The Bride's Rescuer

by Charlotte Douglas

  The cloudless sky appeared bleached white by the sun, and a strange stillness filled the air. He shivered with foreboding.

  “Mr. Alex!” Noah ran toward them from the dunes. “Barometer’s dropping like a dead man. Hurricane’s coming!”

  Cameron leaped to his feet and motioned to Noah. “Help me carry this furniture inside. Then we can batten down the shutters.”

  “A hurricane?” Celia asked. “How can you be sure?”

  “Noah’s worked these waters all his life. He knows the signs.”

  “How bad will it be?” she asked.

  He wished he could answer, but he had no clue whether the approaching storm was a Category One or Five, whether it would bear down on them with a storm surge from the gulf or rip across the state from the Atlantic. He had heard about the devastation Hurricane Andrew wrought on South Florida over a decade earlier and wondered if any of them would survive such a storm on the fragile barrier island.

  Mrs. Givens and Celia moved furniture off the veranda, carried in extra water from the cistern, and stripped the ripe vegetables and fruit from the garden for drying and canning after the storm passed. Cameron and Noah secured the boats and fastened shutters over the windows and doors of Noah’s cottage and the main house.

  The wind picked up before they finished and sent dead palm fronds cartwheeling down the beach and stripped sand from the dunes. Palms bowed before the gale as darkness closed in on the island.

  “Will you stay with us?” Cameron asked Noah.

  The handyman shook his head. “I’ll be fine at my place. I need to keep an eye on things there.”

  Cameron watched him leave, aware that if Noah’s cottage fell to the winds, the big house would probably perish, too.

  Mrs. Givens served a cold supper in the dining room. She had brought supplies from the kitchen before Cameron had secured the shutters. No one would risk the open passage between the house and the kitchen again until the storm had passed.

  After supper, with Celia and Mrs. Givens, Cameron settled in the living room to wait. The air hung hot and heavy with moisture in the enclosed house, and while Mrs. Givens expressed a yearning for a cup of tea, the added heat of a fire would have been intolerable.

  Cameron sat on the sofa and sipped a brandy, avoiding the portrait of Clarissa and Randolph illuminated by the lamp on the mantel. Mrs. Givens picked up sewing from her basket, and Celia flipped through the pages of a months’ old magazine. Everyone was too jittery to concentrate on anything but the gathering force of the wind outside.

  The first blast of rain shook the house, and the tumult of the downpour joined the roar of the gale, making it impossible to hear anyone speak. Wind-driven rain oozed in under the doorways, and Cameron, with Celia’s help, scurried to move furniture and roll the oriental carpet out of harm’s way.

  The case clock on the mantel struck ten o’clock, but Cameron could barely hear the chimes above the screaming gusts that buffeted the house and shook the shutters until he feared they would tear loose and fly away. A crash and breaking glass sounded upstairs, and Mrs. Givens rose as if to check the source.

  “Leave it,” Cameron shouted and waved her back into her seat.

  Across the room, Celia turned pale as the storm increased in ferocity, and Cameron recalled her earlier panic attack during a thunderstorm, spurred, no doubt, by memories of the storm that had shipwrecked her boat and almost killed her. He crossed the room, took her hand, and led her back to the sofa. After drawing her down beside him, he curved his arm around her shoulders, flashed her a smile, and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

  Her look of gratitude almost undid him, and he was thankful for Mrs. Givens presence in the room to restrain him from following his instincts.

  In another hour, the howling diminished and the shutters stopped rattling like a freight train barreling through. He could feel Celia’s tension ease.

  “Well, that’s that.” Mrs. Givens stood, shook out her skirt, and folded her sewing away. “I’ll check the kitchen and make a cup of tea before bed.”

  “Wait,” Cameron warned. “We might be in the eye.”

  “Eye?” the woman asked.

  “Hurricanes have a center of dead calm,” he explained. “If you venture out while it’s passing over, you might be caught in the other half of the storm.”

  “Cameron’s right,” Celia said. “Please wait until we’re certain the storm has passed completely.”

  The housekeeper resumed her seat and her sewing, wiggling impatiently as the calm lengthened in the darkness outside the house. When the clock chimed midnight, she set down her handwork.

  “I have to have a cup of tea.” She stared at them as if daring them to contradict her.

  At that moment, a wall of wind struck the house with such force, the building shook on its pilings. Mrs. Givens sat down quickly, her thirst apparently forgotten.

  Cameron rose and poured everyone a snifter of brandy and passed them around. “To ease the waiting.”

  Celia sipped hers, and he noted with a pang of sympathy how violently her hands shook. He longed to comfort her, but restrained himself. Once the storm had passed, they would be saying goodbye. Giving in to his desires would only make that parting more difficult.

  The storm continued, and the structure of the house seemed to come alive, as if it breathed. Cameron could feel the straining of the walls, the pressure of the winds, and the lifting of the eaves, as if the roof were preparing to peel away. Above the shrieking of the wind, the sharp report of objects slamming into the house jolted them, but they were prisoners of the storm, caught in the fury of the tempest, unable to do anything but wait.

  The brandy must have made Celia drowsy, because in spite of her obvious jitters, she fell asleep on Cameron’s shoulder. He sat without moving, unwilling to awaken her, reveling in her closeness.

  WHEN CELIA AWOKE, gray daylight filtered through the shutters, and Cameron and Mrs. Givens were gone. She found them upstairs in the room across from hers, inspecting a rafter from the henhouse that the storm had pitched through the roof like a javelin. Wind-driven rain soaked the furnishings.

  “It’s all ruined.” Mrs. Givens’s chin quivered when she spoke.

  “These things can be replaced,” Cameron said. “We’re lucky the wind didn’t rip the roof from over our heads.”

  The rain and gray skies gradually gave way to a brilliant Florida day, and Noah joined Celia and Cameron outside, herding the cow back in its shed, which lost only a portion of its roof, taking down shutters, clearing debris, gathering the scattered hens back into their coop and staking the battered plants of the garden.

  The storm had approached from the east, sparing the island the devastation of a storm surge. Inches of fresh rain filled the cistern, and aside from the damage to the henhouse and the upstairs room, Solitaire had come through the hurricane relatively unscathed.

  After a day of rigorous work and the lack of sleep the night before, Celia fell into bed exhausted that night, but the hurricane had unbound memories she had worked hard to leash.

  She dreamed of sailing her boat into the gulf off Clearwater Beach as she’d done when fleeing from marrying Darren. The sky sparkled clear and blue with only the sheerest wisps of cirrus above her. The brisk wind drove her craft swiftly through the calm waters, out of sight of land. She felt the exhilaration of freedom—freedom from the disastrous marriage she’d almost made.

  The first hint of trouble was the strange green light dancing on the mast and lines, like the errant strikes of an electrical storm. Then the sea heaved and boiled around her, whirling in a maelstrom of green that reached into the sky, and she couldn’t tell where the water ended and the ominous dark clouds, glowing neon green, began. The boat spun wildly out of control, and she grasped the side, hanging on with all her might to prevent the centrifugal force from flinging her into the green darkness. The boat rotated faster and faster, and when she could hold on no longer, she screamed, certain she was going to
drown.

  “Celia, wake up!” Suddenly Cameron was beside her, crushing her to his bare chest.

  “The storm—”

  “Shh.” He brushed her hair from her face and rocked her in his arms. “It was just a dream.”

  She realized she was no longer dreaming, but safe in her room on Solitaire with Cameron beside her on the bed. He lifted her in his arms, carried her to the chair, and sat with her on his lap, rocking her like a baby and whispering comforting assurances in her ear.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  In the darkness of the tropical night, she faced the terror that had almost killed her and relived the ordeal of the storm, describing in precise detail every bit of the experience, dragging it all from her memory, hoping to purge it forever with the telling. At times her voice wavered, and tears slid down her cheeks, but Cameron gripped her tighter, and she forged ahead. When she finished, he cupped her face in his hands and pulled her toward him.

  “My God, Celia, how can I let you go?” His words erupted in a guttural groan, and his lips crushed hers.

  She spun again into a maelstrom, not of darkness and terror and cold green light, but a whirlpool of heat and passion that started at the core of her being and radiated outward. Aware with every fiber of her being of his body pressed against hers, she returned his kiss with a fervor she’d never known.

  When the kiss ended, she gasped for air and answered his question. “You can’t send me away. I belong to you for all time.”

  “I should have taken you to Key West while I had the strength, before the fever—”

  His mouth claimed hers again, and her body melded to his. She splayed her hands across the broad expanse of his warm, bare chest where his heart beat with an insistent primal rhythm. With tender urgency, he tugged the nightgown over her head and pushed her back on the bed beneath him. The heat in his gaze simmered in the moonlight.

  “You are so beautiful.” His words echoed like a prayer.

  She opened her arms to him, and he hastily stripped away his clothes, standing tall and golden before her as she remembered him from his morning swim.

  He covered her with his warmth, his lips grazed her throat, her breasts, and his hands trailed reverently over her body, causing shivers of delight.

  “I never knew love could feel like this,” she said, struggling for breath against the delicious sensations.

  “I want you, Celia, but—”

  She pressed her fingers against his lips. “No buts, no regrets.”

  With a groan of surrender, he kissed her again, and she opened her mouth to his, mingling their breaths, tasting the essence of him. Her heart pounded like the surf on the beach, and she arched beneath him. He positioned himself above her and with forceful gentleness, drove his body into hers.

  She cried out with pleasure and clasped him closer, oblivious to everything but the pulsing thrust that joined them together in a bond as old as time. With eyes wide open, she feasted on his face, memorizing every detail of him against the time when she might have to leave. Caught in the blaze of passion, she still registered the glow of moonlight that surrounded them, the kiss of the tropical breeze, the weight of his body on hers, the rich, masculine scent of him, the smoothness of the sheets against her back, but most of all, the powerful, riveting plunge that shattered solitude and isolation. She savored it all, capturing the feelings and images to last a lifetime, if need be.

  Fiercely, tenderly, he cried her name, and it reverberated in the midnight darkness. In an explosion of sensation, she tumbled over the edge into a star-studded oblivion where nothing existed but the two of them.

  After a moment, Cameron slid next to her and drew her against him. She nestled happily in his embrace, sated and content.

  “I love you, Celia.” His breath caressed her ear. “Marry me.”

  Chapter Ten

  With happiness coursing through her, Celia sat up and stared at him. “You’re serious?”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  Cameron’s response stunned her into silence. She wanted nothing more in the world than to remain on Solitaire with him, but his mercurial personality left her curious, wondering why he’d undergone yet another change of heart.

  “Would you rather I take you to Key West?” he asked.

  She could hear the disappointment in his voice, but a cloud obscuring the moon kept her from seeing his face clearly.

  “No! Please don’t send me away.”

  He grasped her shoulders, then slid his hands down the length of her arms. She responded to his touch with a shiver of pleasure, an echo of the intimacy they’d just shared.

  “If you remain on Solitaire,” he said, “it must be because you love me. I couldn’t bear having you here if you didn’t return my love.”

  She lifted her lips to his once more, then after a long moment, pulled away. She would, she assured herself, learn to live with his changing moods. “I do love you, Cameron, and I will marry you, as soon as you wish.”

  He pulled her down beside him, sculpting his body to hers like nesting spoons. “Sleep well, Celia. We have much to do tomorrow.”

  In the warm shelter of his arms, she fell instantly asleep.

  Had she known what the future held for her, she wouldn’t have slept at all.

  “WHO’D HAVE THOUGHT? A wedding on Solitaire.” Mrs. Givens beamed her approval when Cameron announced their plans at breakfast. She placed the last of the hot dishes on the sideboard and left them alone in the dining room to complete their plans.

  Celia gazed out at the perfect day. The morning, like her heart, was filled with sunshine. A mocking-bird’s song floated in on the clear, cool air, and the gentle breeze, laden with the smells of saltwater, ruffled the curtains.

  She gazed across the table at Cameron, thinking how she would begin each day for the rest of her life having breakfast with him. His hair was growing back, and he’d lost his punk rocker aura.

  “Cameron—”

  “Yes.”

  “I was just thinking how little you know about me. How can you be sure you want to marry me?”

  His smiled melted her heart. “I know you are beautiful and intelligent, compassionate and brave. What more could any man wish for in a wife?”

  “A sense of humor?”

  He looked startled for a moment, then laughed. “That, too.”

  “Did Clarissa have a sense of humor?”

  The dry toast crumbled in his hand. “I won’t speak of her.”

  “But if I’m to be your wife—”

  “You are unlike Clarissa in every way, and I love you for it. Let the matter rest at that.”

  The severity of his tone ended any further discussion, but Celia hoped that Cameron would come to trust her more. She willingly dropped the topic of Clarissa for the subject that was foremost on her mind.

  “How can we be married here, without a minister or notary or justice of the peace?”

  He grasped her hand and kissed her palm. “We’ll proclaim our own vows.”

  “But will that be legal?”

  “I’ll prepare papers for us to sign and be witnessed by Mrs. Givens and Noah.”

  “Why don’t we just sail to Key West and be married there?”

  Cameron set his teacup down carefully and wiped his mouth with his napkin before he spoke. Celia had the feeling he was playing for time.

  “Since you are remaining on the island, there is no need for us to appear in Key West and advertise our presence here.”

  “Very well.” In her lovestruck state, Celia would have agreed to almost anything. “We’ll be married here. But when?”

  “Next week.”

  She was surprised at the delay. He had seemed so anxious for them to be married immediately. She loved the man, but she understood him hardly at all.

  “There’s much to prepare,” he explained.

  “Like what?”

  “First, we must locate our vows in The Book of Common Prayer in m
y study and learn them.”

  Celia couldn’t see why memorizing a wedding ceremony would take a week. Cameron must have read her questioning expression, because he rose from his chair and stood behind hers with his hands on her shoulders.

  “Dearest Celia, just because we don’t have a church to be married in doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t have the grand wedding to which you’re entitled.”

  She remembered the small but elegant ceremony planned for her wedding with Darren and shuddered. “But I don’t want a grand—”

  He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, stifling her protest. “The sky will be your cathedral and the sounds of the waves your orchestra. We’ll be married on the beach at sunset.”

  She turned and pulled him into her arms. “I love you.”

  Again he smiled, erasing any doubts she’d felt about the legality of their marriage.

  “Mrs. Givens,” he said, “will prepare us a wedding feast. We can serve it under the chickee on the beach after the ceremony.”

  “The hurricane blew it down, remember?”

  “Then we’ll ask Noah to build us another one.”

  He tugged her from her chair, lifted her off her feet, and whirled her around the room. Then he set her down and kissed her long and hard, until the room whirled while she stood still.

  “I never believed I could be a happy man. You have given me hope.”

  Whistling, he went off to his study to find the prayer book, and Celia carried the breakfast dishes out to the kitchen.

  “I’m so happy, m’dear, for both of you.”

  Celia couldn’t tell if the redness in Mrs. Givens’s eyes was the result of tears or her proximity to the smoking woodstove. She explained to the housekeeper about their plans for the wedding, and if Mrs. Givens considered the ceremony unorthodox, she kept her opinion to herself.

  On the subject of the wedding dinner, she offered her enthusiastic support. “I’ll bake you a wedding cake the likes of which you’ve never seen. But what will you wear?”