For an instant time stopped.

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.”

—Rendezvous

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Heart of the Storm
Mary Burton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

The lighthouse beacon blinked steady and bright as the seas caught the dory and dragged her further out to sea. The riptide would make getting back to shore more difficult than he’d first thought. But there was no worrying about that when there will was a ship to board and search.

Ben had served as lightkeeper for six months. He’d been hired late last fall as the Winter Man, a temporary replacement to fill the shoes of the old keeper who had died suddenly. After twelve years in the Navy and an unexpected discharge, he’d come home to visit his aunt and cousin.

Ben had been at loose ends. He’d had offers from several shipping companies, but he had lost his taste for sailing the seas.

The short-term job as winter man had suited him for the time being. Two weeks ago, he’d received a letter from the Life Saving Service. The board had offered him the position full-time. He’d yet to give his answer.

The service had hired Timothy less than a month ago in the hope that the extra help would entice Ben to stay. Timothy had been raised in a family of fisherman who worked the waters off the outer banks. Though Ben thought the boy talked too much, he understood the ocean and the dangers of the Graveyard’s waters. Whether Ben stayed or left, Timothy would serve well.

“Why didn’t the ship’s captain heed the flare you fired?” Timothy asked, shouting over the wind.

“Who’s to say?” Ben dug his oars deeper into the water. He’d fired flares from his Costen gun several times when he’d first spied the ship, but the captain had not altered his course. Ego, pride or most likely the captain had already abandoned the ship. He’d find out soon enough.

The two lapsed into silence as Ben dug the boat oars into the water and drove them toward the freighter.

Within minutes the dory skimmed the side of the boat just below a burnished sign that read Anna St. Claire. “Take the oars, Timothy. Hold her steady while I go aboard to see if there’s anyone left to save.”

Relief washed over Timothy’s face as he scooted forward and took the oars. “I don’t mind coming with you, sir.”

Ben had enough trouble on his hands without the worry of a green lad traipsing about a dying vessel. “Stay put and keep the dory steady.”

Waves crashed into the side of the rowboat. Cold rain drizzled. Timothy didn’t offer an argument.

Ben wiped the rain from his face. He grabbed a rope dangling from the side of the ship. He tugged on it to make sure it was secure.

“Ben, do you really have to board her? The ship looks abandoned. It’s like the ghost tales I’ve heard the seamen tell.”

Superstition was as much a part of this region and the wind and sea, but Ben had little patience for talk of ghosts and curses. It had been his experience that trouble was caused by the living not the dead. “There’re no ghosts aboard this vessel.”

Timothy stared up at the shadowy vessel. “Yeah, but what if there are ghosts and they are watching us now? Sends a shiver down my spine.”

A slight smile tipped the edge of Ben’s mouth. “That’s the icy waters, lad, not ghosts.”

Ben gripped the rope and, using it as balance, scaled up the side of the ship. He swung his leg over the ship’s railing and landed on the deck. It listed beneath his weight.

The center mast had cracked two thirds of the way up and fallen into the ocean. The other sails were torn and flapping wildly in the storm. Wind scattered the ropes and crates over the deck.

“Can you see anything?” Timothy shouted.

The rain blew sideways, stinging Ben’s face as he started his search. “No. Not yet. Hand me up the lantern.”

Timothy moved to the edge of the dory and on wobbly legs handed the lantern up to Ben.

Ben cursed the wind that made the light flicker and spit. Protecting the flame with his body, he turned up the wick.

The lantern light cast an eerie glow on the ship. A quick survey revealed that Timothy had been right. All the lifeboats were gone. A closer inspection of the top deck confirmed there wasn’t a sign of any soul. Likely, the men had fled the vessel when the main mast had started to go.

No doubt the sailors would turn up somewhere along the outer banks, either dead or alive. The chances of finding any survivors on the Anna St. Claire looked slim.

But Ben was thorough.

He’d learned that perception and fact didn’t always agree. So he would search this vessel, and only when he’d confirmed with his own two eyes that she had been abandoned, would he leave.

He moved to the ship’s railing and called down to Timothy. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, leave.”

“Where are you going?” Timothy shouted over the wind. He huddled in the boat, his hands wrapped around his body.

“Belowdecks.”

“The lifeboats are gone, Ben. The sailors have all abandoned ship. Give up the search.”

“I’ll make a quick check belowdecks before I write this ship off.” His tenacity served him well. It had also led to his court-martial. What made you great was your undoing, the admiral had said to him. “Remember, if I’m not back in ten, leave.”

Timothy wiped water from his face. “I won’t leave without you.”

“You just celebrated your twentieth birthday and you and Callie are to wed in less than a week. Ten minutes, Tim, and I expect you to start rowing.”

Just then the freighter shifted, pitching Ben forward. He nearly dropped the lantern. Wood splintered and cracked somewhere on the vessel. He gripped the railing, his muscles bunching under his thick cable-knit sweater and dark jacket. His iron grip kept him from falling headfirst into the ocean. The lantern light nearly went out.

Timothy’s face was pale and panicked in the lantern light. “Please, sir, give it up. The ship is going to break up.”

Water dripped from his nose as Ben glared down at his assistant. “Ten minutes.”

Without another word, he strode across the badly sloping deck. By the time he reached the hatchway that led below, rainwater had drenched his black pea coat. Turning the knob, he shoved open the hatch.

He held up the light. Three feet of black ocean water lapped against the third rung of the ladder. Outside the wind howled.

“Hello down there!” he called. Silence.

Debris floated past three doorways that fed into the hallway. Two on the left and one on the right.

Seconds passed as he strained to hear. “Hello!” he shouted again. Nothing.

Perhaps Timothy was right.

Everyone was gone or dead.

Ben turned on the ladder ready to climb above deck when he heard the muffled scream. At first he thought it was a trick of the wind.

But he stopped and listened. The wail returned, sounding more human—and more feminine—than before. But a woman aboard a freighter didn’t make sense.

“Hello down there,” he shouted.

The screaming stopped and for a moment there was only silence. Then he heard, “Is someone out there?”

The woman’s voice was unmistakable.

“Yes! I’m here,” he shouted.

“Thank God! Please help me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the cabin on the right.” Her voice sounded broken, as if she’d been sobbing. “They locked me in.”

Ben raised the lantern and looked around for something he could use to break the door. He spotted an ax hanging on a wall by the stairs.

Ben grabbed the ax off its peg, hung the lantern in its place and climbed down the ladder. Raising the ax high over his head, he started to wade into the hallway. The eerie creaks and sways of the dying ship echoed around him. “I’m coming for you.”

The woman began to pound her door harder. “Hurry, the cabin is filling with water.”

Ben pushed past the floating debris. His limbs tingled from the cold. He tried the knob on the door. It was indeed locked.

“Please don’t leave me.” The woman’s desperation punctuated every syllable.

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Step back,” Ben shouted. “I’ll have to cut my way through the door.

He heard the splash of water. “I’m away from the door.”

Ben’s shoulders ached and the weight of his damp clothes made it nearly impossible for him to raise his arms over his head in the narrow hallway. It was only a matter of minutes before he’d lose feeling in his feet in the cold waters.

The lantern swayed and flickered in the wind behind him. Gritting his teeth, he jerked the ax back an extra inch then drove it with every bit of force left in his body. The blade sliced through the door as if it were butter. Ben yanked the ax free and drove it again into the door. Soon the door snapped in two.

Immediately water from the hallway rushed into the cabin. He heard the woman scream. Dropping the ax, he bolted into the darkened cabin.

The river of seawater knocked Rachel off balance.

She tumbled backward. Salt water filled her mouth and nose as her arms flayed around. She didn’t know what was up or down as she groped wildly for something to grab onto.

For all her desperate plans of escape, she feared she was going to die. Peter would have smiled at the irony. He’d always said he’d kill her if she tried to leave.

Strong hands banded around her arms and hauled her forward above the surface of the water. She sucked in a breath.

Her eyes burning, she stared at the silhouette of a very large man. Hints of lantern light from the hallway flickered on chiseled features and black eyes.

The cold had seeped through her dress and sapped her strength. Her teeth chattered. Her hair, in a long thick plait down her back, draped over her shoulder like a wet rope.

“Is there anyone else?” His voice was deep, rusty and full of authority.

“I don’t think so. I heard them lower the lifeboats hours ago. I screamed but no one came.”

The man muttered a savage oath. The boat shifted then, knocking her off balance and into his chest. Warmth and energy radiated from him. And for just the faintest moment she felt safe.

His strong fingers gripped her arm and he pushed her toward the door. “Let’s go,” he ordered. “We don’t have much time before she’s completely flooded.”

Wading across the tiny room in waist-deep water and then down the hallway took every ounce of strength left in Rachel’s body. The weight of her skirts added to the burden of every step.

When they reached the ladder leading to the deck above, the boat tilted and groaned again. Water rushed down the ladder. She fell back into the stranger.

He wrapped strong fingers around her shoulders. “Move, or we both will die here,” he growled in her ear.

He placed his hands around her narrow waist and propelled her forward through the icy waterfall. The thick wool of her dress was completely soaked and it clung to her body like a second skin.

Rachel coughed as she stumbled forward to the upper deck. She sucked in a deep breath.

The rain had slowed. In the distance she saw the lighthouse beacon. There, she’d be safe. But it was so far away.

The deck above was sloping badly now, and each time she tried to stand, her foot caught in her drenched hem. The stranger grabbed her elbow and jerked her up.

“I can’t walk. My skirts are so heavy.” Lord, but she sounded weak. The cold night air pricked her skin.

“We’re almost there.” Urgency laced each word. “Just a few more yards.”

She forced herself to remain standing. “I am not going to die now. I’ve come too far. I’ve come too far.” She hadn’t realized she’d chanted the words out loud until he spoke.

“Aye, we’ve both come too far to die now.” He pushed his shoulder into her midsection and lifted her up off the ground. His shoulder dug into her belly and she could barely breathe.

He dashed across the deck until he reached the railing.

She caught a glimpse of the ocean below. A small boat bobbed in the water. The black seas churned.

She gripped his wet coat with her frozen fingers. “I can’t swim!” she shouted.

“I can.”

He tossed her over the side of the railing into the churning waters.

Chapter Three

Rachel’s sense of weightlessness lasted only an instant. Before she could scream, she landed in the water.

The icy ocean engulfed her mouth and nose as she plowed downward through the water. Her blood thrummed with fear.

For one heart-stopping moment she thought she’d never reach air again. She tasted salt. Her lungs ached and burned.

She clawed her way through the water, wondering what she’d do if she reached the surface. Even if she hadn’t had the heavy skirts weighing her down, she couldn’t swim.

A strong hand grabbed her forearm and hauled her upward. She clung to her rescuer, knowing without him she’d die. She broke through the water’s edge and sucked in a huge breath, coughing. Her bare shoulder bumped against something hard and she realized she’d been pushed beside a rowboat.

“Steady the oars, Timothy,” her rescuer said. “I’ve got a woman.” The confidence in his voice relaxed her. Somehow she knew she was safe.

He wrapped his hands around her waist, holding her body close to his. “Hold on to the boat’s edge. I’m going to climb in and pull you aboard.”

She panicked. “Don’t leave me.”

He moved so close that his lips were right next to her ear. “Be brave. I’ll have you in the boat in a second.”

Her skin burned in the ice-cold water. She could barely hold on to the slick lip of the boat as it was. But when she looked into his warm, steady gaze she knew he wouldn’t leave her. “Hurry.”

Her rescuer easily swung his long legs over the side of the boat. The boat dipped and swayed but he steadied himself as if he were on dry land.

He leaned over the edge and, grabbing her arms, pulled her up into the boat and eased her to the bottom. A bone-deep cold had settled into her body. Her teeth chattered.

“Where’d you find her?” the young man said, handing a blanket to her rescuer.

“Belowdecks.” He wrapped the blanket around her. The coarse fabric offered some warmth, but she couldn’t shake the chill.

The boy looked at her as if she were a specter. “In a million years, I never would have guessed there’d be a woman aboard that freighter.”

The man sat behind her, bracing his feet on either side of her. Powerful thighs rubbed her shoulders. “That’s the key, lad. Never guess.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Timothy, get another blanket for the woman.” He took hold of the oars and started to row. The boat started toward the shore.

“Anything you say, Mr. Mitchell.” The younger man took his place, reached behind him and produced a thick wool blanket from under a tarp.

Timothy handed Rachel the blanket and she wasted no time wrapping it around her shoulders.

Mr. Mitchell. Her savior had an ordinary name, she thought absently as she managed to sit up on the boat bottom. The heroes in the books she read always seemed to have such exotic, memorable names.

She hugged her arms over her wet shoulders, unsure if she should be grateful or sick to her stomach.

Mr. Mitchell dug the oars into the water. The boat started to glide. How he had the energy to row was beyond her comprehension.

Strength radiated from his body. Such power, she’d learned, gave him complete control over her. The man had just saved her life and already suspicion clouded her thoughts of him. Marriage to Peter had done that.

The name was ordinary, but the man was not.

Mr. Mitchell was dirty, covered in sand and seaweed, yet unlike the sailors on the ship, there wasn’t the stench of rotting teeth or filth about him. Instead he possessed a musky kind of man smell that intrigued her.

She closed her eyes. Lord, but she was tired of being afraid. She wanted her life back. She wanted to laugh again.

But she was so cold. And so very tired. She simply wanted to sleep now. Exhausted, she leaned to the left. Her cheek brushed Mr. Mitchell’s thigh.

“What’s your name?” Mr. Mitchell said.

His gruff voice startled her. She opened her eyes and sat up straight, suddenly aware that she’d laid her cheek against his thigh. “It’s Rachel.”

“You have a last name?” he said.

She hesitated. Peter would return to Washington soon. And he’d be looking for her. “Davis. Rachel Davis.” The surname belonged to her maid.

“Where are you from?”

She didn’t want to talk. She was so tired and cold she could barely string two thoughts together.

He stared down at her unsmiling. Lantern light deepened the hard planes of his face. She feared for one moment that he had the power to read into her soul.

“What were you doing on the Anna St. Claire?”

“I’ve family in the Caribbean.” She hated lying, but trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

The boat rose and fell with the tides. His thigh brushed her shoulder. “Most women don’t travel freighters.”

“It was economical.” And very expedient.

Tension tightened the muscles in his body, as if he sensed she was lying. “I see.”

She suppressed a shiver, telling herself it was the cold. The rain had slowed but the night air cut through her drenched gown. Rachel longed to escape this boat and Mr. Mitchell’s scrutiny. “I owe you my thanks, sir.”

He shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

“You’re lucky Ben was on duty,” Timothy said rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Not all keepers would fight the surf as he does.”

She glanced at the boy. About her age, yet he looked so young. Or was it that she just felt so old?

Her teeth started to chatter and her hands to shake. Mr. Mitchell tightened his legs around her shoulders, giving her his warmth.

She shifted, uncomfortable with the contact.

“You’re freezing. My legs will keep you warmer.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’re blue.”

Unconsciously her fingers curled into fists, ready to fight if need be. Her days of giving in were over. “The blankets will warm me soon enough.”

“You must put your modesty aside, Mrs. Davis, until you are warm. The cold can take your life as easily as the ocean.”

Mrs. Davis. He’d called her Mrs. Davis. He’d not looked past her widow’s weeds. Good.

She forced herself to relax, which was hard because her teeth were chattering. However, she did see the wisdom of his words. She’d die if she didn’t get warm. “You’re right of course. I—I’m being silly.”

“No problem.”

She adjusted the blanket so that it covered her shoulders. He tightened his legs around her. The warmth of his body lulled her closer.

She should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. Depending on anyone was simply too dangerous.

Davis. As common a name as there was for a woman who looked anything but common.

The woman’s body felt fragile against Ben’s thighs. Her thick tangle of hair had escaped its braid and hung freely down her back, skimming the middle of her backside. He imagined when dry it shone like gold and felt like down. Her fine-boned features were ghostly pale now, but warmth, time and a few good meals would make her stunning.

As he held her against him, he was very aware of the full curve of her breasts rubbing his thigh. He imagined the ripeness of her nipples straining against the wet fabric, and the narrow curve of her hips.

Again she laid her head on his leg. She was falling asleep. In this cold, that wasn’t good.

“Where is your husband?” he said, determined to keep her talking.

Startled, she opened her eyes. Confusion and fear flashed in their blue depths before they cleared. She shifted her gaze out to the sea. “He’s dead.”

“How long?”

“Not long.”

The news should have meant nothing to him. Widow or married, it shouldn’t matter either way to him.

But it did.

He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.

Her silence spoke volumes.

Ben frowned. It wasn’t simply the cold that was affecting her now.

Rachel Davis was hiding something.

The tide had been more brutal than Mr. Mitchell had first thought. He told Timothy as much when he’d ordered him to the oars. The boy had taken his place by Ben and together they rowed to shore. It seemed there was a time or two that Mr. Mitchell and Timothy looked worried.

However, fifteen minutes later, the boat bottom scraped the sand. The rain had all but stopped, the heavy winds had thinned and the thick clouds had parted. Moonlight shone down on the beach and the dunes.

The wind sliced through her wet clothes like a knife. Rachel feared she’d never be warm again.

She sat up, pulling free of Mr. Mitchell’s embrace. “Where are we?”

“Off the coast of North Carolina, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Between Corolla and Hatteras.” He rose. “Stay put. I’ll be back.”

Leaving her, he climbed out of the boat. Immediately she missed the heat of his body.

Mr. Mitchell grabbed the side of the boat. Waves crashed around his feet. His biceps bunched and corded muscles in his neck strained as he and Timothy yanked the boat ashore.

Her mind, befuddled by the cold, marveled that Mr. Mitchell could stand so tall and strong after such an exhausting rescue. The fact that he could pull the heavy boat ashore was nothing short of a miracle. The man’s tenacity simply wasn’t human.

She glanced up and down the long beaches that stretched and curved into the horizon. She could make out the outline of the dunes topped with sea oats that swayed in the wind. There wasn’t a soul to be found in either direction.

Hundreds of miles separated this isolated land from Peter and Washington, but she feared it wasn’t enough. His reach could be quite far.

Her stomach tightened, warning her that she’d have to move on soon. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart.

“I’ll put the boat up, Ben,” the young man said. “And I’ll take the rest of tonight’s shift.”

“Thanks.” Mr. Mitchell walked over to her and held out his hand. “Ready to go, Mrs. Davis?”

Automatically she rose and took his hand. Steady, warm fingers closed around her hand.

Yet despite her best efforts to stand tall, she started to crumble. Her legs wobbled under the weight of her skirts and her head began to spin. Fisting her hand around the blanket, she drew in deep breaths, trying to will her body to move.

Heavy hands cupped her shoulders. “I’ve got you.” He lifted her out of the boat.

She leaned into him. If she could just rest a moment and catch her breath. “I can’t stay here. I have to leave. Is there a town nearby where I can buy clothes?”

A humorless smile tipped the edges of his mouth. “Lady, you’re not going anywhere.”

Rachel’s head spun and her stomach churned. “I have to go.”

“Let me help you,” he whispered against her ear.

Lord, but she was a pitiable creature. She glared up at him. A grim smile lifted the edge of his lips. She was aware that Timothy was also staring at her. “I need to go.”

“Where?” he demanded.

“South.”

His gaze grew serious. “Is there someone expecting you?”

Hunting me. “No.”

“Then give up the fight for tonight. Your skin is like ice. I’ve a warm bed at the lightkeeper’s cottage. Tomorrow you can leave.”

The offer was tempting. To wrap herself in the dry comfort of a bed and let sleep take her for just a little while. But a little rest could cost her her life. “I need to go.”

He loosened his hold, a clear sign he’d not argue with her.

Rachel staggered over the uneven sand for several feet. Her fingers ached with cold and fatigue. The added exertion of walking on sand sent her heart pounding and soon her body began to perspire. Her head spun faster and her mouth began to sweat.

Humiliation welled as she realized she was going to throw up in front of this man. She dropped to her knees. She threw up bile.

Mr. Mitchell knelt beside her. He held her hair back from her face and patiently waited until the spasms stopped. “Better?”

She didn’t dare raise her eyes to look at him. “Yes.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Mrs. Davis. You can’t go anywhere until morning. Let’s get you up to the cottage.” He scooped her in his arms and carried her over the dunes.

Rachel didn’t argue this time. She was so cold, she couldn’t think. But wrapped in his musky, very male scent, she felt safe and protected.

Tomorrow, she’d leave.

For now, all she wanted to do was to sleep.

Ben was losing Rachel.

The woman he’d battled so hard to save from the doomed Anna St. Claire was slipping deeper and deeper into a sleep borne not of fatigue but of a bone-chilling cold that was robbing her of her life. He shifted her in his arms.

She weighted no more than a sack of feathers. Her breathing was rapid and uneven.

Ben glanced at his assistant. “Timothy, I’ve got to get her inside. The cold is killing her.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Get yourself into dry clothes and grab something to eat before you head back to the light.”

Timothy’s shoulders slumped with fatigue. “Aye, sir.”

Ben marched up over the dunes and across the sandy yard toward the white lightkeeper’s cottage.

Timothy headed into the base of the lighthouse as Ben climbed the stairs of the cottage. The keeper’s cottage with its red-tiled roof and large front porch was split into two sections—the larger quarters reserved for the lightkeeper and the smaller one for his assistant.

He pushed open the front door with his wet booted foot. The house was dark and very cold. He was so familiar with the interior that he didn’t need a light to know his way. To his right was a parlor. The room was filled with boxes of his belongings. He’d never taken the time to unpack. Beyond the parlor was a large kitchen. He’d made a few unappetizing meals in the kitchen but, like the parlor, the room went unused. He was simply too exhausted after long shifts in the lighthouse to sit and read, let alone cook. Now that Timothy was on board, his long hours would ease. Soon his life would find more balance.

Ben moved purposefully toward the back room. What Rachel needed was a hot bath to warm her bones, but heating water would take more than an hour. He glanced down at her pale skin. Her lips had taken on a blue hue.

Hypothermia.

He moved down the darkened center hallway past two more doors—bedrooms he never used—to his own at the end.

The woman moaned softly. Her fingers were bunched into small fists. No bigger than a sprite, she possessed a warrior spirit he had to admire.

Her face nestled in the crook under his chin. He could feel her warm breath against his skin.

Ben laid her gently on the bed. She rolled onto her side and curled her legs close to her body. She still clutched the blanket close.

He lit a lantern. A soft glow of light shone on the double bed, dresser, sea trunk and large hearth.

He quickly removed his wet jacket and tossed it into a heap on the floor.

Ben turned his attention to Rachel and her damp clothes. She whimpered when he pried the blanket from her hands. “You’ll be warm in a minute.”

He quickly undressed her. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the softness of her skin or the ripe fullness of her breasts. He covered her with the thick bedspread. She shivered and burrowed deeper. Lantern light cast a soft glow on her skin.

Ben set to work on lighting a fire. It didn’t take long before the wood took flame.

The woman’s breathing sounded more labored now, and though the blaze was slowly warming the room, she still trembled under the blankets.

Ben opened the chest at the foot of the bed and removed another blanket. He laid it over her, tucking the edges around her slender frame.

She moaned and rolled onto her other side. “I’m so cold.”

Ben touched her forehead. Cold as ice.

He sat on the edge of the bed and uncovered her feet. She moaned in protest until he cupped them between his hands. Slowly her feet warmed.

Warming her with the blankets would take hours.

Accepting what must be, he stripped completely and climbed into the bed. He pulled her cold, naked body against his, tugged the blankets over them and draped his arm across her very narrow waist.

She’d not die on his watch.

Chapter Four

Ben awoke with a start.

His mind fogged with sleep, he thought for a moment he was still a decorated naval officer in command of twenty-six sailors and destined to rise higher through the ranks.

As much as he wanted to believe he was on the clipper ship Intercept, reason whispered he couldn’t be. Absent were the sway of the ship and the sound of men working. And when had he fallen asleep? He’d never slept the night through when he was at sea.

He sat up and shoved his hands through his hair. Morning sunlight streamed into the cold room through the window by his bed. Outside the wind banged a shutter open and closed. Gradually his mind cleared. He wasn’t on his ship. He was in the lightkeeper’s cottage.

Ben relaxed back against the pillow. A flock of seagulls squawked outside his window. He glanced over at the hearth to the dying embers.

His senses kicked into play. The Anna St. Claire had wrecked. The rescue. He remembered.

He looked down at the woman beside him. Curled on her side, she lay naked under the blankets, her long hair flowing down her back.

Rachel.

The coarse blankets covered her petite frame and molded to the gentle curve of her hip. Her profile was classic, a long patrician nose, high cheekbones and full, round lips. Her skin was the color of porcelain. Beautiful. Her hair, dry now, glistened. He captured a stray curl between his fingers. Silk.

She stirred, stretching her legs. Her bare toes peaked out from the end of the blankets into the morning cold. But they retreated under the blankets and rubbed against his, seeking warmth.

The touch was innocent enough and yet it possessed an intimacy that unsettled him. In the quiet morning hours this was the kind of moment a husband and his wife shared before the day began.

She nestled her bottom closer to him. He grew as hard as a pike. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman and he was accurately aware of it now.

Of course, if Rachel were his, he’d be under the covers with her. And he’d be kissing her awake as he moved inside her.

Embarrassed by the direction of his thoughts, Ben lay very still, waiting as she settled. She sighed and burrowed her face into her pillow.

He didn’t want to wake her. She needed her sleep and, in truth, he liked being close to her. He liked it too damn much.

Taking in a deep breath, he stared out the window. He had no rights to the desires flooding his veins. She’d said her husband was dead, but she could very well have children and a whole other life waiting for her return.

Chance had brought her to these shores, but she would soon leave. She didn’t belong here.

He shifted his thoughts to the work to be done today—the ropes to be rewound, the oil that would have to be hauled up the one hundred plus steps of the lighthouse and the lenses that would have to be polished. When that didn’t ease the throbbing in his groin, he thought about the frigid waters of the Atlantic. If only he could dip into those waters now.

Rachel stirred and muttered something in her sleep. She rolled onto her back, revealing the other side of her face. In the morning light, he saw the bruise. Angry and purple, it marred an otherwise flawless face. He’d not noticed it last night in the dark.

A primitive anger stirred inside him. Had the sailors done this to her?

Suspicion replaced desire. A woman of means, bruised and traveling alone on a frigate manned by hardened sailors. Nothing about Rachel Davis made sense.

Restless now, he eased up and leaned against the headboard. He’d serve them both well by getting dressed and giving her privacy. When she woke, she’d likely be confused and dazed as most near victims of the sea were.

Later he would talk to her and find out where she came from.

“Ben!” His aunt Ida’s voice echoed through his cottage. Ida had taken him in and raised him as her own after his parents had drowned crossing the Sound when he was six. Whenever news of shipwreck reached the nearby village she came to check on him the next morning.

Very aware of his and Rachel’s nudity, and the picture they made, Ben vaulted out of bed toward a small dresser. He stumbled over their wet clothes entwined in a sopping mess on the floor.

“Mama, I want to check on Timothy to see if he’s doing all right.” The voice of Ben’s cousin Callie drifted through the small house.

“Not until you’ve paid your respects to your cousin first. Ben! Are you home? It’s Ida and Callie.” His aunt’s voice grew closer.

“Hello, Ben,” Callie said.

He yanked open a dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of dry pants. Their timing was flawless. “I’ll be right there.”

He yanked the pants up over his hips. As he fumbled with the thirteen buttons on the dual front flaps, Rachel awoke with a start. She sat up in bed, her eyes wild and full of fear.

Her gaze drifted over to him, taking in his naked chest and his half-buttoned pants.

Before he could explain, she scrambled out of the bed, dragging the sheet with her. She scurried into a corner and screamed.

The piercing sound no doubt had been heard thirty miles down the beach at Manteo. Certainly, Ida and Callie had heard it. Damn.

Ben fumbled with his buttons and moved toward Rachel. “Rachel, do you remember me?”

Her doe eyes wide, with panic, stared back at him. White-blond hair streamed over hands that clutched her sheet.

She shook her head and tried to retreat another step. She bumped into the wall.

“Ben!” Ida shouted. “What the devil is going on in there? We heard a woman scream.”

Shoving out a breath, he reached for Rachel as if handling a skittish horse. “It’s okay. You are safe. I won’t hurt you.”

She shrank back.

He recoiled his hand. Whoever had hit her had marked her with more than bruises.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I saved you. Remember? Your ship, the Anna St. Claire, sank.”

She dragged a shaking hand through her hair and straightened her slumped shoulders. “I remember the cold water.” Her husky voice was barely a whisper.

“Aye, it was cold. Your skin was like ice when I carried you here.” He swept his arm over the room. “This place…it’s the lightkeeper’s cottage. You’re in my room. I’m the lightkeeper.”

Flushed cheeks made her blue eyes all the more vivid. She conjured images in his mind of sirens and sea nymphs destined to tempt sailors into dangerous, uncharted waters. The memory of her soft flesh pressed against him this morning still hammered his senses. His arousal hardened against his sloppily buttoned breeches.

There was a hard knock at his door. “Benjamin!”

Double damn. Ben moved to the door and blocked it with his body. “Just a minute.”

Rachel glanced down at her sheet-clad body. “I’m naked.”

“Your clothes were soaked, draining the heat from your body. You’d developed hypothermia. I took your dress off so you’d be warm. Even with the fire and blankets you were still so cold. That’s why I stripped and got into bed with you. For the body heat alone.”

She studied him, clearly not trusting him.

“Look, your clothes are still in a cold heap on the floor along with my clothes. I nearly tripped over them just a moment ago.”

“Benjamin David Mitchell,” Ida said just outside his door. “Your cousin and I are coming in, now!” The doorknob turned.

“Just a minute!” he shouted. He leaned against the door.

Rachel’s gaze darted like a caged animal’s. “Who is that shouting?”

“That’s my aunt and her daughter, my cousin. They’re good women. Nosy, but good.”

The door opened a crack. He shoved it closed.

“We don’t mean to disturb, Ben, but we heard a scream,” Callie said.

Ben shrugged. “There’s no keeping them out.”

Rachel jerked the edges of the sheet around her. “I need clothes!”

“Do you have that Phoebe from Corolla in there?” Ida said. “She’s had her eye on you for months. Lord knows, the woman is known for her dramatics.”

“Phoebe is on the mainland, Mama,” Callie said. “I bet it’s Sara Plank he’s got in there.”

His aunt and cousin were discussing the intimate details of his life. The day was getting better and better.

Ben shoved out another breath. “There’s no avoiding Ida and Callie.” He stepped back from the door and opened it.

Ida and Callie burst through the door as Rachel turned her face slightly so that her hair hid her bruise.

She was ashamed of the bruise. The realization dug in his gut.

Ida’s silver hair caught the morning light as she stood in stunned silence, a basket of muffins clutched in her hands. Callie’s brown eyes, like her mother’s, looked surprised as she studied Rachel.

Each woman wore a simple gray wool dress. Ida was the shorter of the two. Callie’s body was trim and supple whereas childbirth and the years had left Ida’s plump.

“I know every woman on the banks and I’ve never seen her before,” Ida said.

Normally, Ida would have offered him one of her muffins the instant she saw him. He never ate enough for her task. This time, she held on to her basket with a white-knuckled grip.

“Your timing is bad,” he said more gruffly than he’d intended.

“Don’t you growl at me, Ben Mitchell,” Ida said. “What are you about?”

“This isn’t what you think,” he said, softening his tone.

Ida’s and Callie’s gazes darted between him and Rachel. Their tight-lipped expressions challenged him.

Ida’s grip on the basket was firm. “We understand a man alone has…well, needs, but bringing a woman here isn’t discreet, Benjamin.”

Ben prayed for patience. The last thing he wanted to do was to discuss his needs with his aunt. “You’ve got it wrong, Ida.”

“What would the people in the village say?” Callie countered.

“I could give a tinker’s damn what they think,” he snapped.

Ida wiped a wisp of gray hair off her face. “Language, Benjamin. And you’re still the winter man in the Service’s eyes. They’d not have offered you the position in the first place if not for the admiral’s kind words. And they’ll surely withdraw their offer if they get the breath of scandal.”

His lips flattened. “I’ve weathered scandal before.”

Ida’s eyes softened a fraction. “That was a long time ago.”

A year wasn’t a long time ago.

Aware of Rachel’s presence, he halted the direction of this conversation. In the best of times, he didn’t like discussing his past.

He heaved a sigh. “Rachel, this is my aunt, Ida, and my cousin Callie.” It annoyed him that his aunt had the power to make him feel like an errant schoolboy. Damn it all, he’d done nothing wrong. “Ladies, I’d like you to meet Rachel Davis. She’s from the shipwreck.”

“From last night?” Callie said. “Oh, my. Dear, you were on the Anna St. Claire?”

Rachel faced them. “Yes.”

Ida frowned as she got her first look at Rachel’s bruised eye. “Benjamin how did that woman get that bruise on her eye?”

“From the wreck,” he said quickly. “She stumbled into a door.”

He glanced at Rachel. She stood tall and proud. Intelligence sparked in her blue eyes. Judging by the bruise’s color, it was several days old. She’d gotten it before she’d boarded the vessel.

Ida wasn’t buying Ben’s story. “The tales I’ve heard report that the shipwreck was a freighter. What would a woman like you be doing on a freighter?”

Rachel leaned heavily against the wall. “I was traveling south.”

Ben wanted to know more, but for now would let the questions alone. She looked ready to collapse. As much as he wanted to scoop her up and tuck her into bed, he didn’t want her screaming again. “Her destination is none of our business.”

Ida fisted her hands and planted them on her hips. “It’s a fair question. You have a right to know who you bring into your house.”

Ben glowered at his aunt. “She’s not up to the questions now.”

Ida shrugged and had the good sense to know when she pushed too far. “All right, she’s from the wrecked ship and why she was on such a ship or why she has a bruised face is none of our business. That doesn’t explain why she’s naked in your bed.”

He straightened his shoulders. If anyone else had asked him that question, he’d have tossed them out of his house without explanation. But Ida wasn’t anyone.

“We came ashore well past midnight,” he said.

“Was Timothy with you?” Callie said.

“Aye, and he did a fine job. He’s in the lighthouse now.”

Callie smiled. “Mama, I want to go see him.”

“Wait,” Ida said sharply. “And what happened next, Benjamin?”

“She was too cold to make the trip into the village,” Ben said. “Otherwise I’d have boarded her at Mae’s Inn like I do all the other survivors.”

Callie nodded to Ben’s pants. “Fix your buttons. They’re crooked.”

He glanced down. He buttoned the flaps so quickly he was off by two buttonholes on the right side. Irritated, he refastened them. “She was cold and in danger of dying. I got into bed with her to warm her.”

Ida lifted a brow.

Callie shrugged. “She was cold, Mama.”

Ida glared at the seventeen-year-old.

“Look, there’s nothing to worry about,” Ben said. “The lady’s honor is intact.”

Ida folded her arms over her chest—a clear signal that his answer didn’t suffice. “I’d like a word with your guest.”

“Ida.” He shoved out a breath. “Can’t it wait?”

Ida stepped around Ben. “When will you be leaving?” she demanded of Rachel.

“Ida, the questions can wait.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, ready to turn her toward the door.

Ida pursed her lips, holding steady. “If you are smart, you’ll report the wreck and be done with Rachel Davis. You’ve saved her life—your obligation has been met.”

Rachel clutched her sheet. “She is right. I should be leaving,” she said.

Ben’s gaze pinned Rachel. She looked paler now. “Stay put.”

Callie folded her arms over her chest. “Mama, this is Ben you are talking to. He’s not good at walking away from unfinished business.”

“Well, maybe it’s time he learned,” Ida snapped.

Callie was right. There were too many questions that needed answering before he walked away from Rachel. He should. But he wouldn’t. “She stays until she’s strong enough to travel.”

“Then bundle her up and send her to my place,” Ida said. “I’ll care for her.”

“The last thing she needs is a mile-long walk in cold morning air,” Ben said. “She can barely stand.”

“It’s not proper,” Ida said.

“It’s practical,” Ben said.

Callie stepped around her mother and extended her hand to Rachel. “Ben will take good care of you. But if there is anything you need, send Ben to the village. Mama and I will help you.”

Rachel slowly loosened one white-knuckled grip on the sheet and took Callie’s hand. “Thank you.”

Ida snorted. “Callie, you’re as tenderhearted as your cousin.”

Callie laughed. “Don’t be offended by my mama, Mrs. Davis. She sounds hard but she’s not.”

“She is being careful,” Rachel said. “I would worry just as much if I were in her shoes.” Ben noted Rachel’s voice had a smoky, seductive quality. Raw silk.

Ida’s frown eased. “Seems you’re the only one with a bit of sense here.” She studied Rachel closer this time. She approached and laid the back of her hand on Rachel’s forehead. “My word, dear, you’re hotter than a fritter. Are you feeling all right?”

Rachel nodded slowly as if the action required great effort. “I’m just tired.”

Ben’s annoyance drowned in concern as he moved to Rachel. “She was colder than ice last night.”

Ida glanced over at her shoulder at Ben. “Ever consider extra blankets?”

“I tried that first,” he said, teeth clenched.

Ida studied Rachel closely. “Ben is right. You need to stay in bed. Don’t waste another bit of energy. We don’t want the chill to settle in your lungs.”

Rachel started to move toward the bed, but in two steps she crumbled. Ben scooped her up in his arms and laid her on the bed. He pulled the blankets up over her.

Relieved to withdraw to the comfort of her pillows and blankets, she eased back and closed her eyes. Her blond hair draped the white pillow. She looked drained. “I just need rest.”

Ida laid the back of her hand on Rachel’s forehead. “Aye, you are warm. Ben, how long was she in the water?”

“Thirty minutes after I found her, but before that I don’t know.”

“Hours,” Rachel said. “I lost count.”

“Ben, I don’t like the look of her.”

He’d battled too damn hard to save her to loose her to a fever. “I’ve Yaupon tea,” he said.

Ida nodded. “Good idea. That’ll help any fever. Brew it strong and keep her in bed. If she doesn’t improve by morning, we’ll send to the mainland for the doctor.”

Rachel’s eyes, bright with fear, widened. “No! I’m sure a doctor isn’t necessary. I just need a bit of rest.”

Her reaction didn’t surprise Ben. A woman on a freighter. A black eye. “The doctor’s a good man, Rachel. There’s no need to fear him. And he is discreet.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, lifting her chin. “I will be fine. In fact, if I could just have my dress.”

Ben wasn’t convinced—not by a long shot.

And judging by the softening look on Ida’s face, she wasn’t convinced, either. With only the strength in his index finger, he pushed her back on the pillows. “Your dress is in a wet heap on the floor. And you’re not moving a muscle.”

Ignoring him, Rachel sat forward. “Perhaps, then, I could just trouble you ladies for a dress. I could trade mine for it. Once it is dry you will see that it is a fine dress.”

“When you are well, I will happily see to getting you a dress. For now, listen to Ben, dear,” Ida cautioned. “Your health could take a turn and you would find yourself in real trouble.”

Clutching the blankets, Rachel boldly swung her legs over the side of the bed. She paused, clearly dizzy. Her mind wanted more than her body could manage.

The woman was stubborn, Ben thought.

She started to crumple forward.

Ben wrapped calloused hands on her bare shoulders. Her skin burned with the heat of a fever now. He eased her back against the pillows.

Rachel’s breathing was ragged. “I really must leave.”

She was weaker than a kitten and it took only a slight nudge to settle her.

“Lady, only a fool or a runaway would try to leave in your condition,” Ben said evenly. “So tell me, which are you?”

Chapter Five

“I’m not a runaway,” Rachel said, feeling the color drain from her face. She shrank back against the pillows. “I—I just don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother,” Ida said brusquely.

Callie nodded her agreement. “We love to have visitors in town. We’re fairly isolated out here.”

Ben stood silent. His hair disheveled, dark stubble covering his square jaw. He looked like a pirate.

His sharp gaze cut into her, as if he were peeling away her protective layers and looking into her soul. This man was a hunter. He missed little.

She’d have to tread carefully. “I’m not used to being pampered,” she said, trying to add strength to her words.

“Tough,” he said. “Ida and Callie, see that she doesn’t get out of that bed.”

The women nodded. “She’s not going anywhere until her cheeks aren’t so flushed,” Ida said.

“And that fever is gone,” Callie said. “Yaupon tea and rest is what she needs.”

“Callie, lets get to town and fetch more tea and herbs,” Ida said. “We’ll be back in a hour or so.”

Rachel could have protested, but no one would have listened. And the truth was, they were right. She was too sick to travel.

Ben thanked his aunt and cousin and escorted them to the door. She listened to his steady purposeful steps echo in the house. Having him close made her feel safe.

When he returned, he went to the hearth. Squatting, he took the black iron and shoved it into the glowing logs. Sparks flicked up the chimney. He tossed a fresh log onto the flames.

His well-muscled shoulders strained against his woolen shirt. She’d had a taste of his power last night when he’d carried her in his arms. She’d been exhausted and had melted against him. She’d felt protected in his arms.

“Ida is worried you are trouble,” he said.

Rachel moistened her lips. “I know.”

“The Anna St. Claire is known for her rough crew. It’s no place for a lady.”

Tension tingled through her tired muscles. “As I said before, it was expedient.”

Deliberately he replaced the iron and rose. He faced her. “Are you wanted by the law?”

Her heart slammed into her ribs. “No.”

He studied her so intently, her cheeks, flushed with fever, paled a fraction. Lord, but her head was swimming.

“So if I telegrammed the sheriff in Elizabeth City, he’d not have heard of you?”

She sat up so fast, her stomach lurched and her sheet fell. Quickly she groped at its edges. The cool morning air had made her nipples harden into soft peaks. “Don’t do that!”

Ben dropped his gaze while she righted her sheet. “Davis is your last name.”

Was that the name she’d given last night? “Yes.”

A humorless smiled curved the edges of his lips. “Davis. A solid American name.”

Ordinary is what he meant to say. But that was why she must have chosen it. She wanted to blend in—to be one of a million faceless people that no one gave a second glance.

“Rachel Davis.” The name sounded seductive, far from ordinary, when he spoke it.

Her head pounded and all she wanted to do was to lose herself in the blankets. “Yes.”

“Where are you from?”

Hadn’t he asked her that question last night? Details would be her downfall if she wasn’t careful. With her senses so befuddled now, she’d never remember the lies she spun. “A small town. I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

A gentleman would have taken her subtle hint and dropped the subject. “Do we really have to talk now? I’m so tired.” Exhausted, her shoulders sagged.

He crossed to her in two steps and steadied her shoulders with his strong hands. Gently he guided her back to the pillows. “Aye, you do need your rest. But we will talk later.”

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