© 2015 by Christine Elizabeth Johnson Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-4617-2
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
For my husband, my captain
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Acknowledgments
Sneak Peek of Book 2
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Hope deferred maketh the heart sick:
but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.
Proverbs 13:12
Prologue
October 11, 1846
The gale nearly knocked Elizabeth Benjamin flat. In all of her sixteen years, she’d never experienced such terrible winds, and Key West enjoyed its share of storms. She held fast to her brother’s hand. At eleven, Charlie usually rebelled at her mothering. Not today.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be here.” His words could barely be heard above the howling wind.
Elizabeth was beginning to think the same, but time had nearly run out. Within days, she must sail for Charleston, where she was expected to secure a prominent match. That meant leaving her beloved Key West and the man who had captured her affections. Today might be her only opportunity to change the course her parents had set out for her.
She and Charlie had nearly reached the harbor, where Rourke O’Malley’s wrecking sloop was moored. Just thinking of him bolstered her courage. If he could endure such weather, so could she. Though the rain now pelted down, ruining the fine blue muslin gown she’d donned just for him, maybe he’d see her as courageous.
“Can we go home?” Charlie asked.
She yanked her brother toward the wharves. “We need to secure our skiff.”
The twelve-foot boat belonged to Charlie, but he only went sailing when she bribed him. She adored the freedom of the turquoise seas and seized every chance to improve her seafaring skills. That secret love cost her many an evening helping Charlie complete his studies.
When she’d told her maid this morning why they must leave the house in such weather, Anabelle had shaken her head and proclaimed that Mother would tan both their hides when she found out.
“We will be home before Mother returns,” Elizabeth had assured her. She could wriggle anything past the girl who giggled with her every night after the lamps were blown out. “She’ll never know we were gone.”
The striking, caramel-colored maid grinned. “You’re a fool for him.”
Elizabeth had pretended she didn’t know who Anabelle meant, which was silly, considering their every conversation centered on him. Rourke O’Malley wasn’t the richest wrecker in Key West, but he was by far the handsomest and most daring. He wore his sun-streaked dark hair pulled back at the nape in the fashion popular decades before. His bronzed skin and eyes the color of the emerald depths made her stomach flutter. His smile left her speechless. For the first time in her life she’d seen an advantage to being born female.
If only he would stop treating her like the barefoot child she’d once been. At the last dance, he’d chosen older girls for partners. With her, he talked of the voyage across the straits to his native Harbour Island, or Briland as he sometimes called it, of turtling and wrecking. He inquired after her fishing exploits and noted how she’d sailed Charlie’s skiff past his sloop on a perfect beam reach. Her excellent seamanship ought to show him how perfectly matched they were, but instead he’d danced with empty-headed girls. He’d even bowed and kissed her friend Caroline’s hand, but not hers. Never hers.
Well, today he’d see her as a woman.
Elizabeth stomped forward, pulling the reluctant Charlie with her. They turned off Caroline Street to take their usual route to the wharves, but the boardwalk across the tidal pond was flooded. Though Charlie begged to go back, Elizabeth refused. By the morrow, Rourke might have sailed or, even worse, begun to court one of those addle-brained girls who whispered behind their fans whenever he walked into a room. The ship to Charleston might arrive to whisk her away. Good things did not come to those who waited.
So she tugged Charlie another block to Whitehead Street, which had a small bridge over the narrow end of the pond. Even there, the water ran deeper than she’d ever seen, nearly to the planks. If this gale continued, the bridge would be underwater too, necessitating an even lengthier return.
After they rounded the corner onto Front Street, the wharves lay ahead, but the two-story warehouses blocked her view of the vessels except for a smattering of mastheads. Usually the harbor was so full of ships that the masts sprouted like grass. Some of the masters must have decided to haul anchor and ride out the gale at sea.
Not Rourke. Please, not Rourke.
Heart pounding, Elizabeth hurried her pace over the coral gravel. One foot landed in a puddle, drenching her kid leather shoe. The closer they drew to the harbor, the more water pooled on the ground. Soon wet feet could not be avoided. The skies loosed again. Elizabeth squinted into the windblown rain, trying to make out the warehouses that had been so clear moments before.
The wind shoved each breath back into her chest, which was already aching from the stays she’d insisted Anabelle cinch particularly tight. Only when they reached the lee of Tift’s warehouse could she take in enough air. Though this warehouse was built solidly, the old one nearby creaked and moaned. Charlie pointed fearfully at its roof, which had already lost a few shingles.
Elizabeth could not be deterred by a shaky old building.
She pulled Charlie around the corner and into the full force of the wind. The seas, whipped up by the northeast gale, crashed over the piers and sprayed high into the air. The water, ordinarily several feet below the docks at high tide, now overran them. Charlie’s tiny skiff, once moored with the other dinghies at the base of the nearest pier, was gone. The few vessels left in the harbor strained against their anchor lines, barely visible in the howling mists. With the water so high, they looked as if they could sail straight onto Duval Street.
Charlie’s hand gripped hers even more tightly. Perhaps he’d been right.
She couldn’t see Rourke’s sloop through the rain and sea spray. He must have left with those who chose to weather the storm at sea. All her
preparations had been for naught. If he did not return once the storm passed, she had no choice but to sail for Charleston. He would return. He had to return.
“We’ll go home,” she shouted, but the wind carried her words away.
Charlie clung to her. Terror danced in his eyes.
She motioned back toward the way they’d come. This had been a bad idea. Best return while they could. But before she could move, a terrible blast of wind caught her voluminous skirts and shoved her to the ground. She lost hold of Charlie, and the slight boy fell to his knees.
She reached for him, but her fingers brushed just short of his hand. “Charlie!”
He could not hear.
She tried to rise, but the wind pressed her down. It suffocated like a blanket pressed over her face. Only by lowering her mouth to the crook of her elbow could she draw in a breath.
Her brother struggled to his feet only to tumble farther away.
She crawled toward him. The rough coral rock ripped at her lace and bows, and sand ground into the fine muslin gown.
Then she saw the waves. They’d crested the wharves and rolled toward her, turning the land into a shallow sea. The first wave dampened her hands and knees. The next rolled in deeper. She tried again to stand, to get to Charlie.
He stared at her, his eyes wide. He could not swim, had refused to learn.
Oh, that she had not donned six petticoats and a bustle. In the murky water, the garments tangled around her legs and weighed her down. Oh, that she’d listened to Anabelle and stayed home where she belonged. If anything happened . . .
Elizabeth could not allow doom to seize a toehold. This moment required courage.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “I’m coming for you!”
Charlie showed no sign he’d heard her.
With all her strength she rose to her hands and knees and inched toward her brother. He’d reached high ground near the old warehouse and was safely out of the water. If he could get into the lee of the building, he could stand. If he had the strength. If the water didn’t rise higher.
Again she attempted to stand. The swirling water knocked her down. She cried out. Seawater filled her mouth. She gagged on the brine and coughed it out. When she’d regained her balance, she noticed the surging sea had carried her even farther from her brother.
Despair knocked, but she could not let it take hold. She must reach her brother, but how? Another wave rolled past, and she struggled to hold her ground.
The sea! Rather than fighting the waves, she could use them to her advantage. If she allowed each one to push her forward and angled toward the warehouse, she could reach her brother and bring him to safety.
Crack!
The sharp report came from above. Looking up, she saw with horror that the warehouse roof heaved up and down. Shingles swirled like a maddened flock of gulls. A piano-sized section tilted upward, a giant flap of heavy wood, and then a gust ripped it free. For one agonizing moment the chunk hung in midair. Then it began to spin. Down, down, down.
“Charlie!”
He did not hear.
She waved her arms.
He did not see. The section of roof struck him on the back of the legs. He flopped to the ground like a rag doll.
“Charlie!” This cry proved as useless as the first, for he did not move so much as a finger.
Fear drove her limbs through the churning waters. He could not be dead. God would not let an innocent boy die. Charlie hadn’t even wanted to come to the wharf. She’d talked him into it.
Please, God. Let him live.
She hoped her fervent plea would be enough to capture divine attention. Yet as she drew near and saw the pallor of her brother’s face, she knew that her words had blown away on the wind.
1
Four Years Later
Off the Florida Keys
Crack!
The sharp report jolted Elizabeth from the muddle of dream and memory.
A quick survey of her surroundings confirmed she was indeed aboard the schooner Victory, not battling the hurricane that had devastated Key West. The dull light from the gimbaled oil lamp revealed little of the cabin’s mahogany paneling, but it illuminated the worried faces of her maid and great-aunt. The lamp squeaked and tilted with each pitch and roll of the vessel. Aunt Virginia eyed it with the same suspicion she’d harbored since Charleston.
“This voyage will be my death.” Aunt fluttered a plump hand before her pallid face.
Elizabeth gritted her teeth rather than point out that her great-aunt was the one who had insisted on joining them. Instead she forced a smile. “Soon we will reach home.”
Home. Her stomach knotted at the thought of what awaited her there. Charlie. The terrible void that Mother’s death had left. She took as deep a breath as her stays would allow, but neither the pain nor the stale cabin air could remove the crushing numbness that had gripped her since they’d received the news.
She brushed at the wrinkles in the black crape skirt and then grabbed the bunk’s frame when the ship pitched sharply forward. Her chair scraped an inch or two across the plank floor before the vessel righted.
“We’re going to drown,” wailed her great-aunt, who occupied the lower bunk. The sixty-five-year-old woman had kept company with a bucket from the moment they’d left Charleston harbor. Other than the stop in Saint Augustine and the brief pause at Fort Dallas to take on a pilot, she either moaned or complained for every one of the six hundred miles.
Elizabeth had lost patience five hundred and fifty miles ago.
“We’re perfectly safe.” She said the words automatically now. Her mother—Aunt Virginia’s niece—had suffered the agonies of yellow fever. What was a little tossing about on rough seas?
“But those terrible noises. It sounds like the ship is going to break to bits.”
Though the noise that had jolted Elizabeth out of troubled slumber had sounded unusual, admitting it would send Aunt Virginia into hysterics. So again, she consoled. “Those noises are normal aboard ship.” Two sea voyages might not have made her an expert, but she had heard the creaks and groans of many a moored vessel when she was a girl. “A seafarer grows accustomed to such things.”
“Perhaps sailors do, but not us poor women.” Aunt launched into the next part of her endlessly repetitive argument. “I don’t understand why the captain didn’t offer us his quarters. We would have been much more comfortable there. If Jonathan knew, he would dispense with the man at once.”
Elizabeth tried again to emulate her mother’s patience. After all, that was the entire purpose of the voyage, to prove to Father that she had matured into a proper young woman. “We are fortunate the mates offered us their room.”
“You make it sound as if they gave up fine accommodations.” Aunt Virginia swept a plump arm to encompass every corner of the cabin. “Two bunks!” She sniffed. “Straw mattresses full of fleas.”
“It’s better than sleeping in hammocks with the crew.”
“They wouldn’t dare. My nephew owns this ship.”
“I understand he owns a share of it,” Elizabeth corrected, “along with other investors.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there.” Aunt Virginia heaved a petulant sigh and dabbed at her mouth with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I simply hope we arrive before I perish.”
Elizabeth’s maid, Anabelle, rolled her eyes, the whites stark against her caramel complexion. “Ain’t no one be doin’ no dyin’.”
Anabelle spoke flawless English and could read and write, but Aunt Virginia looked suspiciously on any Negro who had learning. After the first whipping, Anabelle had chosen to play the role of a simpleton in front of Aunt Virginia. Elizabeth had been indignant at the rough treatment, but Anabelle begged her to let the matter rest. Raising a fuss would only make her life more difficult.
“When will this end?” Aunt moaned.
“It won’t be much longer.” Elizabeth offered her a sip of lukewarm tea.
“I don
’t want any of your tea. It’s dreadful, probably moldy. Heaven knows how they keep anything dry on this ship. Why, water is running down the wall.”
Elizabeth’s gaze shot to the wall behind the bunk. “Impossible.”
“Don’t you believe me?” Aunt harrumphed. “The bedding is positively damp.”
“But that’s an interior wall.” She reached across her aunt and did indeed feel dampness. That wasn’t good. She needed something to distract everyone from this disturbing discovery. “Let’s read from the Bible. I’ll fetch a lamp.”
Aunt waved a hand. “Have your girl bring it.”
While Elizabeth pulled her aunt’s Bible from her trunk, Anabelle unfastened the lamp from its holder. With sure steps, she carried it to Elizabeth.
“Would you be wantin’ me ta hold it for you, Miss Lizbeth?”
“I suppose you must.” She was grateful her aunt didn’t mention again the inconvenience of not having a lamp near the bunks. “Bring your stool near.”
Once everyone was situated, Aunt Virginia suggested a passage. “Shall we have the parable of the prodigal son, Elizabeth dear?”
More like the prodigal daughter. No doubt her aunt had chosen that particular parable to point out Elizabeth’s faults. After all, she was now returning home without having accomplished the one thing her parents had insisted upon—marriage. She regretted adding yet one more disappointment to her father’s heavy burden.
“Perhaps the wedding feast at Cana would be better?” Aunt hinted with a gleam in her eye.
Even worse. Elizabeth had discouraged every suitor who’d called at her aunt’s house. Aunt scolded that she was too particular, but none could compare to Rourke. Elizabeth had tried, truly she had, but the men of Charleston paled alongside a daring wrecker.
“Cana it shall be,” Aunt decided. “A wedding always lifts one’s spirits. Soon you’ll be out of mourning and able to accept suitors, though with one exception I can’t imagine there being a single respectable gentleman in such a godforsaken wilderness.”
“It is not a wilderness, and there are plenty of respectable gentlemen.”
Love's Rescue (Keys Of Promise Book 1) (Historical Romance) Page 1