by Jane Goodger
“They won’t even notice the name, and if they do, not one of them would have the courage to say anything.”
Sara had been less than convinced, and now, as that sense of wonder and happiness completely dissipated, leaving her with a growing sense of panic and dread, she convinced herself she would end up running from a raging mob by the end of the day. It was the story-teller in her that turned the sedate wedding into something horrific.
“She fled, her gown ripped and torn from the hands that reached out and clutched at her. Scratched and bleeding, the young bride tried to break through the throng only to be stopped again and again. Finally, she broke through, her hair falling about her, her beautiful gown nearly in shreds, and looked back to see her groom standing at the altar with another woman.” Sara giggled at her fancy despite the real fear behind such a tale. She re-wrote it quickly in her mind, making West force his way through the angry throng to rescue her. Yes, that was much better.
The door to her room opened after a knock, and Julia walked in. “I’m glad to see you smiling on your wedding day. I was terrified.”
“You were?”
“I’d discovered that behind my husband’s handsome face was a man with a terrifying temper, and was a bit frightened on my wedding day. I thought I could change him.” She shrugged, a self-deprecating gesture.
“I haven’t discovered any major flaws in West yet,” Sara said. “In fact, I find him rather too flawless. I’m the one bringing all the secrets to the marriage.”
Julia waved a dismissive hand. “Enough of that! Do you think for one minute I’d let one of my sons marry someone I didn’t approve of?”
“I think you are too soft-hearted,” Sara said, ignoring Julia’s sad attempt at a stern look.
As if to prove just how pliable she was, Julia burst out laughing. “You are right, dear. But I maintain that a woman could not ask for a finer daughter-in-law. Of course it would be better if all that ugliness was resolved. But West believes, and I agree, that it may never fully be resolved. And what would you do, Sara? Wait? Leave?”
Sara smiled. “Get married, I suppose.”
“Yes. Precisely. And if you wish to do so today, I suggest you pull yourself out of bed. The wedding, my dear daughter, is in four hours.”
Sara’s eyes widened and she shot a disbelieving look out the window to confirm the late hour. “Four hours!”
“Plenty of time,” Julia said briskly, and set about preparing Sara for her wedding.
As West predicted, there were no gasps of outrage, not even any questioning looks. If anyone noticed she had the same last name as New Bedford’s most notorious murderess, they either hid it well or assumed they heard incorrectly.
A small reception, one hundred guests or so, gathered in the Mitchell’s ballroom, a modest room that could not have comfortably fit a larger gathering. A twenty-piece orchestra played in one corner, the light from the waning day their only illumination. It was a mixed group that milled around the pretty room, with its sweetly-smelling lilacs set in large pots around the room. Officers from the Julia were in attendance, rubbing elbows with some of New Bedford’s most wealthy and powerful citizens. Many in the crowd wore the simple dress of the Quakers, who held most of the property and money in the flourishing city. All would have been perfect but for the large and deeply-felt absence of Gardner. In the past week, he had refused to speak to his older brother, deigning only to see his mother. Even those meetings had been strained since it was clear Julia had had a change of heart about West and Sara.
Sara stifled a sigh at the thought of Gardner, refusing to allow her sadness and guilt mar what had been a perfect day. Though the sun had yet to set, hundreds of candles had been lit in the four glimmering chandeliers high above the guest’s heads—light that did not quite reach the corner in which the orchestra played. Sara fought the urge to gather up some candelabras and set them near the orchestra.
“Relax,” Julia had told her when she’d caught Sara wiping a bit of dust from one of the brass planters. Sara feared she would never become accustomed to having a household of servants. She'd exasperated her maid for two years by insisting she was quite capable of making her own bed and changing her own linen.
Sara looked about the room and couldn’t help but feel giddy with happiness. West stood among a group of men Sara knew were fellow whalers, but his eyes would lift above the other men’s heads and seek her out time and again. Sara Dawes was now Mrs. West Mitchell. She gazed out the window to see if any stars were yet visible in the sky. There was one particular star she needed to thank for making her wishes come true.
“My dear, how lovely you look today,” Judge Reynolds said, looking down warmly at Sara. He grasped her hands in his and Sara fought the irrational urge to pull away from his touch. She simply could not help feeling an illogical discomfort whenever she was around the man. Perhaps, she thought, it was because he had once been her mother’s lover, for the gent had never done or said anything that would give her reason to feel uncomfortable around him.
“Thank you, Judge.”
“I’m so glad you will be safe from speculation now,” he said, lowering his voice.
“I’ll feel much better when West’s hired man has discovered who the killers are.” Sara didn’t want to talk about such ugliness now, but good manners prevented her from asking the judge not to discuss such a topic on her wedding day.
“So, you’ve heard nothing? A shame. Truly a shame. But nothing you have to worry about on this happy day,” Judge Reynolds said heartily.
Sara murmured her agreement and surreptitiously sought a way to extricate herself from the judge’s company.
“Your brother is here,” he said, his brown eyes seeking out Zachary.
“Of course. I hope his presence does not make you uncomfortable.”
“On the contrary, my dear,” Judge Reynolds said. “It’s wonderful to have us all together.”
“Um, yes,” Sara said, feeling awkward. She didn’t care much for the judge’s proprietary view of them as some strange family. “Please forgive me, Judge, but my husband is motioning for me to join him.”
“Of course,” he said, bowing.
Sara went to West, grateful to escape the judge, even though such thoughts made her feel slightly guilty. Poor man was just lonely.
“You have been too far away from me for too long,” West said, taking up both her hands. “Have I told you how delectable you look in your wedding gown? Just how is it fastened, anyway?”
“It’s quite impenetrable,” Sara said, teasing.
He took out his pocket watch. “I’m quite tired. What do you say we head to bed.” He waggled his brows and Sara laughed.
“It’s but six o’clock, West. We cannot leave yet.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps we could hide in the library for a moment and steal a kiss.”
“I’m afraid I would steal far more than a kiss.” West let out a beleaguered sigh. “Very well. We’ll stay until eight. And then I want you to start acting exhausted.”
By the time eight came, Sara did not have to pretend to be ready to collapse. Her face hurt from smiling, her eyes burned from the combination of perfume and smoke from the candles and lamps—even though the Mitchells used only the most expensive wax and oil. And her nerves were frayed thinking about the night to come. She was no innocent and perhaps that is why the thought of consummating their love made her feel as if she were close to jumping out of her skin. What she’d felt those years ago with West had been so wonderful, so perfectly rapturous, she feared this wedding night she’d thought about for years would somehow be disappointing—for both of them.
Sara Dawes Mitchell couldn’t have been more wrong.
She wore the sheerest of night dresses, soft, white, flowing and entirely luxurious. Just putting the garment on made Sara feel wonderfully, wickedly sensuous. Her entire body prickled with anticipation, her mind vividly recalling the times she and West had been together. It seemed so long ago. And yet, each time West
kissed her, it felt familiar, as if their lips were meant for only each other. Sara smiled at the fanciful thought. Perhaps it was true, that she and West were meant for each other—and only each other.
She stood in the center of West’s room, their room now, feeling a deep sense of contentment so profound her throat ached with it. Dozens of candles had been lit by overzealous servants and the smell of wax was thick in the air. Silver candle-snuffer in hand, Sara went around the room dousing the flames until only four candles remained lit. The room was now much cozier, reminding her suddenly of the Julia’s cabin with its dark paneling and richly masculine furnishings.
West entered without knocking, a mischievous smile on his lips. The room was muted by smoke from the doused candles, swirling around Sara in the soft candlelight. She looked like the angel he’d always thought her, standing there in her wisp of a gown, her golden hair flowing in long waves down her back, the candle snuffer, like a scepter, still in her hand.
Suddenly, Sara thrust the snuffer over her head in a threatening manner. “I must warn you, sir. I am a married woman and my husband is terribly jealous. He does love me so.”
“That he does,” he said, and that low rumble of a voice did the most wonderful things to her insides. Sara smiled, bringing down the snuffer, feeling foolish for playing such a game on her wedding night. The truth of it was, she was so terribly nervous all of a sudden.
West walked slowly toward her, removed the snuffer from her hand and tossed it onto the thick carpet. He wore only a burgundy robe tied loosely at his waist. It gaped open revealing his brawny chest and ended at mid-thigh, giving him the appearance of being entirely naked beneath it. Sara had the strongest urge to push the material from his shoulders but an unexpected shyness prevented her. His dark hair was tousled, as if he’d hastily tore off his formal wear over his head rather than take the time to unbutton.
West stood before her, his eyes dark and hooded. He pushed her heavy hair from her shoulders to reveal her neck, her scar. Then his lips were there, trailing along that reddened line.
“Every time I see this scar, I die a little bit, Sara. It makes me think how close I was to losing you before I really ever found you,” he said softly, his lips moving against her sensitive skin.
“I think your habit for saving me started that day.”
He drew away and looked down at her in a way that made Sara feel more loved than any woman who’d ever lived before. She wanted to capture this moment, that love she saw, and hold it forever against her heart.
“It was you who saved me, Sara. I love you more every day. I hardly can believe there is room for more, then the next day comes and I look at you and realize I have found a way to love you more.”
Sara kissed his lips softly. “I do believe you have turned into a poet.”
His eyes widened with mock alarm. “I was waxing poetic, was I? Then I must turn myself toward more manly pursuits.”
Sara raised a provocative eyebrow. “Such as?”
He crushed her against him, and just before he brought his mouth down upon hers in the most possessive, searing, mind-boggling, breath-stealing kiss of her life, he said, “Such as ravishing my wife.”
Sara let out a small sound of surrender or protest, West wasn’t quite certain. He only knew that this dream he’d held in his heart for years was coming true—he was making love to Sara, his wife. With a deep growl, West lifted her into his arms, reveling in the feel of her arms wrapping around his neck. Everything about Sara set him on fire: the soft sounds coming from her throat, her eager response to his kiss, her tongue, her lips, her small teeth that nipped at his lower lip, her hands moving through his hair, her soft breasts pressed against his madly beating heart.
He lay her upon his bed, one knee pressed into the soft feather mattress, one leg still on the carpet, his lips moving from her mouth to her neck, and lower, until his progress was hampered by the delicate material of her gown. His hand found one full breast, the nipple already hardened, and he let out a sound of male satisfaction right before he pulled the nub into his mouth. Sara arched against him and he thought he would die right then if someone were to drag him away from her.
“I want this off,” he muttered, staring at the lovely gown dark and dampened at her breast by his ardent kisses.
Sara’s hands moved to her hips where she gathered up the material in bunches, revealing calve, thigh, and then the center of her womanhood, that curling golden hair capturing West’s heated gaze. His breath became even more labored as he watched the progress of the gown as it slipped and slithered over her softly pale skin. She lifted her hips and pulled it even higher. Her gentle rounded stomach, her fascinating navel, the gentle curve of her ribcage revealed. And then the lush fullness of her breasts, the material catching slightly on her hardened nipples.
Sara watched as West’s eyes burned brighter and hotter the higher she pulled her gown. She reveled in her female power, and momentarily toyed with the idea of pushing the gown back down. But his hand was suddenly between her legs, pressing, an intimate touch that left her breathless.
“Do you remember Hilo?” he asked, his voice rough, low.
Sara swallowed, feeling warmth and liquid between her legs at the mere mention of the passion they’d shared. “Yes.”
His gaze, pinned on where his hand pressed so enticingly, flew to her face, and something like a smile moved his lips. He opened his robe, revealing his gloriously naked body, hard and muscled, and so utterly male that Sara squirmed beneath his hand. She knew what he intended, and though excited by it, was slightly confused. Hovering over her, West captured her mouth, deepening the kiss when she let out a little moan. Then he moved to her breasts, loving them with his mouth, before he began kissing a path lower and lower. Sara frowned and West sensed that somewhere along his trail of kisses, he had lost his wife. He looked up, a question in his eyes.
“Can’t we…” Sara started, blushing from her neck to the roots of her hair. “Now that we’re married, I mean, don’t we do...you know.”
West’s only answer was to smile and nod, and then to kiss her where he intended, low and hot, moving his tongue against her in a carnal dance. Never could she imagine allowing such a thing, but with West everything was good, more than good. Her legs fell open further, her hand rested atop his head, pressing. Her hips moved as her release came closer, as he moved his tongue against that nub that always brought her such pleasure. He kissed her until she was wild with wanting, until she wanted to beg him to never stop. He didn’t stop, not until she saw stars that she was too enraptured by to even think of wishing upon them. Before she had the strength to lift her head and offer him a kiss, West, his muscles quivering beneath her languid hands, moved between her legs, his arousal pressing intimately against the place that still throbbed.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Love you, love you.” And then he entered her slowly, his face hard and beautiful. Sara stopped breathing, wanting to remember this moment when she’d truly become his wife and he her husband. She moved beneath him, thinking to help, but he let out a grunt of protest.
“Let me, Sara. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not---oh!” It did hurt, a bit. Sharp pain turning to a burning as he pushed through her maidenhead. His entire body was bathed in sweat, his muscles quivering like a race horse after a long run.
He stayed that way a long time, inside her, not moving, until he finally lifted his head and kissed her, making her almost forget that part of him was inside her. She relaxed beneath him, once again feeling that delicious warmth his kisses always gave her begin to grow. Then he began to move, and Sara opened her eyes at the wonder of the feeling, the intimacy of having a man moving inside her.
“Oh,” she said.
He stopped. “Am I hurting you?”
“No. Oh, no, West.” She brought his head down for a long kiss, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, raising her hips so that she might feel more and more and more. He let out a strangled sound
, then began moving again, deeper, harder, faster, until Sara’s mind was gone again, until all she could feel was a wonderful friction, a growing heat. She arched against him, calling out his name over and over, mindless of everything but the glorious thing they were sharing.
When she began to pulse once again, he stiffened, letting out a moan of pure male satisfaction, before collapsing in a jellied heap upon her.
Moments later, West pulled back, his face stricken. “My God, Sara, love, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
“I believe I have never been more right in my entire life,” she said.
He smiled and kissed her lightly. “Beautiful, beautiful Sara,” he said on a sigh, nuzzling his lips against her neck. “It was worth the wait, wasn’t it, love?”
“I’d wait forever for you,” she said sleepily. “But now I don’t have to. Now you’re mine.”
“So possessive,” he growled, but he was smiling.
“You were always mine,” she said, yawning. “You just didn’t know it.”
“Captured me, did you?”
“Like a big ‘ol whale.”
“Harpooned my heart,” he said musingly.
“Mmm.” And she was asleep, curled up and content, safe in her husband’s arms.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
The letter from Nathan Wright arrived on the day Sara and West returned from their honeymoon trip to New York City. It sat in a pile of other correspondence on Gardner’s desk for three days before he handed it—or rather threw it unceremoniously—at Zachary.
“Letter for you, Dawes,” he spat, before turning away and heading back to the aftercabin.
Zachary made an ugly face at the departing back of his surly young captain before bending down to retrieve the missive. He opened the packet and turned immediately to the last page to see who the letter was from and frowned when he didn’t recognize the name. Herbert Wharton. And then a name leapt from the page, making his heart go cold—Nathan Wright, his parents’ possible murderer.