If I Wait For You

by Jane Goodger

  West stood abruptly. He was so goddamned tired. Too tired to be having this conversation. He massaged the back of his neck, for it felt as if someone were relentlessly squeezing the tendons. It won’t happen again, she’d said. That she could say such a thing only showed how very naïve she was. Now that he had held her in his arms, now that he had tasted her, it was all he could do not to sweep her up and carry her to that bed that even now taunted him with its languid movements.

  Good Lord, he wanted her so badly. He wanted to hear her scream with pleasure. He wanted to feel her body curled up softly next to him at night. Every night. He wanted her belly to grow with their child. He clenched his fists against the realization that assaulted him.

  He loved her.

  West walked to the door. He had to get away, let the bracing air clear his mind, cool his ardor. Perhaps this feeling was temporary insanity, perhaps it was simply wanting something—desperately—that he knew he could never have.

  “Where are you going?” She sounded afraid, as if even at this moment he was going to ready a boat and put her on it.

  “Topside. Go to sleep.”

  He heard her call after him, recognized the fear in her voice even as the same fear filled him. He did not want to put her off this ship. That voice of reason that plagued him of late calmly reminded him that no matter of simple prayer would keep him from breaking his promise. He knew what would happen if she remained on board, knew the only way to save his sanity was to send her home.

  Even if it meant ripping out his heart.

  Chapter NINE

  He was with another woman. Everyone knew it, she could tell by the mournful looks the men gave her. The pity. The whispers.

  Sara told herself at least one hundred times since she overheard the men talking that it did not matter. She loved him, yes. But he did not know that. And they weren’t married, after all. He had every right in the world to seek out the pleasures of another woman. Yet, with every minute that passed, her heart ached all the more.

  The Julia had anchored yesterday evening in the sandy bottom of a lagoon near a lovely little island on the fringe of the Cook Islands. At the center of the lush island rose what Zachary explained was a volcano, a blue-black rising surrounded by flat, brush-filled land. Here, the natives were friendly and welcoming, but other islands in this chain were known for their warrior cannibals, something that Oliver gleefully related to her. Such tales needed no embellishment, for they were true horror stories. Indeed, a whaling captain not long ago went ashore to trade goods and was captured by the natives, his brain eaten.

  No, the island where they were now was known for its friendly natives and its willing women.

  “I’m ever so sorry,” Mr. Billings had said when he’d found her staring morosely at the shore. “’Tis a terrible thing the captain is doing. Terrible.”

  It didn’t matter how many times Sara told herself it was his right to do what he wanted, she could not help but feel betrayed. It was almost as if pretending to be married had meant they were married in fact. She tortured herself, jealously as hot and desperate as the ridiculous tears she’d shed when she realized where West had gone. But they weren’t married. They. Were. Not. Married.

  She would tell herself this over and over. And then she’d cry anew. “Why doesn’t he want to marry me? Why doesn’t he love me,” she cried at one particularly low point. Minutes later, she was telling herself she wouldn’t marry the scoundrel if he were the last man alive.

  Hearing sounds outside the stateroom, Sara dashed away any lingering tears and tip-toed to the door and peeked out, her eyes widening at the sight that beheld her. In the murky darkness of the hall, she could see Mr. Billings and an island girl wrapped about each other just outside the second mate’s cabin. The man who’d just claimed to be so shocked by the captain’s behavior was now completely naked, the girl’s dark brown legs hugging his white, muscled buttocks. Mr. Billings was heaving against the girl, whose back was against the door, his hands gripping her firm buttocks.

  Sara could not look away. She began feeling strange and hot watching their frantic movements, listening to the sounds coming from their throats. Suddenly, Mr. Billings opened his door and moved inside, the woman still wrapped about him. The girl giggled and the mate let out a throaty laugh.

  Sara let out a shaky breath before shutting the door, feeling weak and stunned by what she’d just witnessed. An image, sharp and intoxicating came to her, of her and West in such an intimate embrace, of their bodies slick with sweat moving together like that. Cruelly, she realized at that moment that West, indeed, was likely engaging in a much similar act with another island girl.

  The thought came unbidden: It should have been me. Oh, West, if you’d only asked, I would have loved you.

  Hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

  In all his imaginings, he never thought he’d be the subject of scorn for cheating on a wife who wasn’t a wife. The thing of it was, he felt guilty. Guilty for simply contemplating trying to rid himself of his physical torment. It was a guilt that had nothing to do with the woman he was promised to marry, and everything to do with Sara. The men would give him a goddamn medal if they knew how noble he’d been. And now he was faced with confronting a woman pretending to be his wife who was apparently wounded by his actions. Wounded. Shit.

  West would have laughed at his good friend Oliver if the old man hadn’t been gripping his knife sheath as if he were trying to find the strength not to remove the dagger and skewer him with it. “Ye done a very bad thing, today, sir. A very bad thing.”

  To make matters worse, Zachary stood behind Oliver shaking his head scornfully.

  “You!” West said, pointing a finger at Zachary after Oliver had stalked away in disgust. “You are the last man on this ship to look at me with disapproval. You know the truth.”

  “I only know, sir, that I heard my little sister crying her heart out down there.” And then he’d stalked away.

  West wanted to shout after him, “I didn’t even touch her.” It was the truth, he hadn’t, though not because he had a pretend wife sitting on board ship. He’d been ready and more than willing to have himself a good frig; hell it would have perhaps exorcised the demons plaguing him. But the native girl’s brother, a fine source of chickens for many years, had interrupted him before he’d even reached for his trouser buttons to warn the captain his sister was diseased. The girl had railed at the young man, and West had left, leaving behind a pair of brightly colored ribbons for the girl’s trouble. Then he’d found the nearest beach, stripped naked, and dove in—a vain attempt to rid himself of his raging hunger.

  He was a goddamn saint and he’d be damned if his mates made him feel like some sort of scalawag simply because Sara had cried. Sara had cried. Shit.

  West took a deep breath of the sweet island air, and headed down to the stateroom. His torso was still bare and salted from his swim, his shirt stuffed negligently into his waistband. The thought of donning it in the tepid heat of the ship’s bowels was unthinkable.

  He opened the door without knocking, and she started. She was sitting at the tiny desk with nothing in front of her. That alone told him she was upset, for Sara Dawes was a woman who never sat idle. Never. Why did he feel like the errant husband returning to a knowing wife?

  “The men think…”

  “I know what they think,” she said. He could not tell from her voice what she felt. He wished she would be amused by the situation, as he had first been, but clearly she was not.

  “I’ve no desire to hurt you, you know that don’t you?”

  She nodded, a jerking little movement that only made him feel worse. It was oppressively hot in the cabin, and her hair clung wetly to her neck, which only added to his guilt. He turned away from her, intending to go back topside, but stopped. “I didn’t have a woman,” he said, closing his eyes at his own foolishness and turning away from her. He leaned against the railing that kept his books in place. “I wanted to.” This last he added with a
hint of rebellion.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “This situation is untenable,” he said into the deep silence.

  “If you wanted a woman…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. She stood abruptly and came up behind him, laying one hand on his bare shoulder. It felt like a brand. Please, God. But he’d forgotten what he was praying for. His hands gripped a railing as she pressed her mouth against his spine. “If you wanted a woman, you could have had me.”

  He swallowed and gripped the railing so hard he feared it might shatter behind his hand. Slowly, tantalizingly slowly, she moved her hands around his torso and pressed herself against him.

  “Sara.” It was a plea.

  He was rock hard and shaking and when she moved her hand over his arousal he arched his back, the pleasure too great to be still. “You could have me,” she said again. Her words, her touch, was his undoing.

  With a sound filled with violent need, he turned in her arms and looked down, his knees nearly buckling at the raw desire he saw in her eyes. Then his gaze moved down to her mouth, that beautiful, plump, wonderful mouth and he knew he was done for. He pulled her to him and kissed her on a groan born of a desperation and a desire so strong it terrified him.

  Sara nearly swooned when he finally kissed her, as if everything was centered on that kiss, as if she would have died if he hadn’t turned and pressed against her. She burned for his for his touch, his mouth, his tongue. When he fumbled with the buttons of her bodice, she shoved his hands away and undid them herself. She needed, more than anything, to feel him touch her there. She nearly lifted her breast to his beautiful mouth, but he was already there, already sucking her hard nipple in. Sara was dimly aware of the sounds she was making, of the sounds he was making. Her entire being was centered on his mouth, on what he was doing to her aching nipples.

  He was kissing her again, suckling her bottom lip the way he’d suckled her nipple, moving his hands over her naked back, the down lower to her buttocks. She pressed her naked breasts against him, sighing at the wonderfully foreign feel of flesh against flesh. It was as if a lifetime of not being touched or held had turned her into this wanton thing who could not live without his hands upon her.

  “West, West,” she said over and over, relishing calling him by his given name, peppering his cheeks with kisses. So caught up in the moment, she continued kissing him long before she realized he’d gone still. Sara looked up at him, dazed, suddenly afraid he knew just how much she loved him.

  West stared down at her, rejecting what was so plain her Sara’s face. Desire. That’s what West wanted, that’s all he wanted. Not love. Oh, God, don’t love me, don’t. If she loved him, then how could West do what his body demanded that he do? He would no longer be able to rationalize it as two people who simply got carried away with the moment, a physical act to release this tormenting sexual tension. If she loved him, she would expect more. She would expect forever. And West could not give that to her.

  “You don’t love me, Sara.” He willed her not to love him.

  A flushed stained her cheeks. “No,” Sara said, kissing him again, pressing her body against his erection. “Just love me now. This moment.”

  West knew it would not be enough. He knew it. But he had a half-naked woman in front of him, the same woman who had haunted his dreams, who made him laugh, who nearly made him cry.

  “Take off your skirt.” Her blue eyes widened, but she did as he asked with endearing awkwardness. By the time she stood before him, he was completely nude. Her eyes darted to his thrusting member, then immediately looked away.

  “I won’t hurt you, Sara love.” He held out one hand and she put her shaking one in his. West hoisted her onto this swinging bed and she let out a little laugh as it banged against the wall. Then he joined her, pulling her to him, letting their entire lengths touch.

  Sara could feel him pressing against her belly, that part of him that was so foreign and lovely and male. He hooked his leg over hers, drawing her even closer, as he kissed her already swollen lips. Sara’s eyes drifted closed as he moved downward, loving her breasts, licking and sucking until she was unknowingly moving her hips against him.

  “God, Sara. You will shame me.”

  Sara had no idea what he meant, she only knew that having him kiss her and touch her was better than she dreamed. He moved his hand down her belly and she giggled. “Tickles,” she said breathlessly, that breath catching when his hand touched the mound of soft curls at the apex of her thighs.

  “It’s all right, Sara.” And then he let out a word that sounded much like a curse as his fingers explored her. Sara felt as if every bit of blood was surging to where his fingers were. She was warm and liquid and needed, needed something more. He began to move his fingers and she began to burn, to tremble, to feel as if something wonderful or awful were about to happen. Her hips moved, her breath grew shallow, her toes curled as he moved his finger against that most wonderfully sensitive place where all the pleasure seemed to center. Her hips began moving faster, needing, needing, more and more. And then the world flashed colors and light. She exploded, that’s what she did. Exploded where his hand touched her and nothing in her experience could have warned her how wonderful and intoxicating that explosion would be.

  West moved over her, touched his member to the wet, throbbing place between her legs. He stayed that way a long time, his head pushed into the pillow next to hers, his body taut and straining against her. He let out a sound, almost a sob, then he adjusted so that he lay on his side, his cock pressed against her hip.

  “Give me your hand,” he said. He took her hand and placed it around him, his entire body going rigid at that simple touch. And then, he began moving against her hand as he pressed his mouth against her temple, needing the release that only she could give him. It took little time before he was pulsing his seed into her hand, his body arching against her. He lay, spent, and suddenly conscious of what he’d done to an innocent girl. She gazed down at her hand, fascinated, disgusted, he didn’t know. He only knew he was ashamed, even though his body felt immensely better. He rolled off the bed and retrieved a cloth, handing it to her awkwardly, before pulling on his pants. He stood there, head down, flooded with shame at his weakness even as part of him was glad, so glad. “Damn,” he whispered.

  What Sara had thought was wonderful, suddenly was not. West couldn’t meet her eyes and she became increasingly aware that he was embarrassed by what had happened. He was an engaged man, after all, one who had promised not to touch her, one who had suffered the humiliation of being censored by his men for cheating on a wife who wasn’t truly a wife. He’d been trying to protect her and she had…my God, she had thrown herself at him. Begged him to make love to her. Touched his manhood in a wanton way. What man could have used such restraint?

  He turned toward her and she was stunned by the look in his eyes. It was more than simple regret and she shrank from that look. Was making love to her so awful, then? Was it such a terrible mistake?

  Sara’s cheeks flushed becomingly. “It was a mistake.” Even as she said the words, she hoped he would pull her into his arms and tell her he loved her, only her.

  “Yes, it was a monumental mistake,” he readily agreed. “Thank goodness nothing irrevocable happened. You are a maid still. You can marry in good faith. As can I.”

  The reality of what she’d just done hit Sara fully. He was engaged to be married to someone else, to a girl who was as virtuous and well-bred as a girl could be. He had tried to not touch her, as only a man of honor could, but she had not allowed him to. What had she thought? That they would make love and he would forsake his true love for her? That he would get down on one knee and beg her to marry him? What a fool she was. What a terrible little fool.

  “It was nothing, Sara. Nothing.”

  Nothing? Her heart breaking was nothing? Making her body sing was nothing? Anger hit her, then, that he should take what she’d thought was wonderful and turn it into something sordid, somet
hing to be ashamed of. Something to forget.

  “You must be quite proud of yourself. Thank God,” she said with a sweep of her hand, “that you were able to maintain your dignity and your indifference even in the throes of passion. I thank you, sir, for your valiant effort to maintain my virtue. I’m certain Miss Smithers would thank you also.” She was angry with herself, yes, but she found she was also angry at West. Poor man, forced to pleasure the desperate little stowaway.

  “Sara, stop.”

  “Why? Am I hurting your feelings?” she asked airily. Then she placed a finger thoughtfully on her lips and tapped lightly. “Well, now,” she said seemingly to herself. “That’s not quite possible, for you have no feelings. You have been abundantly clear on that point. Silly me.” She snapped her gaze to him again, not seeing the pain and regret in his expression. She pulled up her skirt and threw on her blouse, heedless of his eyes on her, hot and needy.

  “I never should have agreed to take you on board. It was, perhaps, the biggest error in all of this.” His words only cemented her belief that he wanted to be rid of her. She was still trying to get the last button fastened, her shaking hands making the task nearly impossible, when he grasped her wrists gently. Sara turned her head away, hiding her face, hiding her wretched tears.

  West couldn’t bear to see her sad, knowing it was his callous words that had her so. Did he love her? He didn’t know, but it made no difference. She would have to leave this ship for now that he’d tasted her, he could not keep away.

  “Even if I loved you, I would still send you home. Even then, Sara.”

  It was the closest he was able to come to telling her what was in his heart.

  Chapter TEN

  When Abigail Mitchell sailed on the Julia, Jared had a storage locker near the helm converted into a topcabin for her. It had been a cool place to while away the hours to read or sew or simply enjoy a fine day out of the glare of the sun. The day after their lovemaking, West had the locker cleared and with the aid of the ship’s carpenter, the tiny room was quickly converted back into a cabin.