act as a weapon.
“My brother said he’s never had you,” he said conversationally, all the while his eyes moved over her face, resting for a long time on her lips. Sara looked over his shoulder and at the door that led to the aftercabin where she was certain West was. She considered crying out, but found she couldn’t believe a man like Jared Mitchell would truly harm her. But there was something in the way he held his body, the way he looked at her, the low, silky sound of his slightly slurred voice that cried out for her to get away. When he placed a palm flat against the wall by her head, she flinched.
“No, no, no, pretty Miss Dawes. Don’t be afraid of me.” It was a soft plea. He bent his head and Sara’s eyes widened in alarm. She turned just in time so that his mouth hit her cheek. Sara let out a small mewling sound as his mouth moved along her jaw. She didn’t want to touch him, not even to push him away, and so stood stock-still, her arms straight by her side, her hands fisted. The only thing she could hear was her panicked breathing. The only thing she could feel was his mouth on her skin, his beard abrading her.
“Please don’t,” she said when one large and oddly gentle hand touched her neck. She began to shake.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a woman? So sweet. You smell so nice. Soft.” Even in her terror, there was something in his voice that made her realize he didn’t mean to frighten her, that if he were aware of just how afraid she was, he would stop. But Sara feared he was too drunk to be aware of anything but getting what he wanted. Sara moved her fists up between them, crossing her arms against her breasts. He continued talking to her softly, his kisses gentle but slightly more urgent. He sought her mouth, nudging her face toward him with his chin, and he pressed his lips against hers. Sara squeezed her eyes closed and tried to push him away. He was so big, so oblivious to her fear. With a jerk, she turned her head to escape his mouth, letting out another sound of protest.
He chuckled softly, then stiffened and stilled.
“Move back, Jared.”
Sara nearly sagged with relief at the sound of West’s hard voice.
Instantly, she was free. Sara fled only as far as the stairs, then turned to see West holding a pistol against his brother’s head.
“You bastard,” West said, pushing the gun hard against his Jared’s temple. His brother didn’t even wince. Jared’s eyes were straight ahead; he stood there as if he was in no danger. He almost looked…relieved.
“Miss Dawes is quite delectable. Quite tempting. I think father was right about you,” Jared said slowly, deliberately. “Perhaps you do like boys better.”
West’s hand began to shake. “Go to hell.”
With one quick movement, Jared turned his head so that he stared down the barrel of the pistol and grasped West’s wrist with one hand. Sara watched in horror as Jared purposefully opened his mouth and forced the gun between his lips.
“Oh, God no,” Sara whispered.
“Jared, sweet Jesus,” West said, his voice harsh, his eyes filled with anguished disbelief.
“Do it, West.” Jared’s grip on West’s wrist tightened. “Do it!”
Jared’s eyes begged his brother, the torment in them so clear, so painful to see, tears streamed down Sara’s face. West looked at his brother in horror, shaking his head in denial, his breath coming out in short pants, while Jared stood still. And waited.
West pulled the gun away, then grabbed the back of his brother’s head and held him, his hand clawing through Jared’s tangled hair. “What the hell is wrong with you?” West’s embrace tightened when he heard a muffled sob coming from his brother.
Suddenly, Jared pushed away, letting out a strangled sound. “Leave me the hell alone,” he growled, as he stumbled toward the stairs.
Sara moved hurriedly out of the way, running instinctively to West, who embraced her with the same fierceness he’d held his brother. He held her until Jared had made his way to the deck, until they both heard him call to be lowered into a boat. Finally, he stepped back, dropping his arms, and Sara wanted to lean back into him, to never let go.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked, shoving the pistol into his belt.
She knew the anger in his eyes was not for her but for his brother. She shook her head. “No.”
“He is not the brother I remember. He has changed.” West’s face was ravaged by grief, and he looked like a man whose brother had died. Perhaps, Sara thought, that is what happened. The brother West once knew was forever gone.
“He had been drinking,” Sara said.
West shook his head, not accepting that as an excuse for Jared’s behavior. “I am sorry this happened. I did not foresee it.”
“You couldn’t have.”
West looked away from her, his expression deeply troubled. To Sara’s surprise, he stepped toward her, placing his hands gently on each side of her face. He frowned at her, his eyes moving to her mouth, before gazing directly at her. Sara sensed he wanted to say something, but then he moved forward and pressed his lips against h
ers, the slightest, sweetest pressure. He moved his lips only slightly, just enough to make Sara wish for more.
He stepped back, looking quite serious.
“Miss Dawes. That was your first kiss.” He stared at her, willing her to understand what he was doing. Sara knew. He was trying to erase what Jared had just done, he was giving her another first kiss, a sweet memory.
West stood there for a long moment trying to stop himself from kissing her again. That was all the poor girl needed was another randy Mitchell boy panting after her. With a calm that belied his desire, he bid Sara good night and escaped to the topdeck. His eyes automatically went to his brother’s ship and saw that he had just been safely hoisted aboard. He heard him shout, “Drinks on me, boys. This gamming’s a bit morbid for my tastes.”
Half-hearted shouts came from those crewmembers still awake and sober enough to want to drink more. Jared moved away from the men to stand alone at the ship’s bow.
West watched his brother’s shadow for a long moment, his heart aching for him. The rage he’d felt when he saw Jared mauling Sara had long since been replaced by a deep sadness. Jared had been one of the kindest men he’d ever known. And still was. He was killing himself, exorcising the goodness that remained hidden inside in a calculated campaign of destruction. It was almost as if he wanted to get caught with Sara, wanted West to hate him as he must hate himself. He’d certainly wanted West to pull that trigger, his eyes, those tortured eyes, had begged for death.
And West, God help him, knew how close he’d been to pulling that trigger when he first came upon them. It wasn’t until he looked his brother in the eye that he knew he could not. But the rage, good God, the unadulterated fury he’d felt when he saw Jared touching Sara…he shook from it still.
The sea was calm, the wind light and cool, and the moon shone brightly, putting the Huntress in sharp silhouette. Jared still stood on the bow of his ship, looking north. Toward home. West knew that when the sun rose, the Huntress would be gone, the gamming over.