The True One (One and Only Series Book 2)

by Samanthya Wyatt

  She softened her movements. Two could play at this game.

  Unsure of her hasty decision, and ignoring any thought of changing her mind, she caressed his muscles as she drew the cloth in circles. She’d never done anything so outrageous before. Her fingers slowed as she moved across his chest, making sure she covered every devilish inch.

  Again, she dipped the cloth in the pan of water and wrung the excess. Her eyes fastened on springy, auburn curls glistening with moisture. She tried to swallow. Realizing she sat there with a stupefied look on her face, she glanced up to meet his all-knowing gaze. Good Lord, she’d never had a man look at her so. His green eyes electrified her. While staring into their depths, his irises darkened. The breath caught in her lungs. She dropped the cloth.

  The sound of the light plop jerked her attention. “Oh.” She quickly recovered, wrung the cloth again, and rinsed away any remaining soap on his mantle of fur. Recalling his early statement, and mindful of his ribs, she eased the cloth down his torso, and lower. Her eyes caught on the sheet just below his . . .

  The linen lifted.

  Chapter 7

  His arousal grew and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  And, he didn’t want to. Seeing the flush spread over Jennifer’s cheeks delighted him more than he could have imagined.

  “Well? Are you going to wash the rest of me?”

  Her gaze flew to his. “You can wash that part yourself.”

  “But I’m so tired and my arm hurts.” He enjoyed this fun at her expense.

  She grabbed the soap and lathered the rag with a vengeance.

  He sucked in his breath. If she grabbed him vigorously, he’d couldn’t be responsible for the consequences.

  Instead of grabbing him there, where he wanted, the cloth landed on top of his thigh.

  “You saving the best for last?”

  “I am not going to . . . touch your . . . privates.”

  “But it needs to be washed. Dirt and grunge could develop some malady. What if it falls off?”

  “I’ve never heard anything so preposterous.” She gave an unladylike snort, but the pressure on his leg remained the same. She moved her hand to the inside, closer to his aching crotch. His manhood bounded to full blown attention as if responding to a bugle call-to-arms.

  Her hand froze. Right between his legs. God, it felt wonderful. If his legs were in better shape, he would close them and trap her there. His manhood gave a jerk.

  She nearly squealed, but closed her lips tight not allowing her voice to escape. Her expression initiated a chuckle, but he swallowed before it could leave his throat.

  Damn the woman was made of stern stuff. She resumed her duty and quickly washed the rest of his leg and its partner. He nearly swallowed his tongue when her fingers slid the soft cloth between his toes. He’d have to remember that and file it away the next time he made love to a woman.

  For he was damned determine to get out of this God-forsaken bed. He’d been a whole man. He would be again. And the next conquest on his list was the lovely widow.

  When she rose to go, a hint of disappointment sprang in his chest. Only to be quickly replaced with anticipation. She was no bit of fluff. This woman trooped like an ostrich. Long extended legs, from his perception, and her head buried in the sand. He looked forward to ruffling her tail feathers. Anticipated extracting her head out of the sand and introducing her to pleasure. The kind a man stimulated in a woman.

  The sun’s rays made their way through the sweltering air over the small farm. Jennifer suffered the humid haze blurring the country side as she dug in the dry soil. She wiped her face with the back of her wrist, smearing more dirt across her brow. Since she’d been on her own, she did what she could to survive. Her meager vegetable garden helped to keep her fed.

  For two weeks, she’d battled with a stubborn ox. The tenacious captain was slowly driving her out of her mind. He had demanded wood to make some sort of brace for each leg, then whistled while he carved the supply of sticks she’d chopped from the branch. He’d managed to fasten the device, a strap of leather below his knee and another around his thigh preventing his feet from touching the ground, offsetting any pressure to his ankles. Then he fashioned a crude crutch, one for under each arm, adding several knobs at the bottom which resembled a spider with legs. Until he explained his reasoning, she thought his creation absurd. But he demonstrated the protrusions would help to balance each prop on its own weight.

  How he managed to stay erect was beyond her imagining. But he did it—his wobbly appearance as ludicrous as his crazy idea. Now he sat in front of her little house, watching her.

  “Why in God’s name are you in this country?”

  “If you are going to grumble, you can go back inside.” She returned to her digging.

  “And miss this lovely day?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. He’d requested a chair brought outside, then grumbled when she tried to help him. With his wood-caged feet propped upon a log, the uncanny picture would have been ludicrous if not for the constant stare of those scorching green eyes.

  “You’re English. I would think fancy balls would be customary?”

  Once. The reminder brought an ache to her chest. She shoved the irritant away and directed her vexation to heave the shovel into the ground. “Have you forgotten where you are?”

  “What of your hands? A woman’s hands should be soft. Not calloused from doing man’s work.”

  She spun around. “Do you see a man around here? You think I’m incapable of taking care of myself?”

  “I think you’re an extraordinary woman.”

  His rugged voice managed to set her heart racing, more than the physical exertion of digging in the dirt.

  “You’ve proven you can manage on your own. You can’t blame a man for wondering what an English lass is doing on the opposite side of the world.”

  She would never admit how much she hated her life. How her husband brought her to this country and abandoned her. “What difference does it make? I am the way I am.”

  “You still haven’t told me about your husband. Except that you don’t have one.”

  Was the man clairvoyant? His question too close to her own weary deliberations. “You ask too many questions.”

  “All right.” A thoughtful grin crossed his clean-shaven face.

  How different he appeared. The bruising had faded making him look less sinister. Even with his menacing looks, the man was devastatingly attractive. More than likely, he’d left a trail of broken hearts in England, and in every port his ship had docked.

  “What would you like to know about me?” His question took her by surprise.

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Oh come now. You must be curious. Isn’t there something you’d like to ask me?”

  “Only when you will leave.”

  He laughed out loud. Motioning to his legs, he replied, “I think I may be here a while. Are you tired of my company?”

  No. She looked forward to every enlivening moment. No longer lonesome. No longer cut off from the world. If not a companion, she could pretend she had a friend.

  “Come sit with me. Get something cool to drink.”

  More orders. But the idea sounded pleasant enough. She’d gone down to the stream early this morning for fresh, cool water. Dragging another chair outside, she fetched two cups and retrieved the jug she’d left in the shade. Handing one cup to Stephen, she sat in the opposite chair.

  After a few moments of silence, her tense muscles began to relax.

  “You’re a woman alone and you’ve taken on quite a burden with me.”

  Of all the things she might have expected him to say, those words surprised her.

  “I admire your strength,” he went on. “I want you to kn
ow I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I will repay you.”

  “There’s no need. I would have done the same for anyone.” She took a sip of water and enjoyed the refreshing rush in her throat.

  “But you took care of me. I’ve not been beholden to any one—ever. I was in pretty bad shape.”

  “I thought you would die.” Her voice caught. Without looking at him, she felt the heat of his gaze.

  “I too, thought I was at my end. But as you can see, I don’t give up easily.” His voice stirred the nerves under her skin.

  “You were . . .”

  “No need to talk about it,” he said with some force, but she heard his anguish.

  They sat in silence.

  After some time, he gave a heart-felt sigh. When he spoke, his words were low. “When I was a boy, a friend of my father owned a ship. He talked of life at sea. Spoke of his many voyages, which sounded like great adventures, to me. I looked forward to his visits with relish. Of course, I wanted to experience adventures of my own.” He stared into the distance.

  “My father had his own ideas. He raised me to follow in his footsteps, be a man of import. But I dreamed of the sea. Of being on a ship, with the wind in my hair. Seeking new lands. I even tossed around the whim of being a pirate.” He gave a soft chuckle.

  “At nineteen, I decided I needed to be on my own. The social order was not for me. Although I did enjoy the ladies, new exploits called. At the right time, too. My father’s friend arrived for one of his visits, and I asked to sail with him.”

  “And he said yes,” she added.

  “He said yes.” His voice sounded more depressed than excited.

  “What did your father have to say?”

  “He told me to follow my dreams. Which surprised me in a way. Then again, he always encouraged us to be independent. Kat and me.

  “Kat.”

  “Most times I call her Kitten.”

  “So you sailed away and left your family behind.”

  Stephen turned with indignation. “Who? My parents? My sister? A man needs to be a man. I had no other responsibilities. Nothing to hold me back. So I sought my deepest desire.”

  “And you became a captain with your own ship?”

  “Aye, I did. The sea became my home. I visited my family when the wind blew me in their direction. After my parents died, my responsibility to Kat made me return home more frequently. But then, my love for my little sister is well-rooted, and has grown deeper since our parents’ deaths.”

  “Your affection reflects in your voice when you speak of her.”

  “Do you have siblings?”

  A hollow ache filled her chest at his question. How she wished she could see her family. How desperately she wanted to go home.

  “A sister.” She feared her voice would catch if she said more.

  “Another as beautiful as you? The ton must have been on their ear with two exquisite beauties roaming about.”

  She flushed. He’d known just what to say to keep her sentiments at bay.

  “The dandies must have had apoplexy at your coming out. Not knowing which one to choose.”

  “Isabella is younger.”

  “That’s worse. They took one look at you and knew what a beauty she would be. How did your father handle the constant parade at your door?”

  What a rascal. Still, her heart lifted.

  “There were no lines of suitors. I’d made my choice.”

  “Ah yes. The husband. I’m surprised your father allowed his daughter to live in a land such as this. And alone.” His bushy brows drew together in a frown as he gave her an accusing glare. “Or does he know your husband has departed?”

  “No, he does not,” she said after a long hesitation.

  “Of course he doesn’t! What kind of father would allow his daughter to live the way you do?”

  Her hackles rose. “I’m doing just fine thank you.”

  He smiled. “You are at that.”

  Tension eased from her shoulders. Who could stay miffed with a smile that melted your bones?

  “You’re a strong woman, Mrs. Jennifer. What is your husband’s surname?”

  “What is the name of your ship?”

  His face hardened and his eyes turned dark. “I have more than one.”

  “How about the one you were on when you came to this country?”

  He waited so long to answer she thought he wouldn’t.

  “Serpent’s Ghost. She’s a real ghost now. She lies at the bottom of the sea.”

  “I’m sorry. You said you had more.”

  “Ships can be replaced. Men cannot.”

  The sky did not have to fall for her to figure out she’d trekked into forbidden territory. What happened to his crew? Had they suffered the same fate as him? She had a million questions, but dare not ask any of them.

  His face glowed harsh in the morning sun. She imagined him on a ship with the sun glimmering streaks of gold in his dark red hair. A full beard the same auburn would suit a captain. Arms crossed, feet apart, sprinkles of ginger curls on a bare, burnished-bronze chest. A current of awareness whizzed through her veins at the vision her mind created.

  Heat suddenly infused her cheeks. She waved a hand to fan herself. What was wrong with her, having such thoughts about a man she barely knew? This simply would not do. She must stop imagining him with his clothes off.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be touched by another man. To be held, his arms tight around her. And she wasn’t immune to the attraction of this one. She shook off her doldrums.

  “You are welcome to stay here as long as you need.” The time would come for him to leave soon enough. Until then, she must keep her mind on practical things. Like food, and . . . chores . . . and . . .

  Warmth engulfed her. She glanced down to find his hand covered hers. He lifted her fingers to his lips. Her breath caught. She stared in awe—and anticipation.

  “Thank you.” His voice rasped.

  Her eyes darted to his. Flurries swamped her stomach. Trapped, his gaze held her spellbound. Moments ticked by. For how long, she didn’t know. Didn’t care. She wished he would kiss her. Take her in his arms and kiss her on the mouth.

  Her lips parted on a hopeful perception.

  Until he touched her, she didn’t know he’d moved. The tip of his finger traced her lips.

  “Soft. Like velvet. Full. So tempting. If I could reach you, I’d haul you onto my lap.”

  Like a bucket of water suddenly flung in her face, she snapped out of her irrational stupor, and jerked back.

  “I need to fix dinner.” She jumped from her chair like her seat was on fire. Turning, she scampered inside, embarrassed by her reaction. No sound came from the man outside. Maybe he didn’t find her humiliation amusing after all.

  Chapter 8

  Jennifer looked up at the thin man sitting on the grey steed with his elbow resting on the saddle-horn. Bright sun outlined his form. Strands of dark hair stuck out from under a well-worn hat. Close set eyes framed a crooked nose and the mustache above his lip barely hid the leering grin of even white teeth. The thought of him falling off his horse gave her a brief moment of satisfaction. If only she was a man, she’d take pure delight in yanking him off and hurling him to the ground.

  “Good morning to you, Mrs. Faircloth.” His fingers tapped the brim of his hat.

  “Mr. Barincott.” She gave a nod, returning his greeting.

  “What a lovely morning it is.”

  It was till you showed up.

  When he shifted in the saddle, she held her breath praying he would not dismount. Not because she didn’t like the way his evil gaze slid down her body, or because his sinister smile sent revolting chills down her spine. Frankly, it w
ouldn’t do for him to find an unexpected man in her house.

  How in the world would she explain Stephen’s presence? What if Barincott connected Stephen to the men who’d captured him? The fiends may be looking for him this very moment. Barincott knew too many people. Originally from England, he’d made his home in India. She wasn’t sure how long he'd lived here. He was well-known when she and Johnny arrived.

  “What brings you here, Mr. Barincott?”

  “Just being neighborly. Thought I’d come by and pay a visit. See if you needed anything.”

  “No, sir. I’m fine.”

  “Sir? That sounds so formal.” This time when he shifted his weight, he threw one leg over and slid to the ground.

  Her muscles tensed.

  “Why don’t you call me Abraham?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Barincott. It would not be proper for a widow, still mourning her husband to be so familiar.”

  “I admire you for keeping to the English customs.” He took a step closer. “However . . .”

  “I was on my way to the stream,” she blurted out. He absolutely could not come any closer. She prayed Stephen still slept. She scurried to her little porch and quickly retrieved two buckets.

  “Allow me to go with you.”

  “Oh that’s not necessary.” Before she could further protest, he took the buckets from her with a guileless smile. Any more objections would make him suspicious.

  “A lady should not have to carry heavy buckets when a gentleman is around.”

  Gentleman—could be disputable.