Heart Of The Storm. Mary Burton
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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