Beyond the Savage Sea

by JoAnn Wendt

Nevertheless, the newlyweds were a strain on the nerves. They were so happy they floated on air. Edwinna felt a fierce stab of envy every time she looked at Kena. Kena went about her duties with the flush of happiness on her face, her eyes shining.

  David was just as bad, and a thorn in the side for Drake. Drake felt that if he saw one more happy smile, he would put his fist through it. Exuberant, full of zest, David was all over the plantation, doing the work of ten doctors. Beaming cheerfully, he willingly sewed up bill-cane cuts out in the cane field, dug painful chiggers out from under slaves’ toe-nails, lanced boils, treated boiling house burns, helped in a lengthy, difficult breech birth, and even found time to treat the mill oxen’s yoke sores.

  It was a damned imposition, all that happiness by day and a candle burning in their room down the hall all night every night. Drake wanted to wrench open their bedchamber door and dash a bucket of cold water on them.

  In truth, it made him ache to have some sexual happiness of his own. It made him ache to have Edwinna in his bed.

  * * * *

  They’d worked late one night in her office. When they finished, they snuffed the candle and went through the dark house to the stairs, Edwinna leading. As she started to mount the stairs, he put his hands on her waist and gently turned her to face him. Again, her body heat startled him. She was a hot-blooded woman, certainly capable of passion. She stiffened.

  “Drake?”

  “Just a kiss. To tide us over. To get us through one more damned honeymoon night.” He glanced at the top of the stairs. David and Kena had gone to bed hours earlier, but the candle still spilled its glow into the dark upper hall.

  “Drake—”

  “Edwinna, I don’t know what happened in your past— what happened to make you so fearful of this. I cannot even guess, but—”

  She grew rigid. “Nothing happened!”

  “—but I do know we cannot carry the past on our shoulders forever. The burden is too heavy. There comes a time one must lay the burden down, leave it behind, and walk on. God knows, I’m trying to do that with Anne’s death. I’m trying to leave it behind and walk on. Help me, Edwinna. I need help, and I sense you need help, too.”

  “Drake—”

  “Just a kiss.”

  He ached. He could hear her heart pounding in the darkness. He drew her near. She remained stiff but didn’t refuse him. He took one of her arms, pressed a soft kiss to the wrist, to the throbbing pulse point there, and draped it behind his neck, then the other. Even the skin of her wrists burned him.

  He brought her nearer and molded her body to his, thigh to thigh, waist to waist, chest to breast. He panted a little.

  “Just a kiss.”

  She began to tremble as his erection swelled against her.

  “Drake—”

  “Don’t be afraid of my body, Edwinna. It means you no harm. May I kiss you? Just a kiss?”

  Her heart pounded against him. “Yes.”

  “Oh, Edwinna.” He dipped his head and began to kiss her mouth, then pulled back for a startled moment. Her mouth was so hot. Stirred by her heat, he kneaded her shoulders and took her soft, hot mouth in his. Unaccustomed to kissing, she knew only his way of doing it—with mouth bold and open—and it utterly thrilled him.

  “Edwinna.” He drew her closer, dipping his tongue into her mouth. To his surprise, her tongue responded. He sucked on it, worshiped it, plucked at it with his lips while her hands clutched his shirt, her scared heart beating so hard he could feel it.

  Then, overly stirred, on the brink of doing something that might truly scare her, he broke the kiss and held her close, panting against the pulse point in her temple, kissing it. A whimper came from her throat. He kissed her ear, tongued it, whispered hoarsely, “Let’s be together as we should. Come to bed.”

  Her heart pounded so wildly he thought she might surrender to her desire and take pleasure with him. But her eyes were wild—wild and wounded. They were old wounds that he could not heal for her. Only she could heal them, for they went deep, into places he could not see or understand or even guess at. Even before she pushed him away, he sensed that she would and released her. He didn’t want to scare her, only to make love to her.

  She stepped back, touched his cheek, then turned and rushed up the stairs. He followed her up. She went into her room and closed the door, but she didn’t bolt it. Didn’t bolt it! He drew a hoarse breath. She was ready. To give her a few minutes privacy, he went to his room in a state of sexual excitement and washed, shaved for her, put on fresh breeches, nothing else. He went to her room in anticipation, touched the latch. It was unlocked. Drawing an eager breath, he went in and closed the door behind him.

  The room lay in darkness, lighted only by the moon. She stood at her dressing table in a white nightrail, brushing her hair. When she saw him, she dropped the hairbrush.

  “No—no!”

  Astounded, he stopped in his tracks. “Edwinna, I thought—”

  She backed away in a panic. “Don’t touch me. Don’t. Don’t. You’re just like him.”

  “Like who?” Her reaction stunned him.

  “You’re no different from him. I thought you were, but you are not. You’re the same—you’re like him!”

  She was so wild she scared him. “Edwinna...” he said gently, becoming scared himself.

  “No,” she cried out. Her cry was wild, primitive, ringing. She backed away, toward the window. That and her unearthly cry made his hair stand on end. She’d gone insane. The window. She would not...good God!

  Scared, he moved toward her. The window shutters stood open. The drop to the ground would be a full twenty feet. “Edwinna, it’s Drake. Drake.”

  “Don’t,” she cried out, “don’t.”

  “Edwinna.”

  “Don’t!” With a cry of agony, she flung herself at the window. He leaped for her, caught hold of her. “No,” she screamed. “Don’t do it again. Don’t.” She fought him tooth and nail, like a tigress, hitting him, clawing him, scratching him. He felt blood rise on his cheek. He had to struggle with all his might to hold her. He feared to let go.

  “Don’t let him do it to me again—don’t!”

  He shook her ferociously. “Edwinna, who raped you— who? Was it Clive?”

  She raked her nails across his face and lunged back and forth, trying to get free. He held her in a vise, swinging his head away to avoid the worst of her violence.

  “Who raped you, Edwinna? Say it. You need to say it.”

  With a scream of agony she beat on his face with her fists.

  He wrenched his head away. He was getting battered. She was as strong as a demon. “Say it, Edwinna, say it.”

  “No!”

  “Say it.” He shook her fiercely. “Say it.”

  “My father,” she shrieked. In an agony of spirit, she gnashed her teeth and threw her head back and forth. “My father. My father raped me. My father, my father, my father, my father!” She beat on his chest with her fists, the blows gradually subsiding, growing weaker. He gathered her in his arms and held her close. She collapsed against his chest, breathing in agonized rasps that wouldn’t stop. Her breathing was so loud and horrible it sounded like a death rattle, that graveled breathing so penetrating it can be heard all over a house when someone is dying. “My father,” she said over and over again. “My father raped me. My father.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” He stroked her hair, her warm skull. A trunk stood at the foot of the bed. He helped her to sit, turning her to lean on him, holding her, letting her breathe against his chest, those deep, shuddering breaths. Lord. It was worse than he’d suspected.

  “Tell me, Edwinna. Talk about it.”

  “Drake.”

  “You have to get it out. Say it.”

  Weary as death, she forced out the words. “Drake. It was when I was thirteen. He was drunk. He came to my room.

  He—did it to me. He told me if I told anyone, he would hurt Kena—he would hurt Thomas and Harry. I couldn’t let them be hurt, Dr
ake—”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I couldn’t let him hurt Kena and Thomas and Harry.”

  He tenderly crushed her close. God in heaven. Her agonized breathing went on as if it would never stop. He wished she would cry, but she held it in. He brushed her hair from her flushed cheeks with his hand,

  “The worst part was, he didn’t like me after that. He wouldn’t talk to me, he wouldn’t eat with me. He was—so cold to me.”

  He rocked her. “He felt guilty, Edwinna. That’s why.”

  “When I was young, he used to hit me, I was glad when he had his riding accident and couldn’t walk. I was glad when he became an invalid, I was glad—”

  “Of course, you were,” he soothed, rocking her back and forth in his arms.

  “I was glad when he died. I was glad—”

  The heartbreak in that agonized breathing broke his own heart. Her father should have been the one man in the world she could trust.

  “Of course, you were glad he died. Don’t feel guilty.”

  She clung to him so desperately that he expected to find bruises in the morning. “I used to think it was my fault— something I’d done to make him hate me and hit me. And then later, to cause him to—”

  He rocked her. “Rape. Use the word, Edwinna. For your sake, not for his. You need to say it.”

  “—to cause him to rape me.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know. I know that now—”

  “Sob, rant, rave. Get it out, Edwinna.”

  “I don’t know why I slapped you that day in the boiling house. I felt—bad, after.”

  “You were slapping your father, not me.”

  “I-I wanted him to love me and he didn’t.”

  Drake rocked her. “Maybe he didn’t know how to love, Edwinna. Maybe he didn’t know how.”

  He held her as she gasped herself into exhaustion with loud, rasping, hollow breaths. A long time passed before her breathing grew calmer and she slumped against him.

  “Now that you know the truth, you will think me ugly.” Her voice was hoarse.

  He rubbed his cheek on the top of her head, her hair soft and curly. “I think you are lovely,” he said. “There is goodness and kindness in everything you do, and I find that lovely.”

  A choke caught in her throat. “Drake—about bed, I cannot.”

  He kissed her flushed forehead. “I know that. I know that now. And I give you my word, Edwinna. I will never approach you on the matter of bed again. Never. I swear it. You have my word.”

  He moved on the trunk seat so as to cup her face in his hands. In the moonlight her face looked ravaged. “But if the time should ever come when you want me as much as I want you, you need only come to my room. For I would love to make love to you. And I promise you this. It will not be rape.”

  She began to shake now, the aftermath of it all. He helped her to stand. Her knees buckled in exhaustion. Supporting her waist, he helped her to her bed. “Now let’s tuck you in. Then I’ll get you laudanum drops—something to make you sleep.”

  “The servants. They’ve probably heard me.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  She nodded, too emotionally exhausted to protest. When he’d put her to bed and she began to shake even more, he hunted a blanket in her livery cabinet and covered her warmly.

  When he stepped outside the door, he found the whole household aroused. Kena stood in the doorway of her room, stiff and scared. Clustered at the bottom of the stairs around a candle that Honor held stood the other servants, their eyes round and frightened, shining in the candlelight.

  He calmly addressed them. “Mistress Edwinna has had a nightmare, a bad dream. She’s fine now. You can all go back to bed. Kena, go down and fix her a juice drink. Put a couple of drops of David’s laudanum in it.” Nodding, clutching a shawl over her night rail, she swiftly flew down the stairs, and when she came back with the drink a few minutes later, Drake took it in.

  He found Edwinna sleeping peacefully. He left the drink on her nightstand where she would find it if she woke up. He leaned over her, watched her for a long time, then kissed her forehead.

  “Sleep well, Edwinna,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Sleep well.”

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  Edwinna slept until noon—slept through the six o’clock bell and the eleven o’clock bell. Unaware, she also slept through the two visits Drake made to her room to make sure she was all right.

  She awoke with a heart full of misery, her thoughts centered on Drake. Now he knew the sordid truth. He’d been kind last night, but by now he’d had time to think and become repelled by it.

  She wanted to curl into a ball and stay in her bed forever, but that was childish. She was not a child, she was an adult with a plantation to run. Thomas and Harry were counting on her.

  She dragged herself out of bed. A piece of paper lay on the floor, half under the door. She picked it up and recognized Drake’s strong handwriting. Likely, he’d gone to Bridgetown to find a ship to take him to England. Her chest tightening, she read: Stay in bed, Edwinna. Rest. I shall be out in cane field six all morning and would welcome your company if you are able. If not, I will see you this noon when we dine with the overseers.

  * * * *

  He hadn’t left her! That and his kindness of last night gave her the courage to wash, dress, and go downstairs.

  As she went down, midday meal was already in progress. She could hear it—cutlery clattering, chairs scraping, platters clunking on the table board as Honor served in her rough, indifferent fashion. Men’s voices blended, discussing harvest. She knew each voice by heart: Matthew Plum’s dry, good-humored twang; Alvis Nansellock’s high-pitched tenor; James McCarran’s soft Scots burr; Shawn and Valentine O’Brien’s Irish brogue; David’s bridegroom voice laced with happiness and vigor. She knew Drake’s voice best—so full-timbered that even when he spoke quietly, his words echoed for a moment, like the resonance of a fine bell.

  She halted at the dining room door, heart thrashing. She felt suddenly vulnerable, naked, as if everyone could look at her and know her father had raped her. Drake leaped up and came to her the instant he saw her. At the table, talk went on normally. Matthew Plum and Sean O’Brien were discussing the planting of a new provisions field. Drake reached out and took her cold hands in his warm ones.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” She looked into his eyes, dreading what she might see there. Disgust? Dislike? She saw nothing like that—only gentleness and warmth. His interest still burned in the blue depths, unabated, unchanged, unaffected by last night. He knew the worst, yet he was not repulsed. She felt dangerously close to tears.

  “Did—you start cutting field number six?”

  “Yes. I estimate three days to finish.”

  “I think we’ll cut field eighteen next.”

  “We’ll take a bill-cane knife and go out this afternoon, together. You can check it.”

  Then, with his hand firmly on the small of her back, he guided her to her chair, seated her, and went to his own place at the opposite end of the table.

  Dinner talk went on loud and vigorous, but she heard none of it. Drake filled her senses. Oh, dear God. He knew the worst, yet he still liked her, wanted her. Amid the cacophony of harvest talk, she sat silent and still, her eyes on him, everyone else fading from sight, the din of their voices fading until she heard nothing but the singing of her own soul. A tranquil feeling seeped into her—a feeling so sweet she felt close to tears. For a moment she couldn’t identify the feeling. Then she knew. Peace—it was peace. Deep in her soul, the old, painful wound was mending.

  The next few days and nights were hard on both of them. Sexual tension crackled between them whenever they glanced at each other. The candle burning nightly in David’s room didn’t help matters. Drake wanted to take the honeymooners and knock their heads together.


  He dealt with his frustration as best he could. He felt an overwhelming tenderness for Edwinna, but he was a man, not a saint. He couldn’t begin to guess what she might be feeling. But he could take a stab at it. Shame. Relief. Desire. Terror of anything sexual. Distrust. Most of all, distrust.

  He watched Edwinna struggle with her demons for a week, his heart full of sympathy. She wanted to come to him. He saw it in her eyes. Her eyes never lied about anything, and what he saw in them when she looked at him was desire. But he saw terror, too, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about that. That demon was hers to subdue. He couldn’t help. Only she could do it.

  He prepared himself for her each night, washing, carefully shaving, sleeping in breeches lest his nudity frighten her. He even brought a dish of aloe to his nightstand, should she prove eager but so frozen with old terrors that her body’s honey refused to flow. For he didn’t want to hurt her, not even a bit.

  He left the door of his room ajar each night and burned a candle to show her that he was waiting and that she was dearly wanted. Covered with a perforated tin shield, the candle flame sent hundreds of dots of light spinning across the ceiling as he lay there watching, night after night.

  He’d almost given up in despair when, two nights into the second week, she suddenly appeared in his doorway, exhausted, spent, as if she had done battle with a hundred demons.

  He got off the bed, went to her, and cupped her face in his hands. “Edwinna, you’ve come to me.”

  “Yes, I-I’ve come to you, Drake. I want to be a woman. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

  He drew her inside and softly shut the door. She wore a plain white linen nightrail, but to him, at this moment, it seemed lovelier than sheerest silk. Her hair was unbraided, loose, long, lovely.

  He rested his hands on her shoulders. Her skin scorched him. He could feel the heat of it through her nightrail. Yet, she shook like a wind-battered tree limb in a storm.

  “Don’t be afraid of me.”

  “I’m not. Truly, it’s not you I’m afraid of.”

  “Don’t be afraid of my bed.”

  He drew her close. She braced her hands on his chest— whether in fear or desire, he didn’t know. He buried his face in the lush thickness of her hair and inhaled deeply. It smelled of sunshine and trade winds. He burrowed with his lips until he found her ear. “Don’t be afraid. It’s going to be sweet and good. I promise you. And I promise you this: If at any time you wish me to stop, you need only say so. I’ll stop. God help me, it won’t be easy to stop, for I need you. But I will stop. Do you understand?”