The Bride's Rescuer. Charlotte Douglas
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Celia disengaged the lines, tossed them onboard, and leaped onto the deck. Within minutes, she had the auxiliary engines started and was moving the boat into the channel.
Suddenly the voice of the harbormaster, a man she’d known since she was a child, sounded over the public address system. “Celia, return to port. There’s a storm brewing.”
She’d weathered storms in the Morgan before. Returning to port meant facing Darren, a man with possible homicidal tendencies, and over fifty curious wedding guests. Returning also meant dealing with the ominous accusations of the strange woman, Mrs. Seffner. And worst of all, returning meant admitting to herself that she’d almost married a man she didn’t love.
A storm, the harbormaster had warned. Maybe that was just what she needed. A big wind to blow all her troubles away.
As soon as Celia reached the channel, she raised the sails and headed west into the Gulf of Mexico and the gathering storm.
Chapter One
“Is she dead?”
The deep drawling voice invaded Celia’s consciousness, and dead ricocheted in her mind like a frightened bird in a too-small cage. She couldn’t be dead. A dead person felt nothing. Her ribs ached. Her head pounded. Her arms and legs throbbed. Her skin burned from the scorching sun, but she shivered in the cool breeze.
The coolness of a shadow fell across her, blocking the sun’s assault, and strong, gentle fingers probing her neck for a pulse pressed her cheek deeper into hot sand. She winced as breaking waves of saltwater stung her lacerated ankles.
All around her a peculiar blackness vibrated with shifting lights, shapeless moats of brightness and color that ebbed and flowed like the water at her feet. Weariness seeped through her, making her eyelids too heavy to open. She wanted to cover her ears to block the relentless roar of the surf, but her hands refused to respond. Exhausted, she settled deeper into the soft, hot sand and drifted back into darkness.
“You gonna have to pry her hands off that board.” The voice roused her once more, and awe tinged the words, uttered in a thick and lazy Southern drawl. “Hanging on to it’s probably the only thing saved her.”
“Dear God, why did you send her here?” A second deep, rich voice, this one with a cultured British accent, rang with torment, and gentle fingers traced the curve of her jaw and cupped her face. “Careful with her hands, Noah.”
Someone loosened her fingers from an object she hadn’t known they clasped, and she cried out in pain. The second man wrapped her in a garment—his shirt?—and her shivering eased. Strong arms lifted her from the sand and cradled her against a warm, hard body. The heat from his skin warmed her, and her shivering ceased.
“Rest easy, miss. We’ll take good care of you.”
The tenderness in the masculine British voice soothed her more than his words. The comforting rhythm of his heartbeats thudded where her cheek rested on his bare chest, and she relaxed in his embrace and opened her eyes. She focused slowly on a strong, tanned jaw, generous mouth, classic nose and wide amber eyes combined in a face so handsome it took her breath away.
Her sudden intake of air drew his attention, and her rescuer glanced down at her. His remarkable tawny eyes filled with tenderness.
Before she could ask his name, he called to the other man, the one he’d called Noah.
“I’m taking her to Mrs. Givens,” the Englishman stated. “She’ll care for her, but I want this woman kept out of my sight. Lock her in her room if she has to.”
Celia struggled to reconcile the strangeness of his words with the tenderness she had seen in his expression. Maybe a blow to the head had addled her brains. Why would he want her locked away? She was in no shape to be a threat to anyone.
“You gonna be fine, miss.” A wide smile broke across the ebony face of the man who walked beside them. Cool currents of air wafted across her sunburned skin, and the gently rocking motion of the Englishman’s gait as he carried her from the beach lulled her back into unconsciousness.
CELIA SURFACED SLOWLY from the depths of darkness and glanced around her. She lay in a soft bed, alone in a strange room. Her fingers skimmed smooth, fresh sheets that smelled of lemons and sunshine. Above arched a high ceiling with open beams, and beyond the foot of the bed, French doors opened onto a covered veranda.
A warm breeze laden with the pungent tang of saltwater wafted through the sparsely furnished room and rippled white muslin curtains tied back from the doors. Another fragrance moved on the air, the heavy scent of oleander from the branches in a cloisonné vase on the dresser. The uneasy quiet, like a palpable presence, gathered in the room, hovering and threatening in the dim twilight.
What had her impulsiveness landed her in this time? She’d run away from her marriage, wrecked her boat in a storm, and ended up in a place she couldn’t identify. Couldn’t she do anything right?
The sounds of footsteps and swishing skirts broke the eerie stillness, the feeling of an intangible threat retreated, and the door beside her bed opened. A short, stout woman with gray curls, wearing a lavender cotton dress covered by a white apron, bustled into the room with a tray of food. She smiled, and lights danced in her deep green eyes.
“Ah, feeling better, are we? I’m Mrs. Givens, the housekeeper. Let me help you up.”
Mrs. Givens slipped a plump arm beneath Celia’s shoulders and braced extra pillows behind her.
“Where am I?” Celia asked in confusion.
“On an island, m’dear, off the southwest Florida coast.”
“My boat?”
“You’ve been shipwrecked. We found you only half alive on the beach among the wreckage.”
Dark, savage recollections of a terrible storm converged upon Celia, filling her with an unfamiliar dread. She closed her mind against the memories, too frightened to confront them. “What day is this?”
“Out here away from everything, I lose track of time.” Mrs. Givens scrunched her pleasant features into a thoughtful grimace and counted on her fingers. “Today’s Monday.”
Monday.
Two days since the violent storm had broken her sailboat into pieces, pitching her into a horrifying maelstrom of green water and sickly swirling clouds. She tossed the bedcovers back and swung her legs over the side. Someone had removed her clothes and dressed her in a white granny gown. Had it been the handsome Englishman or Mrs. Givens? Celia felt strangely vulnerable without her own garments. “Where are my clothes?”
“The storm ripped them to shreds.” Mrs. Givens tapped a plump finger against her lips. “From what little was left, it looked like a wedding gown.”
Celia ignored the curiosity in the woman’s voice. After coming so close to dying, she wanted to appreciate being alive. She didn’t want to think about weddings or Darren Walker. Not yet. “I’m Celia Stevens.”
She had survived the shipwreck, and now she was alone, God knew where, among strangers. She had to get home. Her friends would be worried about her, especially after she’d run away from her wedding at the eleventh hour. But she couldn’t travel in a granny gown.
“Could you lend me some clothes? Then maybe one of the men who found me could take me to the mainland.”
Mrs. Givens sputtered in her haste to reply. “Good heavens, no! The nearest town is Key West.”
Key West.
The words left her breathless. Somehow the storm had flung her hundreds of miles south in the Gulf. Now she faced a long drive home in a rental car. At least the trip would give her time to think of how to deal with the catastrophe she’d left behind her. “Key West will do fine.”
“Mr. Alexander—”
“The Englishman?” The handsome but enigmatic man who’d