“I can’t make any deals with you,” she grated again.
“Bend, Blair,” he suddenly warned, and there was a touch of gravel to his voice. “The tree that won’t bow to the wind is the one that is hurled over in the end.”
An edge of panic swept through her. He was right; he held all the cards. He could really do anything that he wanted, and she was sitting here throwing out rules like the Queen Mother—a Queen Mother already fallen.
“All right, Taylor,” she said, dismayed as the words slipped out a little too hastily. Taylor now? Who was she kidding? Certainly not herself. Not after the time they had just shared in a bed still warm from their exertions. “Let’s hear this deal of yours.”
“What would you say if I promised I would return you to Washington in no more than ten days time?”
Her eyes came to his again. Although he had released her, he was still haunched before her, so close that they were almost touching, so close that her mind screamed that he couldn’t possibly be a renegade, not this man with his gentle strength, his passion, his tenderness.
“I would be pleased of course,” she said primly. “But how would I know you were telling the truth?”
“I would give you my word,” he said. The hard contours of his face were softened ever so slightly by the ghost of a challenging grin. Blair’s eyes fell to her lap; she couldn’t challenge the honesty she read in his eyes, but it was all so absurd, she was going to take the word of her kidnapper.
“Do you mean that?” she asked, drawing idle patterns over the weave of her skirt with nervous fingers.
“Yes.”
She swallowed, wondering what her part of the deal would be, half frightened silly, half praying that it would be a demand on a personal level.
“In return,” he supplied, leaving her little time to wonder, “you grant me a modicum of trust. No yelling out to anyone else we might happen to pass. If you have something to say, I’ll listen. And you will listen to me.”
Blair felt herself going very cold, very weak. She was relieved of course. Her fingers became perfectly still. A voice she tried to ignore demanded, Are you so certain that you are relieved? Weren’t you really hoping that he would demand you continue the relationship that you both know can exist, still exists?
No! It would all boil down to the same thing; she would hate herself more than she already did if she allowed it to continue. She would hate him.
Unless … unless she could find out who Craig Taylor really was, what other crimes he had committed in pursuit of his strange ideals, if perhaps she couldn’t help him, force himself to turn himself over to her father when he returned her, if he returned her …
“Is that all?” she demanded. She was determined to sound like an executive discussing a merger, but squeaked slightly nevertheless. The high, wavering note wasn’t lost on Craig, and she could have kicked herself for even this slight admission of fear.
“That’s all,” he said slowly.
It appeared he wasn’t going to move away, and Blair could no longer endure his being so close, picking up intuitively on her every thought. She stood, brushing past him quickly. “I guess we’d better clean up the deck,” she said.
He shook his head. “I want you off that foot tonight. I’ll get the plates.” He hesitated a moment. “We’ll be moving into the Caribbean shortly and I’ll need you to help me sail. If you’re careful for a few days, that gash will heal. Go to sleep now. It’s been a long day.”
Long day? It’s been an eternity, she thought. “All right,” she said briefly, lowering her eyes until he passed, assuming he would pick up and sail through part of the night as he so often did.
But he didn’t. Reaching into the cupboard beside the table, he sprang some sort of a secret clasp and stretched his arm far to the back, extracting the jeans and shirts that had previously disappeared. A hidden compartment, Blair thought dryly, curious that he no longer cared that she was aware of its existence.
He tossed the bundle to her. “You can wear your own things from here on out,” he said briefly. “Oh”—a twinkle set into his eyes—“the one set will need washing.”
Blair lifted her chin a shade. “Fine, Mr. Taylor. But if you think this means I’ve agreed to become your laundress, you’re mistaken.”
He was grinning at her with good humor, and suddenly she couldn’t ignore the undeniable bond that had formed between them. Before she realized it, she was opening her mouth, unable to control the impulse to tease him in return. “Men are all alike,” she mocked with a feigned sigh, “give an inch and they think they can take a mile.” She walked past him and crawled into the far corner of the bed. “You aren’t that good, Mr. Taylor!”
His spontaneous laughter sent warm trickles of sensation trailing up her spine. He would never be offended; he knew just how good he was ….
He was suddenly leaning over her, but hovering a distance away, not touching her as he had promised. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Teile, perhaps if you were to give me another chance?”
“Get out of here, will you, please?” Blair responded, groaning with a good show of exasperation and pulling her sheet over her head.
Softly chuckling, Craig went topside.
Blair listened as he brought down the dirty tin dishes and cups and cleaned up in the galley. Her mind was spinning with plans to put into action, arguments that might force the man to turn his hand. The depth of her feelings shocked her; she was in love with him, so much so that she would mean every promise that she would give him.
“Blair”—he sat on the side of the bed, obviously aware that she was awake despite her tightly closed eyes—“I really would appreciate it if you would wash the clothes. I just don’t have time, and I can’t wear these pants forever ….” He let his voice trail away as he waited for a response. Blair refused to give him one.
He stood. “Okay, don’t.”
She kept her eyes closed as he moved away, which became difficult as curiosity almost made them fly open when she heard a faint cracking sound. But she didn’t give in even when she felt his weight bear down on the bed beside her. He wouldn’t touch her, she knew; he had given his word. Then what was he up to?
It wasn’t until the middle of the night that she was to discover the answer. With the passage of time an odor that was definitely rank began to permeate the cabin.
It was so rank that it woke her up. And it was coming from the usually fastidious Craig. She sat up in the bed and stared at him, startled to find out that he too was awake, watching her with wide-open eyes.
And then she knew what the cracking noise had been. He had smeared eggs over one of his blue work shirts.
“All right, damn it!” she hissed. “I’ll do your laundry. Just get rid of that stinking shirt!”
Laughing with the deep rumble that was always able to stir her blood, he rose and agreeably shed his shirt, walking forward to throw it topside where the night breeze would carry the dreadful odor away. “Thanks, Mrs. Teile,” he promised, slipping back into the bed. “I promise to make it up to you someday.”
Blair curled back into her corner. Could anything possibly be reconciled … one day?
CHAPTER TEN
THEY HAD CALLED A strange truce, Craig decided a week later as he stood by the mainsail, watching the rugged coastline. Days ago they had moved into the Caribbean; the water they now sailed was salt. And if all would go as planned, Huntington would be meeting them off the coast of Belize in three days.
A strange truce indeed, he thought. They were getting along like a pair of roommates tossed together by lot, stepping carefully around each other, being so cool and polite it was almost disgusting. But they were surviving together. Even their sleepless nights had eased. They had both accepted the fact that by morning they would gravitate together—and they both ignored the fact that it occurred. That type of touching he was allowed, Craig thought wryly. He wondered if she, like himself, was grateful for those spare moments of comfort when all else was denied.
A slight beading of perspiration broke out across his forehead despite the cool breeze drifting down from the distant mountains. If something went wrong, if the top brass had been off in their estimations about whatever it was that was going wrong, Huntington would not make the rendezvous on time. Then what was he was going to do, Craig asked himself dryly. He had cornered himself; he had promised Blair.
Craig sighed, thinking how the peaceful scene of the mountains and sea clashed with the turmoil of his thoughts. Blair, who had shouted all those accusations at him completely contrary to the facts, would never know how her words had affected him. In his work he gave orders, harsh orders, strict orders, orders he expected to be carried out.
But he also took orders. One, two, three. Directions followed.
He wasn’t as blind as Blair imagined, not usually, but sometimes, as now, he disagreed with directives. He never feigned subservience; he didn’t give a damn about getting ahead of the other fellow. He did, as he had told Blair, believe in his cause, if not always its means. Years and experience had taught him that his cause, though not perfect, was the best to be found in this far from perfect world.
Except that he was getting tired. He had given fifteen years of his life, and although he didn’t begrudge a day of it he was discovering a need in himself that hadn’t existed in his youth and hadn’t fully formed until he had met Blair. He had sensed it before, standing as he was now, watching the sun’s descent in a splendid, peaceful glow behind mountains in the west.
Face it, buddy, he warned himself with a dry, rueful laugh. You’re getting old. You want a hearth to come home to, children to carry on the ego trip of leaving something behind for perpetuity. No, it was more than that. He needed a wife, and not just any wife, but a woman with a mind, soul, and courage, a certain woman with flame-tipped hair and eyes to rival a valley of evergreens.
“You’re a fool, Taylor.” He was startled to find himself talking aloud. A senile fool, he thought, talking to yourself like that. Senile or whatever, he was a fool. He wanted desperately what he couldn’t have but could have taken. Even now he could barge below and drag her into his arms until he drew from her the eager submission that must surely come.
No, he couldn’t, and he damned well knew it. She had challenged him on a level that was stronger than the physical, stronger than any force.
He turned to glance out seaward and a frown puzzled into his brow. Not minutes ago the sky had been clear, a strange yellow-blue with the setting of the sun. Now it was gray with more than encroaching darkness. A storm was brewing, and from the looks of it, it was going to be one big gale.
He had been going to move on after dinner, not that he was in a big hurry, but night sailing kept him away from Blair during the hours that they both seemed most vulnerable. Yet now he knew he must move toward land and seek whatever shelter the coastline might offer. Even as he moved toward the line to crank in the anchor, he could feel the breeze switch subtly, building in force.
Left at half mast, the mainsail began to fill. Craig watched as the fickle weather changed before his eyes. He was annoyed rather than alarmed. He knew that despite appearances he was on a vessel sounder than most. They would ride out the storm well; it just meant that the next half hour would be a busy one.
“Blair!” he called sharply down the hatch. “Up on deck.”
Apparently she had noticed the abrupt change in weather as he had. She appeared immediately in the hatch, eyes bright and alert, a guard carefully set over the fear that lurked in their depths.
“I need you,” Craig said with an easy tone designed to dispel her nervousness. “Grab the tiller.” Momentarily forgetting his promise, he set a hand upon her shoulder to point out the coastline. A natural harbor of clean white beach lurked ahead beneath the shadow of a long dormant volcanic mountain. “We’re heading in there,” he informed her briefly. “I don’t think we can run aground if we just shelter between those outstretching arms of land.”
Blair nodded with a little swallow and grabbed the tiller. With the anchor weighed, Craig set to trimming the sails. Blair scanned her direction, then allowed her eyes to revert to Craig. It was impossible not to marvel at his coordination. He moved lithely across the deck with a quick, sure step, the strength that belied that lightness apparent as he cranked in sails with biceps bulging. In motion he was such a pleasure to watch, a body and will perfectly attuned.
He caught her eyes upon him and smiled encouragement. Blair quickly turned her eyes back to the coast. The rain was beginning to fall in a mist, a portent of what was to come. Uneasily she cast her eyes back to the east from whence the storm was brewing. She was an adequate sailor, but she had always preferred fair weather to foul. And in this tub … an involuntary shiver riddled through her.
It was raining in earnest by the time she reached the cove, sheltered between the two natural land barriers. She could feel the suction of the waves pulling at the hull, but it was easier to wait out the storm in this harbor. Craig cast anchor, then set to work furling and covering the sails. He glanced at Blair, hunched and miserable at her seat, her hands still upon the tiller.
“Go below!” he shouted. “You’re going to catch pneumonia up here!”
Even above the whistle of the wind that was working its way up to a rage, Craig’s voice was a clear whiplash. A command. But Blair shook her head. She was loathe to go below without him. She was drenched; rain dripped into her eyes, down the neck of her shirt. She couldn’t possibly get any wetter than she was already.
“Go on!” he repeated, exasperated, halting his action with the main crank as he stared at her with hands on his hips.
She shook her head. “I’ll wait for you.”
Cursing beneath his breath, Craig turned his attention back to the crank, only to find that the sheet line had tangled. His expletives growing louder and more annoyed, he glanced back to her. “All right, if you must stay up here, come be helpful. Watch the line.”
Blair scurried to him, careful of her footing as the deck rose and fell beneath her feet as if it had taken on life and the boat itself had become some huge monster that breathed deeply and laboriously in huge swells. She grasped the crank, almost falling upon it, vaguely wondering again that Craig could keep such effortless balance even now.
He held on to the mainmast as he sought out the problem, his sinewed strength a seemingly implacable power against the pelting rain and ravaging wind that hissed and shrieked around him. Huddled miserably by the crank, Blair felt her fingers turning numb, and yet he appeared to find it all no more than irritating.
He shouted something at her that she didn’t hear. Narrowing her eyes against the sodden moisture that was blinding her, she yelled back, “What?”
Then to her horror she realized that the crank was spinning madly, and that she hadn’t the strength to make it stop. Craig pounced back to her side, shoving her away as he caught the crank and line, slowly bringing both under control. Still it was loose. Something knotted somewhere. The boom was reeling starboard and port, out like the massive arm of an inebriated giant. “Get down!” Craig hissed to her, finally finding the tangle and bringing tension back to the crank.
But he was just a fraction too late. Just as the tension caught, the boom took its last swing and caught Craig neatly at the base of his skull.
He went down without a sound.
It had been like a horror picture to Blair, a scene in which slow motion had been used for full effect. She had been powerless to do a thing. Now the boom was steady, but Craig lay immobile, his complexion ashen, the arm he had thrown up to shield her drape
d limply over her legs.
She sat still in stunned stupefaction for only seconds. Then she secured the crank and knelt beside him, desperately praying that he was alive. She found a pulse. Was it faint or was it just that nothing could feel strong against the fury of the elements?
“Oh, God, Taylor,” she groaned feverishly, blinking against the downpour. She had to get him down to the cabin, but his weight was tremendous. “Taylor!” She sent up the anguished cry, praying that he would open his eyes, that it would be a joke ….
But it wasn’t a joke. His rugged profile was perfectly still beneath the onslaught of drenching rain and screaming wind. His flesh was growing so terribly cold.
What if he had a fracture, a concussion? Blair knew under normal circumstances that she shouldn’t be moving him, but she had to move him. The boards beneath her feet were sodden. The boat was heaving even within the harbor of the cove.
“Help me, God,” she prayed aloud, grabbing Craig’s arms at the shoulders and taking a deep breath. What if he were dead. God, no! He couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t even consider it. He would be all right. She had to get him down below. “Oh, dear God, please help me.” Her prayer was lost to the wind. If there was a deity present, it was Neptune, and the god of the sea was angered. Her pleas seemed to go unheeded.
Then suddenly she was able to budge him. Straining with everything that was in her, Blair found herself able to drag him. It was tedious going. Blair clenched her jaw with the effort, panting and halting every few inches, finally growing immune to the deluge of the rain. Every muscle in her body pained her until she found that the battle of straining against Craig’s dead weight was totally exhausting her. She stopped periodically to wipe rain and plastered hair from her face, but each time she continued again, coming closer and closer to the hatch.
Once there she was faced with a new problem—how to get him down.
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