The Bride's Rescuer

by Charlotte Douglas

  Celia remembered from the newspaper clipping that Clarissa and Randolph had been murdered in Devon and thought how tragic that his place of happiest memories also held his saddest.

  His eyes took on the faraway glaze of memory, and she wished she could see pictures of him as a boy. Maybe he had looked like young Randolph in the portrait above the mantel, handsome and appealing with his mischievous smile.

  “I pretended I was a ferocious pirate,” he said with a smile, “burying treasure in the recesses of the cliff caves. Exploring the caves was forbidden, of course.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “In many ways. I could have become lost or trapped by an incoming tide.”

  “Weren’t you frightened?”

  He threw back his head and laughed with a warm, hearty sound that drove a night heron from his perch in the palm above them and sent it squawking down the beach. “The prohibition and the danger made it all the more exciting. With the invulnerability of youth, I never really believed that anything bad could happen to me.”

  “You must have been a trial for Mrs. Givens.”

  His laughter faded and his face clouded. “I have caused that poor woman more than her share of pain, yet she has always loved me as a mother would, nonetheless.”

  “Do you miss your work in England?” Celia tried to ask casually, knowing she treaded closer to dangerous ground.

  He finished the last of his sandwich, wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, and then rummaged through the basket, coming up with a ladyfinger banana. “I hated working in the mining offices, trapped behind a desk every day, dealing with a thousand problems and people who seemed to create difficulties when they should have been resolving them.”

  She watched, mesmerized by the beauty of his strong hands as he peeled back the yellow skin of the banana, bit off a piece and chewed it fiercely.

  “And the farms in Devon?” she asked.

  He finished the fruit, dug a hole in the sand, and buried the peel. “I would have spent all my time there if I could, but they were ably managed, farmed by men whose families had been there for generations. The mines took almost all my attention from the time I finished university.”

  “That was a young age to be put in charge.”

  “What choice did I have? My father was dead, and the business was mine. I began work the day I left Oxford and never quit until—” He fell silent.

  Gathering her courage, Celia plunged into the question she’d wanted most to ask from the beginning. “Do you miss her?”

  “Who?” He would not look at her, but lay back and covered his face with his forearm.

  Celia wanted to see his eyes when she said the name, but they were hidden from her. “Clarissa.”

  “I do not speak of her. Ever.”

  Her feet were planted solidly on dangerous ground then, but with the prospect of leaving Solitaire the next day, Celia felt she had nothing to lose by forging ahead. “Sometimes it helps ease the pain to talk of those we’ve lost.”

  “I cannot.” He spit the angry words at her, but he did not move, and she saw a tear slip from the corner of his eye and roll across his cheek.

  Stymied in her attempt to learn more of his relationship with Clarissa and remorseful that she had caused him pain, she gave up the conversation and busied herself repacking the picnic basket.

  Her heart ached at the thought of his love for Clarissa and the pain her death must have caused him. Celia would have given anything to have him love her with such faithfulness.

  When she’d finished putting away the remnants of lunch, Cameron still stretched out upon the blanket with his arm thrown across his face. She could tell from his steady breathing and the rise and fall of his chest that he’d fallen asleep. She sat for a while, drinking in the sight of him, storing it in her memory against the day when she would never see him again.

  The trilling call of a pileated woodpecker in the tree above her broke her reverie and turned her attention back to her surroundings. She gazed toward the gulf where a tall stand of Spanish bayonet with creamy blossoms framed the delicate sea oats and prickly pear cactus between her and the wide, white beach, fully exposed at low tide. Seaside purslane, inkberry and railroad vine held the sand fast against the dune and added splashes of green, yellow and pink to the canvas before her. She felt like a stranger in paradise.

  The warm sun made her drowsy, and she looked back to the sleeping Cameron. The end of her time with him was fast approaching, and she longed to make the best of it. She pulled off her shoes and lay beside him. He stirred at her movements and turned on his side toward her. As easily as coming home, she curved her body into his, pulled his arm around her waist, and fell asleep.

  Sometime later, the slanting rays of the sun slipped beneath the sheltering canvas and beat upon her face. She awakened with a start, alone. She could see the sailboat anchored beyond the surf, but Cameron was nowhere in sight.

  She tugged on her sneakers and set off down the beach, following his footprints in the sand. Several hundred yards away, she found him, sitting on a dune with his elbows on his knees and gazing out to sea. He stood when he saw her, brushed sand from his clothes, and walked to meet her.

  Celia ran to him, and he lifted her in his arms, kissing her as fiercely as he had before. She twined her hands in his hair, holding him fast, yielding to the pressure of his lips on hers, rejoicing in the strength of his embrace.

  Too soon the kiss ended, and, breathless, she gazed up at him. “Tell me now that you don’t love me.” Triumph filled her voice.

  His eyes burned into hers. “With God as my witness, I love you, Celia.”

  He crushed her to him once more, and when he spoke, she could feel his lips against her hair and his breath on her cheek. “But love isn’t enough. It can’t save you.”

  The solemnness in his tone frightened her, and she pulled back and scanned his face. “What do you mean?”

  “You must run from this place as fast as you can, Celia Stevens. Flee for your life—while I still possess the strength to let you go.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Because I do love you, tomorrow I will take you to Key West and leave you there. You must forget you ever met me.”

  “No!” She dug her fingers into his arm and shook him. “I will never forget you. Why must you send me away?”

  She began to cry in hoarse, choking sobs, trying to comprehend his actions, his reasoning, and failing utterly.

  “You must go for your own safety,” he said.

  “Safety from what?”

  Cameron said nothing and wouldn’t look her in the eyes.

  “I’m safer here,” she insisted, “than anywhere else in the world.”

  He pulled away and stalked down the beach into the breaking surf. Mindless of the saltwater soaking her shoes and the hem of her skirt, Celia followed.

  “I’m begging you, Cameron, please let me stay. I’ll share your exile with you.”

  He stood in the surf, gazing westward, for what seemed an eternity. Then he leaned over and splashed his face with seawater. When he finally spoke, his voice was mechanical, stripped of all emotion. “We must start back if we’re to reach Solitaire by dark. And you must get to bed immediately tonight. We’ll leave before dawn in the morning.”

  He strode back up the beach, gathered the canvas, blanket and basket, and loaded them into the boat. With her shoes and skirt already waterlogged, Celia didn’t wait for his assistance. She climbed aboard on her own and huddled into the bow for her long, final ride, back to Solitaire.

  Chapter Eight

  Cameron hadn’t counted on falling in love with Celia Stevens, although he should have recognized the danger the day he rescued her from the beach. From that moment on, her beauty and courage had tugged at his heart, regenerating feelings he’d thought forever dead. He’d spent more time with her because he’d wanted to, couldn’t keep away from her any longer, no matter how hard he tried.

  Loving her as he did, he ad
mitted reluctantly, he had only one acceptable course of action.

  Avoiding Celia’s gaze in an effort to maintain his determination to send her away, Cameron steered the sailboat toward home. His emotions fought to overcome the rationale of his resolve. Sending her away would be the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. She had brought him back to life after so many years of numbness and despair. His days would be empty again without her vivaciousness, her self-reliance, her spirit, and most of all, the radiance of her smile and the music of her voice.

  After only a few miles, she moved and sat beside him, close enough that she didn’t have to shout above the wind.

  “Why can’t I be safe on Solitaire?” she insisted.

  He struggled to think of a plausible reason. He couldn’t tell her the truth. “It’s too isolated. If you were to become hurt or ill—”

  “You and Mrs. Givens take that risk.”

  “It’s our choice.”

  “And if I choose to stay?”

  “I can’t accept that responsibility.”

  Her eyes, as changeable and beautiful as the gulf waters, scoured his face. “Can’t or won’t?”

  Fighting the desire to pull her into his arms and keep her with him always, he looked away. “Both.”

  “But if you love me—”

  “Because I love you, I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

  “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need protecting. I can take care of myself.”

  For a moment he almost believed that she could. Then he remembered Clarissa and Randolph, and his determination hardened. “I’ve made up my mind. There’s no changing it now, Celia. You might as well save your breath.”

  His frustration gave his voice a hard edge, and she flinched at his words. He wanted to soften them, but thought better of it. She would leave more willingly if she believed him angry with her.

  And she had to leave. Her life depended on it.

  The fight seemed to leave her, and she withdrew into herself. They sailed for hours through the labyrinth of channels and bays that surrounded the emerald mangrove islands, but they might as well have been moving through darkness for all the attention either of them paid to the world around them. Neither spoke, and the uneasy silence lay between them like a stone wall.

  The wind dropped late in the afternoon, and Cameron had to make long, sweeping tacks to take them back to Solitaire. As a result, night fell while they were still miles away, and the stars had been out for hours when Cameron finally secured the sailboat to his dock.

  Refusing his help, Celia climbed out onto the pier. The boards rumbled with the pounding of feet, and Mrs. Givens approached, like a schooner under full sail.

  “Praise God! You’re back.” She stopped beside Celia and fanned her plump face with her apron as she caught her breath.

  “Of course we are.” The words were the first Cameron had spoken in hours. “You mustn’t allow our delay to upset you so. The wind failed us, or we’d have been here sooner.”

  “Isn’t you I’m worried about,” the housekeeper said. “It’s Noah. He should have been back early this afternoon, and I’ve seen no sign of him.”

  Even in the darkness Cameron could read the concern that contorted the old woman’s face.

  “Maybe he’s run away,” Celia suggested. “Maybe the loneliness here finally got to him.”

  “Run away to be taken in by the law?” Mrs. Givens asked. “Not likely he’d chance that. I fear he’s been picked up by the marine patrol—or worse still, lying sick or injured alone in the Everglades.”

  “Get me a lantern and some water,” Cameron said. “Noah cuts grass on a dry prairie a mile or so inland. I’ll look for him there.”

  Mrs. Givens scurried back to the kitchen, and Cameron, anxious for the well-being of his friend, raced to the front of the house and went inside.

  CONVINCED THE TWO OF THEM had forgotten her, Celia sat at the edge of the dock, dangled her feet above the low tide, and worried about the gentle black man who had treated her so kindly. A hundred things could have happened to him—snakebite, sudden illness, a fatal machete cut, drowning or an attack by wild animals—and now Cameron was heading into the darkness to face the same perils.

  His footfalls on the deck alerted her to his return, and she stood to face him. “I’m going with you.”

  He shook his head, his handsome jaw set in a firm line. “You’ll only slow me down. If Noah is injured, the sooner I can reach him, the sooner I can help him.”

  She longed to accompany him, not only to aid in the search but to spend every minute possible with Cameron before he took her to Key West. But the stubborn set of his mouth convinced her his mind was made up about going alone, and she abandoned her insistence.

  Cameron had donned a leather jacket, a broad-brimmed hat and boots that reached to his knees. A heavy pistol was thrust in his belt. He patted the weapon. “The mate to this is in the bottom drawer of my desk, loaded and ready to fire, and a loaded rifle is hanging on the wall of my bedroom. If any stranger sets foot on the island while I’m gone, don’t hesitate to defend yourself.”

  He clambered into the boat. Mrs. Givens returned with bottles of water and a lantern. Without looking back, he pushed the boat away from the dock, raised the sail, and headed through the darkness toward the mainland.

  “Now I have two to worry over,” the housekeeper said with a sigh.

  Full of worry herself, Celia placed her arm around the woman’s shoulders, and together they returned to the house.

  “How can you be certain Noah didn’t just decide to leave for good?” Celia asked.

  “Remember the feeling I had this morning that something terrible was about to happen? I don’t think I would have felt that way if Noah was only going to desert us. He must be hurt.”

  Celia had no reason to trust Mrs. Givens’s premonitions. “I don’t suppose he left a note or anything?”

  She shook her head. “I checked his house. All of his things are still there.”

  They entered the kitchen where Mrs. Givens made tea and tried to convince Celia to eat something, but the knot in her throat made swallowing impossible. She ached for Noah in danger in the Everglades and for Cameron, but most of all, she mourned her own loss. Cameron’s search might delay her departure for a day or two, but as soon as Cameron returned, with or without Noah, she would be leaving Solitaire for good.

  “Get yourself up to bed, m’dear,” Mrs. Givens said. “You’re all wore out. I’ll waken you if Mr. Alexander returns.”

  Celia was too tired to disagree. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, undressed and pulled on her nightgown, but her mind raced with memories of all that had happened that day, and she knew she couldn’t sleep. She pulled the rocking chair from her room onto the veranda, thinking to rock herself into slumber, but the open doors to Cameron’s room caught her attention. She abandoned her chair and entered his room.

  Shameless in her desire to learn all she could of the man who’d claimed he loved her, she lit the lamp on the dresser. The evidence of Mrs. Givens’s handiwork was everywhere, from the freshly swept oriental carpet and polished furniture to the vase of fresh flowers on the dresser, but the room held little imprint of its occupant.

  In a tray on the bureau lay silver-backed brushes with strands of golden hair caught among the bristles, a porcelain shaving mug and a long razor with a brass guard. The drawers held stacks of linen handkerchiefs, soft white shirts and undergarments, and socks in both cotton and silk. Nothing told her any more of Cameron Alexander than she already knew.

  She opened the tall armoire and inspected the row of slacks and jackets that hung there. Pressing her face into the fabrics, she inhaled leather, saddle soap and pipe tobacco, combined with the distinctive scent of Cameron himself. Rows of polished boots lined the bottom of the closet, and on the top shelf stood a row of hats. She was closing the door when she caught sight of a box shoved behind the headgear. After pulling a chair over to the closet, she stood on i
ts seat, moved the hats aside, and withdrew a leather container the size of a dress box.

  Sitting on the bed, she opened the box. Inside she found a baby’s christening gown, fashioned of long tiers of delicate batiste and lace, and a tiny lace cap. Beneath them nestled a silver cup engraved with the name Randolph, a small toy dog on wheels, carved from wood, and a little boy’s sweater, knitted from navy blue yarn. At the bottom of the box lay a long, white envelope, unsealed. Inside, she discovered several locks of blond curls.

  Her heart ached for Cameron as she surveyed his souvenirs, all he had left of his son. She repacked them carefully and returned the treasures to their hiding place. She looked for other boxes, but there were no other keepsakes, nothing at all in Cameron’s room to give any indication that Clarissa Alexander had ever existed.

  After blowing out the light, Celia returned to her chair on the veranda, wondering why Cameron had preserved so many memories of his son but none of his wife. He had refused even to speak of her. Did he fear that by loving Celia he was being unfaithful to Clarissa’s memory, and had that fear motivated him to remove her from Solitaire with all haste?

  Cameron was a puzzle Celia had been unable to solve, and she was unlikely to have more of a chance. Even if she managed to find out what made him tick, she thought with a deep sigh of frustration, it would do her little good. Within days she’d be out of his life forever.

  “Celia?” Mrs. Givens spoke behind her, and Celia started with surprise.

  The housekeeper placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Didn’t mean to frighten you, m’dear. I just came up to see that you’re all right.”

  “I can’t sleep, not until Cameron’s back safe and sound.”

  “Come down to the kitchen with me,” Mrs. Givens said. “I’ve a cheery fire going and a boiling kettle for a fresh pot of tea. We can pass the time together until Cameron returns—or we fall asleep in spite of ourselves.”

  An approaching thunderstorm, her worry over Cameron, and her sorrow over her imminent departure made Celia hungry for companionship. She wrapped a shawl over her gown and followed Mrs. Givens downstairs.