by Holt, Cheryl
“Why not?”
“Girls don’t…swim. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“My sisters learned how, but then, my mother was very lenient.”
“You had sisters?”
“Yes.”
It was the first personal tidbit he’d shared. “How many?”
“Three.”
“Any brothers?”
“No. I was the only boy.”
“Where are they now? Have you any idea?”
“No. I haven’t been home in a long time.”
“How long?”
“A decade.”
“Have you corresponded with them?”
“No.”
“Why not? Weren’t you close? Don’t you suppose they worry about you?”
“I wasn’t able to correspond.”
“Why not?”
“I just…wasn’t able.”
She scoffed. “You hoard your secrets like a miser hoards his gold.”
“I was taught the hard way to shut my mouth and keep my secrets to myself.”
She couldn’t guess what that meant or why anyone would deliberately prevent a brother from contacting his sisters, and she was positive she’d never pry an explanation out of him. Instead, she asked, “What must your sisters be like now? If it’s been ten years, would they have changed?”
“Probably not. They were very smart, very strong-willed—as my mother was. They’re all in their twenties. I’m expecting they’re all married and each of them has five or six children.”
“So you’re an uncle several times over.”
“Huh. I hadn’t considered that. All of it seems so far away, as if I never lived in England and was never related to them.”
“Will you ever head home to find out what’s become of them? Aren’t you curious?”
He paused for a protracted interval, but didn’t reply. Then he sat up and stood. “You don’t want to swim, but I do.”
She shooed him toward the ocean. “Don’t let me stop you from enjoying yourself. Just don’t start to drown. I won’t rescue you.”
“Ha! As if you could.”
He tugged off his stockings and boots, and he went over to the water’s edge. He was large and lithe, and he moved like an athlete or perhaps like a lion she’d seen at the zoo in London. She was tantalized by him and simply couldn’t look away.
He reached for his shirt and pulled it off, tossing it on the sand. He studied the waves for a minute, then he waded out and dove under one of them, coming up on the other side so he was floating where it was deeper. He grinned at her, then swam out from shore.
Once he spun away, her merry expression collapsed, and a frown marred her brow. In the quick instant when he’d yanked off his shirt, she’d had an unobstructed view of his back.
It was a mass of scars, his skin criss-crossed with whip marks as if he’d been frequently flogged. Had he been? The prospect distressed her.
In the short period they’d been acquainted, she’d convinced herself he was merely a brigand who’d enriched himself by engaging in illicit activities. But clearly, there were facets to his history that she hadn’t recognized.
What conduct could a fellow exhibit that would get him so violently lashed? How many times had it occurred? How had he survived such brutal punishment?
He’d been very nonchalant about the scars, and obviously, he didn’t mind if she observed them. He wasn’t concerned, but she was incredibly troubled.
She suffered a surge of powerful emotions: fury at his mistreatment, sadness over his injuries, indignation over the viciousness of the chastisement. It was such a cruel world, and she’d been sheltered from its perils. Men traveled in foreign lands and embarked on adventures women weren’t allowed to experience, but those journeys brought great risk.
The evidence of his maiming rattled loose a torrent of protective sentiment. He was hers now, and it would always be her duty to guard him and keep him safe.
She walked over and grabbed his shirt, folded it, and laid it on the sand where the tide wouldn’t catch it. Then she turned to the water, her eyes glued to him, wishing she could draw him back with the force of her thoughts.
He noticed her watching him, and he swam toward her, sweeping in on a wave, and he rose up from the surf like an ancient god of the sea.
His hair was wet, droplets cascading down his shoulders and chest. The sight of all that damp flesh tickled her insides. He looked…beautiful.
Could a man be beautiful? Yes, definitely.
Without a word, he scooped her into his arms, then he was kissing her and kissing her. She kissed him back with all the fondness she could muster.
She was stretched out the length of him, so she could feel every inch of his strapping frame. He was so tall and manly, and next to him, she seemed small and frail, desperate for his friendship and the security he could provide.
Just that moment, with the sun shining down and the breeze cooling her heated torso, she believed any wild conclusion might be possible.
“Come in with me,” he murmured between frantic kisses.
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“You can. Come.”
He picked her up and tromped into the waves, and she shrieked with dismay.
“I can’t ruin my dress!” she sternly advised him.
“I don’t give a damn about your dress,” he crudely muttered. “I’ll buy you a dozen more.”
“I don’t need a dozen more. I simply need this one—dry and in good shape when we return to camp. I can’t strut in all bedraggled.”
“I don’t care how you appear later on. I only care about now.”
His fingers were busy, slipping the buttons through the buttonholes.
“I’m not disrobing!” she fumed. “You can’t see me in my undergarments.”
“I won’t peek.”
She clucked her tongue with offense. “Liar. You’ll absolutely will.”
“Maybe.”
He grinned, not ceasing his mischief with her buttons. Nor had he stopped his progress into the ocean. The hem of her skirt was dragging, already very heavy.
“I’m not taking it off,” she said again.
“Fine, then. You can leave it on.”
Despite her protests, he marched out, and swiftly, the water was at his waist, then his chest. She was soaked, her dress completely drenched.
It had been very hot that morning, so she hadn’t put on her corset, choosing instead to gad about as if she were a native. Under her gown, she had on chemise and drawers, so she wasn’t anywhere close to naked, but it seemed as if she was. She’d never previously been in such a risqué situation.
She didn’t know what to think. As with the prior night when they’d snuggled under the palm trees, she realized she should have felt ashamed or guilty for her sinful conduct, but she didn’t feel much at all except an overwhelming sense of excitement.
Who would ever discover their misbehavior? She’d never tell a soul, and he was hardly the type to blab about the raucous incident. The beach was deserted for miles in each direction. How could it matter if she had fun with a man named Nine Lives?
He shifted her so her arms were wrapped around his shoulders, her legs around his waist. They moved farther out to where the waves were breaking. They weren’t that high, but with her not being a swimmer, they seemed big and scary.
“We’ll duck under the next one,” he said. “When I tell you, shut your eyes and hold your breath.”
“Don’t let go of me.”
“I never will, Helen. I’ll never let you go.”
A wave approached, and as it began to crest, he said, “Now.”
She did as he’d instructed, and it swept over their heads. In seconds, it swished on by. They ducked down another time or two, then they were past the surf and out where the water was very calm.
She was laughing, sputtering, wiping droplets from her face.
“Are y
ou all right?” he asked. “I haven’t drowned you?”
“I’m all right,” she insisted. “In fact, I’m very, very grand.”
They were nose to nose, floating, her body pressed to his in several intimate spots. Her garments were plastered to her skin, and with the fabric being so thin, she might not have been wearing any clothes.
The interval was charged with erotic energy, and it dawned on her that this was why young ladies were so meticulously chaperoned. Their virtue was constantly at risk. Other women—older, wiser women—understood what Helen had not. Passion was dangerous. Passion was addicting.
She’d always viewed herself as being very prim and prudent, but apparently, she had wicked tendencies. Was she more like her licentious father than she’d comprehended? How horrid! How frightening!
“You’re frowning all of a sudden.” He’d immediately noted her change of mood.
“I was thinking about my father.”
“You’re nestled in my arms, and you’re thinking about your father? Obviously, I haven’t sufficiently distracted you.”
She chuckled. “I’m so happy to be with you like this, and it has me wondering if I’m not more like him than I should be.”
“Are you worrying you might be a bit dissolute?”
“Yes, I’m worrying exactly that.”
“I like a female to be dissolute.”
“You would, you bounder.”
“If your father is such a wretch, why is he a minister? Why doesn’t he find a career where his awful habits wouldn’t matter?”
“He was raised to the church, and he’s really very good at sermonizing. People love to listen to him. Until…well…”
“Until when?”
“He has an eye for the ladies, so he gets himself into jams he can’t get out of, and he’s not very discreet, so he’s always caught.”
“With parishioners, you mean? He has affairs with women in his parish?”
“Ah…it’s been known to happen.”
“Why is he still a vicar?”
“He’s not. He’s been defrocked.”
“If he’s no longer a preacher, why is he on Tenerife? Didn’t you tell me he assumed he had a new church in Santa Cruz?”
“He’s joined a missionary society of evangelicals.”
“He sounds like a very interesting fellow.”
“He is—despite his flaws.”
“And he sired you. I deem that to be a marvelous development.”
“Yes, he claims I’m his signature achievement.”
“He’s correct.”
She couldn’t believe she’d mentioned her father’s foibles. It was too humiliating, and by traveling to the Canary Islands, she’d been determined to start over, to leave the past behind. Why confess her father’s sins? Why admit them?
She snuggled closer and rested her cheek on his chest. He kissed her hair, her shoulder. It was the dearest moment of her life.
“Don’t fret over him,” he said. “Not today.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t discuss his troubles much, do you?”
“Not hardly ever. Not unless I’m forced to.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
“So am I.”
They were silent, floating. After awhile, she said, “When you took off your shirt, I saw the scars on your back.”
For the briefest instant, he froze, then he relaxed. “They’re such a part of me I forget they’re there. I forget how ghastly they look.”
“Do they hurt?”
“Not too much. If I’m in a place where the air is very dry, they’ll itch and chafe, but mostly, I ignore them.”
“Why were you flogged?”
“Oh, I could cite a dozen reasons.”
“It occurred more than once?”
“Yes. I have a smart mouth and a bad attitude. I’m not very subservient, so I never obey orders. It’s not in my nature.”
“I’ve noticed that about you.”
“I could never shut up when I ought. I nearly perished on a dozen different occasions.”
“That must be why your nickname is Nine Lives.”
“Yes. My will to survive is astonishing. I’m simply too stubborn to die, but could we talk about something else?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t like to remember my ordeal. It’s distressing. I had some difficult years, but they’re over, and it’s pointless to obsess.”
“I’d wipe away your scars if I could,” she told him.
He snorted with grim amusement. “You’re sweet, Helen. I wish I’d known you when I was still in England.”
“Why?”
“I was a better person then. I wasn’t the disreputable beast I am now.”
“You’re not a beast.” She paused, then laughed. “Well, not all the time anyway.”
“My temper is short, my patience has vanished, and I don’t suffer fools very graciously.”
“Who does?”
“Who indeed?”
He pushed off the bottom, and suddenly he seemed very grumpy.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Have I upset you with my questions?”
“A little, but I’ll get over it.”
“I’m not sorry I pried. You fascinate me, and I’m anxious to learn every detail there is to discover about you.”
“I fascinate you? If we’re both fascinated, we’ll probably grow to be annoying and ridiculous.”
“Probably. Will you ever tell me more about your trials and tribulations?”
He pondered, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Apparently, he was weary of conversation. He began kissing her again, and she joined in with incredible relish. She was happy as she’d never been, merry as she’d never been. In his arms, she felt pretty and special and cherished.
Although he was tough and dangerous, surrounded by his partner and his sailors, he appeared very alone to her. And very lonely. There were empty, broken spaces in his heart that had to be healed.
She provided a balm he desperately needed, and she made him happy too. She made him glad he was with her. Where would it lead? She had no idea, and she was eager to find out.
They kept on, the sun gradually finishing its journey across the sky. As it was sinking in the west, he drew away.
“We should climb out and ride back,” he said.
“I suppose we should.”
They stared, smiling, a thousand unspoken comments swirling between them.
She wanted to confide in him, wanted to tell him she was lonely too, that she was alone too. She wanted to tell him how grueling it had been to weather her father’s scandals, how ashamed she was to have their name disparaged by all. She wanted to tell him how excited she’d been to travel to Tenerife and start over.
But in light of the tragedies he’d endured, her paltry problems were so petty. If she mentioned them, he’d likely deem her a weakling or a dunce. He was so enamored of her, and she refused to dampen his esteem.
They turned toward the beach, the tide guiding them to shore. When they reached the sand, he set her on her feet.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, and she asked, “Will your horse be able to find his way in the dark?”
“Yes, don’t worry.”
“Do you imagine my dress is ruined?”
“You can wash it in the creek at camp. If it’s wrecked, I have plenty more. You can pick another.”
He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on, then they plopped down and tugged on stockings, shoes, and boots. They stood, and he stopped for a moment to deliver a final, stirring kiss that rattled her senses and her bones.
He leapt into the saddle, then he swung her up in front of him. He murmured to the horse, and the animal lumbered off, evidently realizing they were in no hurry.
She snuggled herself to him, loving the feel of him, strong and steady against her back.
&
nbsp; “This was the best day ever,” she said.
“I agree.”
“I wish it never had to end.”
“We can sneak off in the future. There’s no law that says we can’t.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be around tomorrow?”
“I have some business in town, but I’ll be here afterward.”
She was dying to ask what business he had to handle, but if he’d thought she should know, he would have told her.
“I’ll miss you while you’re away,” she said.
“I like the sound of that.”
He nuzzled her cheek, and she expected him to voice a profound remark, but he didn’t, and very soon, there was no further chance for conversation. Up ahead, she could see the camp’s fires.
They rode in, and Tom had been waiting for them. He ran over to balance her as she slid down.
“Goodnight, Helen,” Nine Lives said.
“Goodnight.”
“Sleep well.”
“I will.”
She assumed he’d dismount too, but he turned and trotted off in the direction from which they’d just come. She tried to watch him depart, but he was quickly swallowed by the shadows.
Tom watched him too, his gaze worshipful, as if Nine Lives was his hero.
“I’m betting supper is over,” she said to him.
“Yes, but I saved a plate for you. It’s in your tent.”
“Thank you. Is my sister there?”
“Ah…no.”
“It’s awfully late. Where is she?”
“She’s walking with my brother, Will.”
“Oh.”
He leaned nearer and whispered, “I think she’s sweet on him.”
At the disturbing news, there were a dozen responses she could have uttered, but she didn’t suppose a young boy should hear any of them.
“I’m grateful for the plate of food,” she said instead. “I’m starving, so it’s a marvelous treat. I’m delighted that you remembered me.”
“I like to be helpful,” he politely replied.
She went into her tent, a single lamp burning to light her way, but it was much too quiet. Becky was strolling with a swain—in the dark—when she shouldn’t be, and Nine Lives had dumped her off and flitted away as if he was glad to be shed of her.