Heart Of The Storm

She was aware only of the beating of her heart and of him.

Rachel imagined that this was what a lover’s touch must feel like. Tender. Soft. Gentle.

This man, she realized, was doubly dangerous.

Not only did questions lurk behind his gray eyes, but he had her dreaming of kindness and lovers’ touches—things she’d given up on.

She met his direct gaze. “Don’t worry about me. I will be fine.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. Once again he was trying to peer into her soul.

Finally he drew back. “If you’re not wanted by the law, I guess that means you’re a runaway. The question now is who are you running from?”

Her skin itched with fear. “Stay out of my business, Mr. Mitchell.”

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. “I wish that I could.” He rose and left the room….

Acclaim for Mary Burton’s recent works

The Unexpected Wife

“If you liked Sarah, Plain and Tall, you’ll love this book. It’s a touch different, but alike in all the right places.”

—Romantic Times

Rafferty’s Bride

“Ms. Burton has written a romance filled with passion and compassion, forgiveness and humor; the kind of well-written story that truly touches the heart because you can empathize with the characters.”

—Romantic Times

The Perfect Wife

“Mary Burton presents an intricate theme that questions if security rather than attraction defines the basis of love.”

—Romantic Times

The Colorado Bride

“This talented writer is a virtuoso, who strums the hearts of readers and composes an emotional tale. I was spellbound.”

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Heart of the Storm

Mary Burton

MILLS & BOON

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For Elizabeth and Lee

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Washington City

March 1866

She couldn’t breathe.

Rachel Emmons had never done anything more desperate in her life. She was running away from her husband, Peter Emmons, a man who in a rage had struck her so hard last night that the pins from her chignon had pinged on the Italian marble floor of their Washington town house.

This hadn’t been the first beating in their eleven-month marriage, but it had been, by far, the worst.

The early morning air was damp, the fog thick as she hurried down the cobblestone streets past the bales of tobacco, sacks of flour and piles of freshly milled lumber. The Potomac shipyards were busy this morning. Sailors readied their ships, farmers drove their carts filled with produce and men of business inspected cargo. Her heart pounded in her chest as she searched for the Anna St. Claire.

She’d dressed in widow’s weeds with a heavy lace veil over her hat. Widows were invisible. And she wanted no one to remember her or to see the bruise on her face.

She pushed through the crowds and moved toward the docks. The innkeeper had told her the Anna St. Claire would be moored on a pier near the tobacco warehouses. The small freighter was scheduled to leave on the morning tide. But as she made her way through the early morning throng, she saw no sign of the ship. She scanned the vessel nearest her. The Maria Nova.

A sailor bumped Rachel’s shoulder. She murmured an apology and hurried further down the dock, fearing she’d taken a wrong turn. What if she couldn’t find the freighter before it sailed out of port? She clenched her gloved hands. She couldn’t go back.

She stepped around a crowd of men, not daring to ask for directions for fear they’d remember her if questioned later. The next ship was a slow draft steamer, the Zephyr. Her brisk pace quickened to a run as she headed toward the next set of sails.

To her relief she found the Anna St. Claire two blocks north of where the innkeeper had said it would be. The three-masted schooner was weathered and in desperate need of cleaning. Cargo was piled high on the deck and her hull rode low in the water, a sign she was loaded and ready to leave. Her patched sails flapped in the wind.

There were eight men aboard. The sailors who manned this ship were rough, hard-bitten men. Several shouted profanities. One sailor dropped his trousers and urinated over the side of the ship.

Two sailors pointed at her. A redheaded one grabbed his crotch and laughed. “Nay, I can’t see her face. But I can tell by her stiff back that she needs a man to loosen her up. She’s in need of a good poke.”

“Ah, but with a stick like yours, Sebastian,” the shorter sailor said, “she’ll never know she’s been had. She needs a real man, like me.”

The men laughed, each going into detail about what they’d do if given an afternoon alone with her in a cabin.

Such indignities would be a part of her new life. But Rachel would pay any price to be free of Peter and her godless marriage.

She could do this.

From the top deck a man shouting orders to his sailors caught her attention. He wore a bright blue coat, black pants, polished knee-high boots and a wide-brimmed hat. A black beard covered his olive-skinned face. Captain Antoine LaFortune. The innkeeper had said LaFortune would give her passage, no questions asked.

Gathering her courage, she climbed the steep, slippery wooden plank and stepped onto the deck. The captain noticed her instantly, his gaze lean and hungry.

The fine Belgium lace of her veil fluttered in the wind and her black wool skirts rustled as she stepped over the thick coiled rope on deck. The ship smelled of tobacco and lumber.

Each man working on deck stopped to watch her as she walked toward the captain. The redheaded sailor grinned at her and licked his lips.

Captain LaFortune climbed down from the upper deck and tugged at the edges of his cuffs. The former blockade-runner’s belly was round, straining the buttons on his vest. His face was pock-marked under his beard and he wore his thinning black hair tied at the nape of his neck. “Bonjour, madame.”

Through her veil she looked up at him. “Bonjour, monsieur. Captain LaFortune?”

He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. “Oui. Américaine?”

“Oui.”

“I speak English,” he said proudly. “How may I be of service to you, my lady?”

Her spine was so straight she imagined it would snap. “I need passage.”

He lifted a brow, amused. “I command a freighter, madame. I am an honest businessman who carries lumber, tobacco and wine, not young widows.”

She kept her voice even. From what she’d been told, he did most anything if the price was right. “The innkeeper of the Salty Dog on First Street said you carry special passengers from time to time.”

His eyes reminded her of black buttons. “Perhaps I do.”

Aware that the other sailors could hear, she lowered her voice. “Where are you sailing to on this voyage?”

He leaned a fraction closer. The scent of his unwashed body overpowered her. She wrinkled her nose. “Do I know you, madame?”

Nervously she fingered the lace trimming her reticule. “I don’t think so.”

Peter, as head of Venture Shipping, was quite well known on the East Coast. He’d made his fortune during the war, trading with the South and the North. Her husband had insisted she always travel with him since they’d married. It was very possible she and LaFortune had crossed paths. Most assuredly, he’d heard of Peter. She prayed he didn’t recognize her.

His eyes narrowed. “I think you are wrong, madame. I can’t place you now, but it will come to me. I have a very good memory and your voice is quite unique. It reminds me of the women in the Mediterranean.”

Her heart raced but she kept her voice even. “Your destination, sir?”

He studied her a moment longer, then shrugged. “To the port of St. Thomas. It can be a rough place for a woman alone.”

She was only sorry it wasn’t farther away from Washington. “That will do.”

His gaze glided up and down her petite frame. “Passage is not cheap.”

Rachel had nearly one hundred dollars. Peter rarely had cash in the house but he had set the money aside to buy flowers for their first anniversary party. She’d wedged open his desk with a letter opener and taken the money. “How much?”

As if he read her mind he said, “Two hundred dollars.”

“That’s triple the going rate of the passenger ships!”

He rubbed the thick black stubble on his chin, no hint of apology in his eyes. “Oui, it is.”

Rachel’s heart sank. It was only a matter of time before Peter found her. He’d be returning to the town house tomorrow or the next day at the latest. She had to leave the country.

Her thoughts turned to her wedding band. Encircled with diamonds and rubies, it was worth a small fortune. She tugged off the glove on her left hand and removed her ring. “This should cover my passage.”

The captain took her ring and studied it. He held it up to the light. “It is an exquisite piece of jewelry indeed.”

She’d grown to hate the ring and all that it symbolized. “It’s one of a kind.”

His gaze sharpened with interest. He looked inside the band. “There is an inscription,” he said. “Forever and always.”

“Yes.” On her wedding day when she’d read the words, she’d been touched. Now they haunted her.

He held the ring up so that the sunlight reflected in the gems. “A widow who trades her wedding band must be quite desperate to leave.”

Her knees were shaking, but she held her chin high. “Do you accept my offer or not, Captain?”

LaFortune studied the ring a beat longer.

Rachel held her breath.

“Oui,” he said finally, tucking the ring into his vest pocket. “How could I resist such a generous offer? Welcome aboard the Anna St. Claire.”

His greeting didn’t offer much relief. This journey was the first of many to come. She had enough funds to get her through the next few months, but beyond that she didn’t know what she was going to do. “Thank you.”

The captain glanced around her. “And your bags?”

When she’d left the town house she’d not taken a bag fearing some of the servants loyal to Peter would contact him. She’d told her maid she was going to shop for an anniversary gift for Peter. “I’ve none.”

“And the mystery deepens. So young. No luggage. And a widow. That is regrettable.”

“Yes, regrettable.”

“Do you have a name, madame?”

“I believe I have just paid for my privacy.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Oui. You have. But then we have eight days to get to know one another very well.”

Peter had taught her to school her emotions. Though she wanted to run from this vile ship, she held her ground. “We shall see.”

The captain signaled his first officer over. The large, heavyset man moved toward them with uncommon agility. “Yes, Captain?”

“Rubin, show madame to my cabin. She will be traveling with us. Mr. Rubin keeps the eight men on this ship in line, including myself sometimes.”

Rubin glanced down at her. His gaze traveled over her black dress and veiled face. “A woman is bad luck, but a widow is daring fate to destroy us. The men will not like it.”

LaFortune shrugged. “She is paying well.”

“We’ve had smooth sailing since New York,” the old sailor said. “Why tempt the seas now? Our lives are not worth whatever fare she has paid.”

The captain’s smile flattened. “Madame, you must excuse Rubin. He has sailed the seas for over forty years, but he is quite superstitious.”

Rachel sensed the power play between the two men. She kept silent.

“Good luck is why I’ve lived so long,” Rubin said.

The captain’s gaze hardened.

Rubin wasn’t happy, but he knew when he had pushed too far. “Very well. But we will regret this.” He nodded toward the small door that led to the hold below. “This way.”

As Rachel started to turn, the wind caught her veil and whisked it back off her face. For an instant her gaze caught the captain’s. She saw his eyes spark with interest as he studied the bruise marring her left eye. She quickly grabbed the veil and pulled it back in place.

The captain frowned. “Who would mar such a lovely face as yours?”

Rachel held the veil in place with a gloved hand. “It was an accident.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

He didn’t believe her, and she did not care. As long as he didn’t press her for details and left her alone, she was satisfied.

She wanted nothing more than to find her cabin and bar the door. “My cabin, Mr. Rubin?”

Nodding, the old sailor led her belowdecks. Rubin had to stoop to move down the low, narrow hallway. The smell of urine and filth, magnified by the confined space, assailed her.

He opened a small door to a cabin. The room had a bunk, one chair and a chamber pot next to the bed. A small portal above the bunk looked out onto the harbor. The precious little floor space was crammed full of crates of wine.

“Will you be needing anything?” Rubin asked.

She stepped into the room. The sheets on the bunk were stained. A rat scurried into a corner then disappeared behind a crate. Eight days in this hole seemed intolerable. However she had no choice.

Choking back her fear she said, “No.”

“Then I will leave you.”

She stared out the portal onto the busy dock. Hundreds of people milled around out there. The thought that one could be Peter had her itching to leave port. “Mr. Rubin, how long until we sail?”

He stopped, his hand on the door handle ready to close it. “A half hour.”

Too long. She would not rest easy until the shores of America were out of sight. “Thank you.”

With a grunt, Rubin closed the door behind him.

Rachel sat in the chair. She removed her veil. The air in the cabin was thick, but still it felt good to be free of the suffocating veil. She draped the veil over the back of the chair. She tugged off her second glove and, along with the other, folded it neatly. She took great care to tuck both in her reticule next to her money and a small volume of poems. The task complete, she folded her hands in her lap. She considered reading several poems. They always calmed her. Her stomach already queasy from the rocking of the ship, she decided against it.

The ship creaked. Above, the captain shouted commands.

She caught her reflection in a small mirror nailed to the wall beside the bunk. Her blue eyes were sunken, lifeless, and her skin pale. She looked much older than her twenty-three years.

How had her life become such a terrible mess?

This time last year, everything had been different. Her father had been alive and she’d been the belle of her social circle.

Then her father had died suddenly. Rachel had known Peter, a business associate of her father’s, for years. Peter had been a kind, gentle man. And when she’d learned that her father’s finances were in a shambles, he’d helped her with the creditors. He was always there. Quiet, ready to help.

So when he’d offered marriage, it had seemed quite natural to say yes. She’d imagined her affection would grow over time and one day she would love Peter.

She’d been such a naive fool.

In the first weeks of their marriage he’d insisted on knowing where she was going. In her father’s house, she had had greater freedom than most women and she’d been accustomed to coming and going as she’d pleased. She’d been taken aback by Peter’s command at first. But vowing to be a good wife, she’d complied. Then Peter had objected to her friends who’d called on her at her home. She’d accepted that marriage meant change, and though she didn’t like it, she’d told her friends not to call. In time, she reasoned, when Peter wasn’t under such great pressure at work, he would ease his restriction. However, the rules had only grown stricter. And it wasn’t long before her clothes weren’t quite right. They were too loud, too bold. Her opinions weren’t ladylike.

To keep the peace she’d started to compromise. She wore more somber clothes. She spoke less often and put aside her books.

Soon, Peter saw to it that she never left the house unless he was with her. He chose what she wore, what she ate and when she slept. She’d become a prisoner with only her needlework to occupy her time.

Two nights ago, they’d come home from a party. Peter had been in a rage because she’d talked too long to a young man. He’d accused her of having an affair. Though she’d tried to allay his fears, he’d grown angrier by the moment. And this time he’d hit her.

For the first time she’d seen the true monster that lurked behind the blond hair and blue eyes.

As she’d lain on the cold floor, bruised and bleeding, Rachel had begun to plan her escape.

The next morning, Peter had kissed her on the cheek and bid her good day. He’d planned to take her on his business trip to Baltimore, but her left eye had been far too black. Her appearance would have raised questions. So he’d been forced to leave her behind. Next time, he’d scolded, she should not make him so angry.

She’d stood at her bedroom window watching him as he’d climbed into his carriage. When the carriage had rounded the corner, she’d fled.

She’d gone to the docks and inquired about freighters that took on passengers. Forced to wait for the morning tide, she’d spent the night in an inn by the docks.

Only a day, two at most, remained before Peter returned. A couple of days to put as much distance as she could between them.

Within a half hour, the Anna St. Claire set sail. The trip down the river was smooth. As the hours ticked by, her nerves relaxed a fraction. Everything was going to be fine.

By midafternoon, they reached the waters of the Chesapeake Bay and then the Atlantic. As they turned south and passed the shores of Virginia, the waters became choppy. As they headed out to sea, the waters grew rougher. The freighter’s white sails strained in the high winds and her mast creaked and moaned.

The cabin rocked and Rachel found it hard to sit in the chair. Outside, the waves pitched. The sky had grown black. Raindrops covered the glass portal. They were headed into a storm.

Rachel had never been a good sailor, but the constant rocking soon made her seasick. Unable to hold down her food, she found the chamber pot by the bunk and wretched. Unable to sit up any longer, she crawled into the bunk. She loosened the braid coiled at the nape of her neck. Closing her eyes, she tried to sleep.

However, when sleep took her, she dreamed of a monster with glowing red eyes looming in the shadows. The creature moved toward her, one step at a time. Her heart raced. Tears stung her eyes. She knew if he caught her, she’d die.

Pounding on her door had her sitting up. She didn’t know how long she’d slept, but the storm was all around them, like a wraith ready to steal their lives.

Weak with nausea, she faced the cabin door. “What’s going on?”

Footsteps shuffled outside her door seconds before a hard object hit the hallway floor. Rachel reached for a blanket on the edge of the bed. She pulled it over her shoulders. Her hair brushed her backside.

“The Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want.” Rubin’s deep voice rushed in under the door.

Pressing her hand to her stomach, she moved across the room, swaying to keep her balance. She opened her cabin door and found Rubin picking up a hammer. In his other hand was a crude crucifix lashed together with rope.

Rubin glanced nervously up at her and then to the stairwell to the upper deck where the storm raged.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

Hammer in hand, he stood. “I was nailing the cross over your door to break your curse.”

Rachel stared into his brown eyes, which were wild with fear. “I’ve brought no curse on this ship.” She tried to move past Rubin.

“Aye, you have. Ol’ Nate said we was supposed to have smooth seas all the way. Ol’ Nate is never wrong about the weather. You’ve brought us bad luck.”

“I have no control over the weather. You are a fool to think that I do.”

Anger mingled with fear in his eyes. “You may have fooled the captain,” he snarled, “but not me.”

“I want to go on deck and speak to the captain this instant.”

Rubin blocked her exit with his large body. He smelled of sweat and fear. “You’ll stay right here. The men are busy lowering the lifeboats and they don’t need your curses.”

They were abandoning ship and leaving her behind? “I must see the captain.”

Rubin folded his arms over his chest. “You’ll get no help from him. He’s got his hands full keeping this ship afloat.”

“Move out of my way. You can’t make me stay. I paid good money.”

“Dead men can’t spend money.”

“Get out of my way!” she screamed.

Rubin shoved her into the cabin and closed her door.

In the next instant the ship pitched violently and she stumbled back. She lost her footing. She grabbed onto a chair, but the chair toppled forward under her weight. She fell hard and hit her head against the corner of a wooden crate. Pain registered for only a moment and then her world went black.

When Rachel awoke, she was aware of the howling wind outside. And the cold.

She was lying in two inches of water.

Chapter Two

Rain pelted Ben Mitchell as he rowed toward the wreck of the Anna St. Claire.

His assistant, Timothy Scott, sat in front of him in the boat. It was the boy’s first sea rescue. He was huddled under his black slicker; a stocking cap covering his red hair. Even over the wind Ben could hear the lad’s teeth chattering with fear and cold.

“The freighter is so close, I swear I could spit on her,” Timothy said.

“Aye, she’s not more than one hundred yards from the shore.”

Ben glanced over his shoulder at the schooner. The right side of her hull had sunk so low that stormy waves washed over her bow. The ship’s masts were broken and her torn white sails flapped in the wind like eerie specters.

Timothy gripped the side of the dory. “Are the wrecks always so close?”

Ben dug the oars into the water. “No. We’re lucky this time.”

“Luck.” The boy laughed. “Only a keeper would be talking of luck while rowing out to a wreck in this kind of weather.”

“Wait until the day you row out a half mile to a ship in weather worse than this.” This past winter had been one of the worst on the outer banks. The nor’easters had fooled many a ship’s captain. There’d been more wrecks than normal and the bodies of dozens of unnamed sailors had washed up on the beaches. He’d be glad to see spring.