Heart Of The Storm. Mary Burton
Читать онлайн книгу.
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