by Moira Rogers
“Well that rules out Guy. The man couldn’t forbid water from running uphill.”
“He does carry a certain ease about him,” she agreed. It was an ease Victor lacked, but it hadn’t kept her from being drawn to him. “Forbidding doesn’t always mean bad things. The sea is as forbidding as it is beautiful.”
“I love the sea.” It sounded like an admission, quiet and a little self-conscious. “I grew up in the west. On the plains. The prairie goes on for miles.”
“Really?” This tiny glimpse was more than he’d ever willingly shared before. “I traveled through once. On the train, going to California. With all that grass, it felt like being out in the middle of the Atlantic.”
“Mmm.” He did something with one of the ropes that inched the sail to the side, and the canvas snapped under the strong wind. “I was a cowboy for a while. Not the best job for a werewolf, but at least I healed fast.”
The urge to close her eyes and imagine him roping calves, covered in dirt and sweat, was almost overwhelming. “Did you like it?”
“Wasn’t quite as glamorous as the stories make it sound, but it was a job. My nephew still owns the ranch, though it’s not much to see right now.”
She wondered if the ranch was like the rest of the drought-plagued land she’d heard about, dust-dry and overworked and blowing away in the wind. Maybe it was whole, dead but still rooted together and waiting for rain. “Bad times come and go,” she whispered. “They can’t last forever.”
“No, they can’t.” His voice held sorrow. Exhaustion. “Werewolves have long memories, though…and times are pretty bad.”
What had happened to put that look in his eyes? What had driven him from his home, all the way to New England? Maybe he would share it, in time. For now, Simone felt as though the slightest push too hard could shatter the fragile truce they shared.
So instead of questioning him, she smiled gently. “You’ve been a cowboy and a bootlegger. What else have you been, Victor Bowen?”
“Farmer. Smuggler.” He returned her smile, a hint of mischief sparking in his eyes. “Gambler. That was fun. More fun than lobster fisherman.”
He had a beautiful smile, one that shocked the truth out of her. “I’ve never been anything.”
Both of his eyebrows crawled toward his forehead in an expression of polite disbelief. “You and Joan have done quite a bit.”
“Joan has.” She hadn’t meant to sound so lost. Ashamed. “I just follow along after her.”
“That’s what makes them alpha,” Victor replied, tone firm. “She and Seamus both. Being strong or dominant or just stubborn, none of it matters compared to that spark. They want to lead. No shame in following someone like that.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“No perhaps about it, doll. Guy may be easygoing, but he’s a strong wolf. So am I, and a lot of the men who follow Seamus. Doesn’t say anything bad about us, just good things about him.”
What he couldn’t know was that Simone had been the same way before meeting Joan. She’d allowed herself to be swept along, with no real control over her own life. “Right.” She tilted her face to the sky and the clouds again. “There’s one that looks like a ball gown.”
He didn’t try to change the subject back. “My brothers would have counted that as a pretty lady.”
She couldn’t resist a wink. “Because it curves in all the right places?”
“Like all the best things in life.”
Sometimes, like now, he looked at her like he wanted her, after all. Like she belonged in his arms. “Too bad I’m not wearing a fancy dress. You could be my Prince Charming.”
“A prince with a dubious past, maybe.” He looked away from her, reluctantly enough to light a warm glow of hope inside her. “You don’t need a beautiful dress. You make trousers and paint spatters elegant.”
I want you to kiss me. An ill-advised plea, because it would only renew the uneasy tension between them. “Thank you.”
A gust of wind snapped the sail again, filling the suddenly awkward silence. Victor studied the horizon, then cleared his throat. “I think we might have a squall headed this way. Might be best for you to go below and stay out of the rain.”
Before she could argue, a fat drop of rain splashed on her cheek, followed by another. Simone laughed and rose. “Consider me convinced. Yell if you need me.”
The area below deck was small, just shy of cramped. A sleeping berth occupied much of the available space, its width smooth and neatly made up. She sat on the edge of the bunk, unable to resist the urge to run her fingertips over the coarse blanket.
It was warm, but too rough. Victor needed a quilt, something heavy enough to hold off the chill but more comfortable than the loosely woven wool. The blanket would make decent batting, though, and perhaps she could talk him into letting her sew something—
A dangerous train of thought, far more so than her earlier imaginings of him naked in this very bed. One was about sex, pleasure, and the other…
Intimacy. The small cabin heated quickly, and Simone peeled off her coat. A wooden crate wedged beside the bunk held books, and she lifted them one by one, curiously examining the titles.
The crate held everything from travel journals to several works of Shakespeare. A crisp ten-dollar bill had been placed in a battered copy of Macbeth, and she opened the book to the scene, late in the play, of soldiers marching on Dunsinane Castle.
Had he put the bill there for safekeeping, or did it mark his place? She laid the book back in the crate, and it brushed free a photograph which had been tucked behind a slat.
It featured a large group—a family, judging by the resemblance—bearing the careful smiles and stilted poses of a studio photograph. The father and mother were easily identifiable, and she counted thirteen children, with ages ranging so widely that some were no longer children at all.
Like Victor, who stood tall at the back of the group, looking only a few years younger than he did now. Simone studied his face, even drew her fingers across it before snatching her hand away.
These were Victor’s personal things, his private things, and she had no right to be rifling through them. He’d offered her the hospitality of his cabin. She couldn’t repay it by nosing around in his belongings.
Simone replaced everything and stretched out on the bed. The warmth of the cabin combined with the movement of the boat lulled her, but even more comforting was the way she could smell Victor on the blanket and pillow.
As she drifted off, she had to admit that his scent, more than anything else, was what soothed her into sleep.
They sailed into Searsport harbor under an overcast sky. Victor had a feeling that Simone had drifted to sleep, cocooned in the warmth of his bed, but that was an image so stirring he didn’t dare give fantasy the weight of reality. It would be bad enough to return to sleeping there with her scent wrapped around him, a scent that wouldn’t fade for days.
A part of him—and not a small part—warmed in anticipation.
Slim had come through with the first part of their deal, at least—securing a slip for him in the busy harbor. Victor docked without hassle, tying off with the help of a young, hungry-looking boy who probably expected a few pennies and went wide-eyed when Victor pressed two quarters into his small, dirty hand. The boy folded his fingers over the treasure before anyone else could catch a glimpse, and Victor hid the ache in his chest beneath a smile.
The boy shoved the coins into his pocket, murmured his thanks, and departed so fast the wooden dock trembled under his tiny worn shoes. Victor hopped back onto the boat and spent a few moments steadying himself with the boring minutiae of tying down sails and checking lines, using the comforting routine to find his balance.
Guilt intruded, just as it always did. All too easy to see a cousin or nephew in that young boy’s place, hanging around docks or city street corners, desperate for any job that might put a few cents more in the family pocketbook. The last word from the family farm had been more desp
eration, more poverty.
He’d sent more money than the place was worth over the past few years. The first three times he’d had it returned, his proud, upstanding family unwilling to accept money earned in a life of crime. Then the crops had failed in 1930, and the next letter he sent came back only with stiff gratitude. Proof of the depth of their desperation. Proof of everyone’s desperation.
In his darkest moments, he could almost understand how so many of the werewolf packs had gone so bad, so fast. Maybe civilization among wolves had always been the dream, and this was what they were meant to be. Savage, desperate beasts, fighting over the scraps the weak were unable to protect.
Instinct revolted. He fisted both hands and dragged in a deep breath, tasting rain—or even snow—on the biting, salty air. Brooding could wait until he’d gotten Simone into town, hopefully ahead of the coming storm. With his head full of plans for finding an inn and making the most of their time on the mainland, Victor almost forgot what would be waiting for him when he eased open the door.
Simone was stretched out on his bed, looking sweet and comfortable, like she belonged there. Her scent had already twined with his, marking this place that had been his sole domain since he’d purchased the boat.
She groaned and rolled over, curling her body into a ball to ward off the chill of the air. “Not now, I’m sleeping,” she murmured.
Victor slipped into the small cabin and pulled the door shut. “Sorry, darling, but it’s time to get a move on. We’re in Searsport.”
Wide blue eyes blinked open, and Simone struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. “Damn, I slept the whole trip.”
The movement arched her body, lifting her breasts, and inconvenient arousal stirred. How easy it would be to slide over her, to sink home into the cradle of her hips, feel her long legs wrapped around him. He could make her arch like that out of ecstasy, show her the pleasure to be had when a strong wolf set about claiming his mate.
His mate. Tripping over the words returned sense before he made the painful mistake of giving into need. She wasn’t his mate. She wasn’t his anything. Disappointment and confusion deepened his voice, made it rougher than he wanted. “Not a problem. But now we’d best get going.”
Her eyes clouded with uncertainty, but she only nodded. “We have a lot to do.”
He was doing it again, taking his frustration out on her. Victor dragged his temper under control and moderated his tone. “Yes we do. I’ll wait up top.”
Victor didn’t wait for a response, just turned and fled, damning himself as a coward.
Simone flipped over the creased paper in her hand and marked off two more items on the list as she took careful inventory of the purchases remaining on the bed.
Most of the crates contained fabric, and she’d arranged for more bolts to be delivered to the dock the next morning. They could spend the winter making clothes and linens enough to supply them all.
One less thing to worry about. Still, she dropped her pen and rubbed at the knot that had formed between her shoulders. There were so many things she’d never considered being without until she’d had to make practical arrangements for just that. Come spring, they’d have time to dig more wells and build real houses, all with the appropriate amenities and fixtures. Until then, they had to make do.
It was exhausting.
The creak of a squeaky board outside her room warned her a moment before a soft knock sounded against the door. “Simone?”
She tensed, then told herself she was being a ninny. “Come in, Victor.”
He stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him. “How was your afternoon?”
She wished—for the thousandth time—that looking at him didn’t make her chest squeeze tight with longing. “Productive and expensive. Yours?”
“The same.” He moved toward the bed, gaze fixed on the fruits of her shopping excursion. “What is all of this?”
“A little bit of everything. Fabric for clothes, some kitchen gadgets, incidentals. All very boring but necessary.” She climbed off the bed and smoothed her skirt, cursing the vanity that had led her to dress nicely. He’d probably think she’d dolled herself up for him, and the hell of it was that he wouldn’t be entirely wrong.
He brushed his fingers over a cream separator, his attention still fixed on the bed. “What’s this?”
The last thing she wanted to talk about was the latest in dairy equipment. “It’s for the goats’ milk. It doesn’t separate well, but we can use this to—” He looked up at her, and her breath caught.
Hunger. In the split second before he glanced away she saw it plainly in his eyes, along with a very male appreciation. He dropped the separator back to the bed and cleared his throat. “Would you like to find some dinner with me? It might be your last chance to go to a restaurant for a while.”
Even sharp disappointment couldn’t overcome practicality. “I ate a late lunch, but thank you for thinking of me.”
“You sure? I clean up all right, for a farm boy.”
“A tragic understatement, I’m sure.” She straightened his collar, stupidly grateful for the chance to touch him. “I don’t know if my poor little heart could take it.”
The muscles in his shoulder tensed a moment before his hand shot up, curling around hers. Rough, warm fingertips brushed her skin, urging her heart into a staccato rhythm. “I’d be gentle with your heart.”
“Would you?” Perhaps he’d been trying, though every short word and cross look had stung.
He closed his eyes, though his fingers kept up their slow, maddening stroking. “You gave it away before I had a chance to know how much of what you feel for me is instinct and how much is real. I’m not the kind of bastard who’ll take what was never offered.”
She blinked at him as she tried to process his words. “Are you talking about James?”
Victor tensed. “Who else would have a claim on you?”
No one—not even James. She jerked her hand away. “You’re an ass if you think I’d look at you the way I do after giving myself to another man. An ass, Victor.”
“Plenty of your girls look at me,” he ground out, frustration vibrating in his voice. “They look at the other strong men too. They can’t help themselves. No one has taken care of any of you the way they should, and your instincts are starving.”
Her hand itched to strike him, and her eyes burned. “Believe what you want. Do what you want, but don’t say I never offered you anything, because it just isn’t true.”
Victor surged forward and caught her shoulders. “Tell me it’s not true, that you’re not fighting your instincts.”
If only it were that simple, and her attraction to him was solely instinctive. “Of course I’m fighting them. I don’t want to pant after a man who runs in the other direction when he sees me. It’s humiliating.”
He bit off a curse, and in the next heartbeat his mouth crushed against hers, hard and open and so very hot.
She should have pulled away. She should have slapped him, especially after he’d all but accused her of not knowing what the hell she really wanted. Instead, she clung to him as pleasure mounted.
More pleasure than should have been possible from a single kiss, except that he tasted like heaven and felt even better. Simone touched her tongue to his and moaned helplessly.
A lifetime later he lifted his head with a groan, both hands sliding up into her hair, cupping the back of her head. “I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t—” He bit off a curse, and his fingers tightened. “I want you beyond reason,” he whispered and claimed her mouth again. Slower this time, his tongue teasing apart her lips as he tilted her head back.
Simone leaned against him, her head swimming. This was what she’d always glimpsed in the moments before he turned away from her, and she wanted more. So much more.
Her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. “Victor.”
He caught her hands and took a tiny step back. “No, too fast. Dammit, Simon
e, you may think it’s foolish, but it’s the way I was raised. You’ve been through hell these past few years. A good alpha protects.”
He was doing it again, making assumptions about her state of mind. “Some of the women on the island have had a hard time, but I’m fine. Please stop presuming to know how I feel and why.”
Doubt clouded his eyes. “You didn’t say you hadn’t had a hard time.”
“Haven’t you had a hard time? Hasn’t everyone? I don’t know what you want me to say.” His hesitation was insidious because it stemmed from such genuine concern that she almost forgot how dangerous it was. It would be too easy to tell herself that he only had her best interests in mind—and let him walk all over her.
She took a deep breath. “It’s one thing to protect, or to want to take things slow, but it’s another not to trust me to know my own feelings.”
“And the wizard? Does he know your feelings?”
“Yes. Unlike some people, he’s bothered to ask.” Lingering guilt sharpened her tongue. “Why do you persist in bringing James into every conversation? This has nothing to do with him.”
Victor’s expression of disbelief might have been comical, under other circumstances. “You spend your time with him. You share meals with him. The whole pack thinks you’re a couple, and you haven’t been quick to dissuade them.”
Because it hadn’t mattered, not with Victor doing his best to avoid her. “I enjoy spending time with James. I wish I enjoyed it more,” she admitted, sick with misery. “All he wants is to love me, and I hate that I can’t give him that.”
“Simone, this isn’t—” He closed his eyes and rubbed one hand over his face and stubbled jaw. “You may know your mind and heart, but if you would play games with your instincts, then you don’t understand them at all.”
She crossed her arms and rubbed them to ward off the chill that shook her. “I’m sure you’re right.” She didn’t understand anything, least of all why instinct would lead her to torture herself by seeking Victor’s reluctant attentions. “Can you see yourself out, please?”