Heart of the Storm (Harlequin Historical)

by Burton, Mary

  He dashed across the deck until he reached the railing.

  She caught a glimpse of the ocean below. A small boat bobbed in the water. The black seas churned.

  She gripped his wet coat with her frozen fingers. “I can’t swim!” she shouted.

  “I can.”

  He tossed her over the side of the railing into the churning waters.

  Chapter Three

  Rachel’s sense of weightlessness lasted only an instant. Before she could scream, she landed in the water.

  The icy ocean engulfed her mouth and nose as she plowed downward through the water. Her blood thrummed with fear.

  For one heart-stopping moment she thought she’d never reach air again. She tasted salt. Her lungs ached and burned.

  She clawed her way through the water, wondering what she’d do if she reached the surface. Even if she hadn’t had the heavy skirts weighing her down, she couldn’t swim.

  A strong hand grabbed her forearm and hauled her upward. She clung to her rescuer, knowing without him she’d die. She broke through the water’s edge and sucked in a huge breath, coughing. Her bare shoulder bumped against something hard and she realized she’d been pushed beside a rowboat.

  “Steady the oars, Timothy,” her rescuer said. “I’ve got a woman.” The confidence in his voice relaxed her. Somehow she knew she was safe.

  He wrapped his hands around her waist, holding her body close to his. “Hold on to the boat’s edge. I’m going to climb in and pull you aboard.”

  She panicked. “Don’t leave me.”

  He moved so close that his lips were right next to her ear. “Be brave. I’ll have you in the boat in a second.”

  Her skin burned in the ice-cold water. She could barely hold on to the slick lip of the boat as it was. But when she looked into his warm, steady gaze she knew he wouldn’t leave her. “Hurry.”

  Her rescuer easily swung his long legs over the side of the boat. The boat dipped and swayed but he steadied himself as if he were on dry land.

  He leaned over the edge and, grabbing her arms, pulled her up into the boat and eased her to the bottom. A bone-deep cold had settled into her body. Her teeth chattered.

  “Where’d you find her?” the young man said, handing a blanket to her rescuer.

  “Belowdecks.” He wrapped the blanket around her. The coarse fabric offered some warmth, but she couldn’t shake the chill.

  The boy looked at her as if she were a specter. “In a million years, I never would have guessed there’d be a woman aboard that freighter.”

  The man sat behind her, bracing his feet on either side of her. Powerful thighs rubbed her shoulders. “That’s the key, lad. Never guess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Timothy, get another blanket for the woman.” He took hold of the oars and started to row. The boat started toward the shore.

  “Anything you say, Mr. Mitchell.” The younger man took his place, reached behind him and produced a thick wool blanket from under a tarp.

  Timothy handed Rachel the blanket and she wasted no time wrapping it around her shoulders.

  Mr. Mitchell. Her savior had an ordinary name, she thought absently as she managed to sit up on the boat bottom. The heroes in the books she read always seemed to have such exotic, memorable names.

  She hugged her arms over her wet shoulders, unsure if she should be grateful or sick to her stomach.

  Mr. Mitchell dug the oars into the water. The boat started to glide. How he had the energy to row was beyond her comprehension.

  Strength radiated from his body. Such power, she’d learned, gave him complete control over her. The man had just saved her life and already suspicion clouded her thoughts of him. Marriage to Peter had done that.

  The name was ordinary, but the man was not.

  Mr. Mitchell was dirty, covered in sand and seaweed, yet unlike the sailors on the ship, there wasn’t the stench of rotting teeth or filth about him. Instead he possessed a musky kind of man smell that intrigued her.

  She closed her eyes. Lord, but she was tired of being afraid. She wanted her life back. She wanted to laugh again.

  But she was so cold. And so very tired. She simply wanted to sleep now. Exhausted, she leaned to the left. Her cheek brushed Mr. Mitchell’s thigh.

  “What’s your name?” Mr. Mitchell said.

  His gruff voice startled her. She opened her eyes and sat up straight, suddenly aware that she’d laid her cheek against his thigh. “It’s Rachel.”

  “You have a last name?” he said.

  She hesitated. Peter would return to Washington soon. And he’d be looking for her. “Davis. Rachel Davis.” The surname belonged to her maid.

  “Where are you from?”

  She didn’t want to talk. She was so tired and cold she could barely string two thoughts together.

  He stared down at her unsmiling. Lantern light deepened the hard planes of his face. She feared for one moment that he had the power to read into her soul.

  “What were you doing on the Anna St. Claire?”

  “I’ve family in the Caribbean.” She hated lying, but trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  The boat rose and fell with the tides. His thigh brushed her shoulder. “Most women don’t travel freighters.”

  “It was economical.” And very expedient.

  Tension tightened the muscles in his body, as if he sensed she was lying. “I see.”

  She suppressed a shiver, telling herself it was the cold. The rain had slowed but the night air cut through her drenched gown. Rachel longed to escape this boat and Mr. Mitchell’s scrutiny. “I owe you my thanks, sir.”

  He shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

  “You’re lucky Ben was on duty,” Timothy said rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Not all keepers would fight the surf as he does.”

  She glanced at the boy. About her age, yet he looked so young. Or was it that she just felt so old?

  Her teeth started to chatter and her hands to shake. Mr. Mitchell tightened his legs around her shoulders, giving her his warmth.

  She shifted, uncomfortable with the contact.

  “You’re freezing. My legs will keep you warmer.”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “You’re blue.”

  Unconsciously her fingers curled into fists, ready to fight if need be. Her days of giving in were over. “The blankets will warm me soon enough.”

  “You must put your modesty aside, Mrs. Davis, until you are warm. The cold can take your life as easily as the ocean.”

  Mrs. Davis. He’d called her Mrs. Davis. He’d not looked past her widow’s weeds. Good.

  She forced herself to relax, which was hard because her teeth were chattering. However, she did see the wisdom of his words. She’d die if she didn’t get warm. “You’re right of course. I—I’m being silly.”

  “No problem.”

  She adjusted the blanket so that it covered her shoulders. He tightened his legs around her. The warmth of his body lulled her closer.

  She should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. Depending on anyone was simply too dangerous.

  Davis. As common a name as there was for a woman who looked anything but common.

  The woman’s body felt fragile against Ben’s thighs. Her thick tangle of hair had escaped its braid and hung freely down her back, skimming the middle of her backside. He imagined when dry it shone like gold and felt like down. Her fine-boned features were ghostly pale now, but warmth, time and a few good meals would make her stunning.

  As he held her against him, he was very aware of the full curve of her breasts rubbing his thigh. He imagined the ripeness of her nipples straining against the wet fabric, and the narrow curve of her hips.

  Again she laid her head on his leg. She was falling asleep. In this cold, that wasn’t good.

  “Where is your husband?” he said, determined to keep her talking.

  Startled, she opened her eyes. Confusion and fear flashed in their blue depth
s before they cleared. She shifted her gaze out to the sea. “He’s dead.”

  “How long?”

  “Not long.”

  The news should have meant nothing to him. Widow or married, it shouldn’t matter either way to him.

  But it did.

  He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.

  Her silence spoke volumes.

  Ben frowned. It wasn’t simply the cold that was affecting her now.

  Rachel Davis was hiding something.

  The tide had been more brutal than Mr. Mitchell had first thought. He told Timothy as much when he’d ordered him to the oars. The boy had taken his place by Ben and together they rowed to shore. It seemed there was a time or two that Mr. Mitchell and Timothy looked worried.

  However, fifteen minutes later, the boat bottom scraped the sand. The rain had all but stopped, the heavy winds had thinned and the thick clouds had parted. Moonlight shone down on the beach and the dunes.

  The wind sliced through her wet clothes like a knife. Rachel feared she’d never be warm again.

  She sat up, pulling free of Mr. Mitchell’s embrace. “Where are we?”

  “Off the coast of North Carolina, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Between Corolla and Hatteras.” He rose. “Stay put. I’ll be back.”

  Leaving her, he climbed out of the boat. Immediately she missed the heat of his body.

  Mr. Mitchell grabbed the side of the boat. Waves crashed around his feet. His biceps bunched and corded muscles in his neck strained as he and Timothy yanked the boat ashore.

  Her mind, befuddled by the cold, marveled that Mr. Mitchell could stand so tall and strong after such an exhausting rescue. The fact that he could pull the heavy boat ashore was nothing short of a miracle. The man’s tenacity simply wasn’t human.

  She glanced up and down the long beaches that stretched and curved into the horizon. She could make out the outline of the dunes topped with sea oats that swayed in the wind. There wasn’t a soul to be found in either direction.

  Hundreds of miles separated this isolated land from Peter and Washington, but she feared it wasn’t enough. His reach could be quite far.

  Her stomach tightened, warning her that she’d have to move on soon. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart.

  “I’ll put the boat up, Ben,” the young man said. “And I’ll take the rest of tonight’s shift.”

  “Thanks.” Mr. Mitchell walked over to her and held out his hand. “Ready to go, Mrs. Davis?”

  Automatically she rose and took his hand. Steady, warm fingers closed around her hand.

  Yet despite her best efforts to stand tall, she started to crumble. Her legs wobbled under the weight of her skirts and her head began to spin. Fisting her hand around the blanket, she drew in deep breaths, trying to will her body to move.

  Heavy hands cupped her shoulders. “I’ve got you.” He lifted her out of the boat.

  She leaned into him. If she could just rest a moment and catch her breath. “I can’t stay here. I have to leave. Is there a town nearby where I can buy clothes?”

  A humorless smile tipped the edges of his mouth. “Lady, you’re not going anywhere.”

  Rachel’s head spun and her stomach churned. “I have to go.”

  “Let me help you,” he whispered against her ear.

  Lord, but she was a pitiable creature. She glared up at him. A grim smile lifted the edge of his lips. She was aware that Timothy was also staring at her. “I need to go.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “South.”

  His gaze grew serious. “Is there someone expecting you?”

  Hunting me. “No.”

  “Then give up the fight for tonight. Your skin is like ice. I’ve a warm bed at the lightkeeper’s cottage. Tomorrow you can leave.”

  The offer was tempting. To wrap herself in the dry comfort of a bed and let sleep take her for just a little while. But a little rest could cost her her life. “I need to go.”

  He loosened his hold, a clear sign he’d not argue with her.

  Rachel staggered over the uneven sand for several feet. Her fingers ached with cold and fatigue. The added exertion of walking on sand sent her heart pounding and soon her body began to perspire. Her head spun faster and her mouth began to sweat.

  Humiliation welled as she realized she was going to throw up in front of this man. She dropped to her knees. She threw up bile.

  Mr. Mitchell knelt beside her. He held her hair back from her face and patiently waited until the spasms stopped. “Better?”

  She didn’t dare raise her eyes to look at him. “Yes.”

  “It’s the middle of the night, Mrs. Davis. You can’t go anywhere until morning. Let’s get you up to the cottage.” He scooped her in his arms and carried her over the dunes.

  Rachel didn’t argue this time. She was so cold, she couldn’t think. But wrapped in his musky, very male scent, she felt safe and protected.

  Tomorrow, she’d leave.

  For now, all she wanted to do was to sleep.

  Ben was losing Rachel.

  The woman he’d battled so hard to save from the doomed Anna St. Claire was slipping deeper and deeper into a sleep borne not of fatigue but of a bone-chilling cold that was robbing her of her life. He shifted her in his arms.

  She weighted no more than a sack of feathers. Her breathing was rapid and uneven.

  Ben glanced at his assistant. “Timothy, I’ve got to get her inside. The cold is killing her.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Get yourself into dry clothes and grab something to eat before you head back to the light.”

  Timothy’s shoulders slumped with fatigue. “Aye, sir.”

  Ben marched up over the dunes and across the sandy yard toward the white lightkeeper’s cottage.

  Timothy headed into the base of the lighthouse as Ben climbed the stairs of the cottage. The keeper’s cottage with its red-tiled roof and large front porch was split into two sections—the larger quarters reserved for the lightkeeper and the smaller one for his assistant.

  He pushed open the front door with his wet booted foot. The house was dark and very cold. He was so familiar with the interior that he didn’t need a light to know his way. To his right was a parlor. The room was filled with boxes of his belongings. He’d never taken the time to unpack. Beyond the parlor was a large kitchen. He’d made a few unappetizing meals in the kitchen but, like the parlor, the room went unused. He was simply too exhausted after long shifts in the lighthouse to sit and read, let alone cook. Now that Timothy was on board, his long hours would ease. Soon his life would find more balance.

  Ben moved purposefully toward the back room. What Rachel needed was a hot bath to warm her bones, but heating water would take more than an hour. He glanced down at her pale skin. Her lips had taken on a blue hue.

  Hypothermia.

  He moved down the darkened center hallway past two more doors—bedrooms he never used—to his own at the end.

  The woman moaned softly. Her fingers were bunched into small fists. No bigger than a sprite, she possessed a warrior spirit he had to admire.

  Her face nestled in the crook under his chin. He could feel her warm breath against his skin.

  Ben laid her gently on the bed. She rolled onto her side and curled her legs close to her body. She still clutched the blanket close.

  He lit a lantern. A soft glow of light shone on the double bed, dresser, sea trunk and large hearth.

  He quickly removed his wet jacket and tossed it into a heap on the floor.

  Ben turned his attention to Rachel and her damp clothes. She whimpered when he pried the blanket from her hands. “You’ll be warm in a minute.”

  He quickly undressed her. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the softness of her skin or the ripe fullness of her breasts. He covered her with the thick bedspread. She shivered and burrowed deeper. Lantern light cast a soft glow on her skin.

  Ben set to work on lighting a fire. It didn’t tak
e long before the wood took flame.

  The woman’s breathing sounded more labored now, and though the blaze was slowly warming the room, she still trembled under the blankets.

  Ben opened the chest at the foot of the bed and removed another blanket. He laid it over her, tucking the edges around her slender frame.

  She moaned and rolled onto her other side. “I’m so cold.”

  Ben touched her forehead. Cold as ice.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and uncovered her feet. She moaned in protest until he cupped them between his hands. Slowly her feet warmed.

  Warming her with the blankets would take hours.

  Accepting what must be, he stripped completely and climbed into the bed. He pulled her cold, naked body against his, tugged the blankets over them and draped his arm across her very narrow waist.

  She’d not die on his watch.

  Chapter Four

  Ben awoke with a start.

  His mind fogged with sleep, he thought for a moment he was still a decorated naval officer in command of twenty-six sailors and destined to rise higher through the ranks.

  As much as he wanted to believe he was on the clipper ship Intercept, reason whispered he couldn’t be. Absent were the sway of the ship and the sound of men working. And when had he fallen asleep? He’d never slept the night through when he was at sea.

  He sat up and shoved his hands through his hair. Morning sunlight streamed into the cold room through the window by his bed. Outside the wind banged a shutter open and closed. Gradually his mind cleared. He wasn’t on his ship. He was in the lightkeeper’s cottage.

  Ben relaxed back against the pillow. A flock of seagulls squawked outside his window. He glanced over at the hearth to the dying embers.

  His senses kicked into play. The Anna St. Claire had wrecked. The rescue. He remembered.

  He looked down at the woman beside him. Curled on her side, she lay naked under the blankets, her long hair flowing down her back.

  Rachel.

  The coarse blankets covered her petite frame and molded to the gentle curve of her hip. Her profile was classic, a long patrician nose, high cheekbones and full, round lips. Her skin was the color of porcelain. Beautiful. Her hair, dry now, glistened. He captured a stray curl between his fingers. Silk.