If I Wait For You

by Jane Goodger

  In that moment, it seemed everything disappeared but the rage in his face that grew even more sharper when he spied her. Sara felt her whole body tingle almost painfully. West strode toward her, slipping and nearly falling on the oily deck, which only served to make his expression more fierce.

  “Miss Dawes,” he said when he was within ten yards. “I thought I gave express orders for you…” And then he stopped and stared at her for a long moment before his whole body seeming to sag with the weight of what he saw in her eyes. West knew. And it pulled the heart right out of him. “When?” he asked wearily.

  “Just a few moments ago.”

  His face tightened and he turned his head to look at a sea that was just turning pink and gold in the early morning light. It was a lovely morning.

  “He never regained consciousness?”

  “No.”

  “Did you stitch him, then?” His words came out hoarsely, as if it were becoming more and more difficult for him to talk.

  “Yes.” Sara’s throat closed on unshed tears. She wanted to go to him, to place a hand on his arm.

  He turned to her, his violet eyes seeming more brilliant in a face covered with soot and oil. “I’m glad he did not have to die alone.”

  West turned back to the whale carcass, to the men who worked and pretended not to wonder about one of their own. Even though it was bitterly cold, he had taken off his coat, his shirt and waistcoat—the one with the tear—were badly soiled. They would need a good washing. And Sara decided she would mend that tear; she didn’t think West would mind anymore.

  It was the only way she knew how to make things better.

  Chapter EIGHT

  Later, when West looked back on the days he shared his cabin with Sara, it was that first good-bye kiss that marked the change, that turned her into more than a desirable woman sharing his cabin. It turned her into his wife.

  He knew she was not truly his wife, and that she would never be, but that kiss marked them as mates, as a man and woman who couldn’t bear to be separated from each other. West refused to put a label on his feelings. He only knew that when he came into the stateroom after a grueling day, he was glad to see her turn toward his lamp with a shy smile on her lips. Every time the boats were lowered after that, he would kiss her. Oddly, it was the only time he did so for he knew if they were alone when he started kissing her, he highly doubted he’d be able to wrench himself away. It was sweet torture.

  In the cabin at night, he kept his distance, returning only after he was certain she was abed after several hours working at his sketches and carvings. He found the work soothing, and it was one of the few times he was not plagued with his desire for her. He thanked God for rough seas and rainy weather, for it meant Sara would keep below and out of his sight for much of the time. It was almost as if he had no will of his own—if she was on deck, he sought her out and inevitably ended up by her side. Oliver would cackle each time he took a step toward her, each time he caught West gazing at Sara with an intensity even he was not aware of until Oliver made a particularly crass statement.

  “Hell, if you want ‘er that bad, go on with you. I’ll watch the ship for you.”

  West had torn his gaze away from Sara, his wind-reddened cheeks turning scarlet. He was standing by the foremast, fully aroused, in the middle of the day wearing an expression his first mate had easily marked. West ignored his mate, which only made the man laugh aloud.

  “We’re heading into some weather,” West said, hoping the man would leave off. It was getting more and more difficult to pretend indifference to her. Almost as if the sea heard him, the wind picked up and the seas roughened. “I’m sending Sara below.”

  “Take yer time,” Oliver cackled.

  West gave the mate a level look. “I’ll be right back,” he said forcefully, more to himself, he realized, than to the old man.

  He walked to Sara, trying not to allow his heart so soar when she saw him. She would smile and his heart would wrench, as it always did when she smiled at him. Ah, there it was, that smile that made him feel as if his heart was somehow being beaten.

  “Are we having a storm?”

  Her skirts whipped around her and the hair that escaped her braid flew in the wind like a tattered sail. “Yes. I need you to go below and stay there until the storm has past.”

  She frowned, as he knew she would, for she didn’t like staying below any more than he did. “You must promise me, Sara.”

  “I will.”

  Sara had no real desire to be on deck during a storm. She might be a good sailor now, but the waves still frightened her. She went below and stayed there, watching from the bank of windows in the aftercabin as the sea grew more and more angry. It was just light enough to take in the awesome sight of twenty-foot waves rolling toward the ship. Just as it looked as if the wave would crash through the windows, the back end of the ship would lift and the Julia would ride the huge wave up and over, dropping again into to a watery valley. Sara turned away from the sight. It was one thing to be brave about being tossed about the cabin, it was quite another to watch the waves threaten to swamp the boat time after time.

  Night came and the storm continued unabated. West had not been below in nearly twenty-four hours and she wondered how he was faring. He must be exhausted, she thought, for though the mates and seamen were allowed to rest, he stayed on deck.

  Finally, the shrieking wind lessened to a constant moaning, the waves crashing against the hull softened to a dull pounding. Exhausted from trying not to be thrown about the cabin, Sara went to bed, hoping to fall asleep. Instead, she found herself clutching the rail in an attempt to stop from being thrown forcefully against the wood that kept her from falling to the floor. The seas calmed, and Sara lessened her death grip on the side. Eventually, she fell asleep, awakened only occasionally when the ship took a violent dip and threw her against the railing.

  The sound of West entering the stateroom dragged her from a blessedly deep sleep. In his hand he held an oil lamp, lit low, as he sloshed across the thick carpet, seawater squishing from his boots and leaving black footprints on the red carpet. His jacket was coated with ice, and his hair looked as if it had been frosted. The warmth of the cabin began melting the tiny icicles still in his hair, and he blinked against a steady stream of water.

  “The storm is passed?”

  He turned toward her, not surprised to find her awake and watching him. “It’s passed.”

  Indeed, the ship’s movements were slow and languid as if the tempest had never happened. West swayed on his feet, and Sara realized he was so weary he could hardly stand. She watched as he struggled to undo the buttons of his jacket for a full minute before getting out of bed.

  “Here, let me. Your hands must be frozen.”

  West began fumbling anew, unable to make his fingers, stiff from the cold, work properly. Sara made to push his hands away, but gasped. “My God, they’re like ice. You should wear gloves, Mr. Mitchell,” she admonished, clucking her tongue as she made short work of undoing his coat buttons.

  “Gloves hamper me,” he said, sounding irritated.

  Sara ignored his churlish tone and shoved the coat, heavy from the water, off his shoulders. She stood there for a moment, uncertain what to do with the coat, before deciding to put it outside where the steward would see to it in the morning.

  “You’re soaked right through,” Sara said, eyeing his white linen shirt, which was plastered against his body. Against his muscled, taut body. She blinked.

  “Let’s get this off,” she said, like a mother talking to a small child. But he wasn’t a small child. He was a man, well-muscled, standing in front of her silently, almost daring her to finish the task she set out to do. With a little huff, she raised her fingers to tackle his tie, making short work of that.

  Then she hesitated. “Are your hands warm enough to finish the task?” she asked hopefully.

  West made a valiant effort of undoing the first button, then dropped his hands in frustration
. He could hardly manage to bend them enough to do what no doubt had become an impossibly intricate task. Sarah knew that, if he could not, she would have to. Clearly, he did not want her undressing him, either, for he stepped back from her. “I’ll just wear it to bed,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly.” Sara quickly and efficiently undid the first three buttons, telling herself the entire time there was absolutely nothing improper about helping this poor frozen man out of his wet clothes. Then she found herself staring at a naked chest. A naked man’s chest. West’s chest. She faltered and shot a look up to him, immediately looking down. He was looking at her oddly, a strange heat to his violet eyes. And he was still. Too still, as if he wasn’t even breathing.

  She undid the next button, then the next. His shirt gaped open now, revealing a smooth, lightly furred chest, finely sculpted, and a hard, flat stomach, ridged with muscles. Without thinking, she lay her fingertips upon that smooth skin. It was hot, even though cold cloth had lain upon it. That simple touch made her feel breathless. Then, with slow movements, she grasped his shirt and pulled it from his trousers so that it hung loosely on him. Sara dragged her eyes up his chest to his well-shaped mouth, to his nose, to his eyes that burned into her. Without looking away, she peeled the wet cloth away from his massive shoulders, and began pulling it down his arms when her wrists were enveloped by two steel bands.

  “Enough, Sara.”

  She backed away with a gasp, and he released her arms. Without a word, Sara climbed into her bed and turned her back to him, bewildered by her actions. Desire. That’s what it was raging through her. Desire to touch him, to kiss him, to do things she didn’t fully understand. He knew it, and he didn’t like it. Oh, God, she thought, her skin prickling with the heat of humiliation. What had possessed her to touch him like that? She curled up into a tight ball wishing she could disappear.

  For a long time, West look at her curled up on her bunk, knowing what she wanted, aching to have her, shaking with his need. He dragged his hands over his face and swept his hair out of his eyes in one movement in a vain attempt to gain control of some of the emotions raging through him.

  They’d become too comfortable together, too close. It had been inevitable that she would begin to have the same desires that nearly paralyzed him each time he was in her company. His private hell had just grown more hellish. Knowing that she wanted him—even if she didn’t truly understand what that meant—would make keeping away from her even more difficult.

  “If we are to succeed in this experiment,” he said for lack of a better word, “then I believe we need to come to an understanding.”

  He watched as she stiffened. “Experiment?”

  “This pretense,” he said, feeling frustrated and angry. “This farce, this absurdity. This asking of me inhuman things.”

  She turned her head and he saw her flushed cheeks, whether from her understanding or as a reaction to his anger, he did not know.

  “I promise I won’t compromise you,” she said sounding completely serious, almost remorseful, as if she were ashamed of what she’d done.

  He laughed—he had to. After all, it was better than weeping, which is what he felt like doing at the moment. Then he sobered. “I’m not certain I can promise the same.”

  Sara’s breath caught in her throat and she suddenly felt hot all over. He wanted her, too. And though she thought she should feel fear or perhaps anger, all she felt was happy. West Mitchell wanted her. “Is that a very bad thing?”

  He closed his eyes briefly as if to brace himself against a blow. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I do not want to make a mistress of you. You will be someone’s wife one day. I will marry Miss Smithers. In the meantime, I have a responsibility to you.”

  A responsibility, Sara thought dully, shame coursing through her. My goodness, she’d practically been throwing herself upon a man who felt responsible toward her. “I understand,” she said. And she did: Sara Dawes might not have been born on the Hill, but she was still a decent girl, the kind of girl a man did not take to his bed unless he planned to marry her. And West certainly did not intend to marry her, not when he already had such a paragon as Elizabeth Smithers. She understood completely.

  West pinned her with a look that seemed to burn through her. In one long stride, he was beside her bunk, looking down at her as if he were angry. “Do you understand? Do you? Do you know that hardly an hour goes by that I am not tempted to come down here and take you in my arms? Do you know that each night I lay in that bed and I pray to God I will have the strength to let you alone?”

  Sara lifted her chin. “How noble you are, Mr. Mitchell. I bow to your high sense of morality, your extreme fortitude in your stalwart ability to not touch me.”

  “I am not noble. I am a man with a man’s needs and you are tempting me far more than a man should be tempted.”

  Sara got up on her knees. “I am not trying to tempt you. If you want to kiss me so badly, then kiss me. Get it out of your system and then perhaps you can stop plaguing me with your ill temper.” Her breathing was as harsh as his and her anger as hot. “I give you leave.”

  “My god.” His eyes swept down her body, resting on her breasts, her nipples taut against her thin gown. “If I kiss you, I will not be able to stop. I will make you my mistress. Do you even know what that means?”

  She bit her lip. She knew she wanted, wanted. But truly did not know what she wanted, what it meant to be a man’s mistress. “You want me in your bed.”

  West let out a bitter laugh. “I want a hell of a lot more than that. I want to touch you. Taste you. I want to be inside you.”

  His words, while shocking, did nothing to stem her ardor. “But we’ve only agreed to a kiss,” she said.

  He let out puff of air. “A kiss.”

  She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

  “All right, then. A kiss.” And before she could move, toward him or away, he was pulling her against him with a moan and pressing his lips against hers. It was nothing like their other kisses, those quick good-byes. This was something far more, far different than her imagination could have conjured. He moved his mouth slowly over hers in a sensuous dance as his hands gripped her shoulders, then slowly moved to her back.

  “Open your mouth,” he said, and she did, stunned to feel his tongue, hot and insistent, moving against hers in such a carnal way she let out a small sound of need she hardly recognized as herself. She wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to get closer, mindful of the surge of pleasure she felt when her hard nipples pressed against him. His hand reached downward to cup her buttocks, drawing her even closer against him, until her knees pressed up against her bed’s railing. She felt him, that hard male thing, pressing against her stomach, and instinctively knew it meant he was aroused. Just feeling it made her whimper, made her body melt, made her want to strip him of all his clothing so that she might see him, touch him.

  He deepened the kiss, his hands moving along her back, her side and to her breasts, finally, finally. His breathing was harsh as he trailed hot, wet kisses down her neck, and then, kissed one nipple, straining and taut against her nightdress. A sharp current of pure pleasure shot to between her legs, and she let out small sound meant to urge him on, meant to give him leave to touch her wherever he chose.

  With a groan, he pushed her away. “By God, that’s enough,” he rasped, turning from her. “I can’t do this. I cannot. My God, I am not a saint nor a eunuch.”

  “I’m sorry.” Even as she said the words, she knew how foolish she sounded.

  “Sorry,” he spat. “I don’t want you to be goddamn sorry. I want you to stop tempting me.” The last ended nearly in a shout. He breathed harshly, and slowly the tension in his body ebbed. “No. It is I who should be sorry. I have no excuse. I am a man of honor and you are my third mate’s sister. I…should have been stronger.”

  She stared at him, horrified, then lay back down and turned away to stare at the wall, hot tears forming in her eyes. She heard him move.
>
  “Are you crying?”

  “I’m not.” Sara pulled the blanket tighter against herself. She stared at the wall, willing the tears that were again forming in her eyes remain put. Surely he knew the more he talked about her crying, the more she would cry.

  “Is it because I kissed you?”

  Sara was silent a long moment.

  “No,” she said, closing her eyes. She finished on a whisper, “It’s because I wanted you to.”

  West sat back on his haunches and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling and mussing it, making his hand wet. He turned his head, taking in his bed that swung back and forth so invitingly, the bed he wanted to share with her, and let out a sigh.

  “I’m not certain I can keep you aboard. Not now.”

  Dread filled Sara’s heart at his words. Not only did she fear being without him, she also feared being alone. She could not go back to New Bedford where she was in grave danger, but where else could she go?

  “Yes you can,” she said quickly, turning around in bed to face him. “I’ll stay in the cabin night and day. I’ll run the other way if I see you. I’ll sleep in the aftercabin. I’ll never kiss you or touch you and I won’t even want to. Please don’t send me home.”

  He bowed his head. “I don’t want to.” Hope surged hot in her veins. Until he finished. “But I fear we have no choice. When we reach the Cook Islands, there should be ships that can take you home.”

  “No! It was just a kiss! That’s all. I didn’t mean it, you didn’t mean it. Our…passions got carried away. It won’t happen again.”