EXCERPT
He
saw her for the first time ever in a storage cellar with rain slashing at her
face, standing atop a crate, struggling to fasten a window, and the first words
he heard from her lips were, “Damn and blast it to Hades!”
Before
he could duck his head beneath the lintel and move forward, she turned to him
eyes the color of cloverleaves
and
lit like lightning.
“Don’t
gape, you big column of shark bait,” she shouted. “Help me!”
A
blast of wind struck the building and the shop above them shuddered. Her grip
slipped over the window latch.
Gabriel
shoved his shoulders through the narrow doorway and in three strides crossed
the room. The wind blew
hot
and punishingly hard through the opening, but she did not release the latch.
Covering her hand with his, he drove
the
frame shut.
The
building moaned, and Gabriel found himself looking down upon a nose both
freckled and wet, lips both lush and damp, lashes both long and dripping, and
cloverleaves that had gone entirely round. Her features were English, fine, and
not unattractive. After five months at sea, he would have been one sailor in a
million to resist following the trail of rainwater down her pale throat in
which her pulse beat visibly to the gown laced tight around her collar, sodden,
and clinging to her curves.
Sweet
curves.
“Remove
your hand from mine and your eyes from where they have fallen out of your
head,” she said in such
an
altered tone that he barely heard it below the groaning of the walls and the
pounding of the rain. Rather, the
pounding
of his pulse.
Too
long at sea.
He
removed his eyes and then his entire self. Stepping back, he offered his hand
for her descent from the crate.
She
lifted a single brow.
“I
beg your pardon,” he said roughly, withdrawing his hand once again.
She
grasped her sodden skirts and climbed nimbly down. “You are pardoned, Shark
Bait. This time.”
“Lieutenant,”
he corrected.
Swiftly
scanning the room with those eyes that even in the murky light of this day were
like the green of Highlands
mountains,
she untied the ribbons at her throat, removed her dripping bonnet, and tossed
it atop a barrel.
“Have
you got a handkerchief?”
He
reached into his waistcoat and proffered the square of linen. She glanced at
his outstretched hand, then at his
face,
then at his hand again, and did not move forward.
“You
are a giant beast of a man, aren’t you?” she said.
“So
I’ve been told.” He set the linen on a crate and backed away, curling his
fingers into his palm that had
easily
encompassed her whole hand. Taking up the kerchief, she unfolded it with
trembling fingers and wiped the rainwater from her face. Wind and rain battered
the building in frenzied fury, filling the tiny space with sound.
“I
wonder how you go along aboard a ship.” Her gaze passed up and down him anew.
“The crown of my head
is
barely to your chin yet I found the quarters aboard our ship frightfully
cramped. Unless naval ships are much
more
spacious, you must spend every day bent over.”
“Aye,
but only the part o’ the day belowdecks.”
The
lush lips twitched. When she withdrew her gaze to look about the room, he felt
the loss of that reluctant smile in his chest like the loss of air.
Nonsense. He was muddled with
exhaustion from preparing the Fairway for the storm. This storage room
beneath the shop was minuscule, heavy with heat, and packed with sacks of rice
and grain, barrels of sugar and ham, wooden parts for furniture, skeins of
silk, boxes of nails and other tools, and even one small keg of gunpowder. She
strode the circumference of it, rounding him, and then halting where she had
begun.
The
wind blasted against the shop above and she tilted her face upward to peer at
the ceiling that hung an inch above
his
head. Biting her lips between her teeth, she drew a hard breath, and then
looked at him again.
“I
suppose you have experience with storms of this sort,” she said.
Not
of this sort. But spots of pink sat upon each pale cheek now. She had tucked
her hands into her soggy skirts
to
hide their quivering. She was making a valiant effort to conceal her
distress—more valiant than many a sailor
he’d
known.
“
‘Twill blow over soon enough, lass.”
“That
was a lie,” she said, a dart forming between her brows. “Why did you lie to
me?”
“I
didna—” He bit back his retort. But his patience was frayed. There had been no
sign of the Theia entering the harbor, though he had stood in the
downpour until the swells were rising so suddenly and steeply over the quay he
had finally been obliged to shelter here. And now this: a sharp-tongued English
girl with the manners of a stevedore.
Gabriel
didn’t care much for social niceties. But a man wasn’t made First Lieutenant of
a ship of the line at twenty-three by failing to mind his tongue.
Minding
his behavior was another matter entirely.
He
bent his head and a stream of water cascaded from his hat brim. He glanced at
her through the waterfall. “Would you be fretting if I remove my hat?”
The
cinnamon spots that trailed over the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks
crinkled together to make one big cinnamon blotch. “Why on earth should I?”
He
set his hat upon a crate. Wrapping her arms about herself she watched him
closely.
“Well?”
she said. Some of her hair had escaped the knot at the back of her head and
clung wetly to her brow
just
as the fabric of her gown clung to her hips and legs.
Copper
hair striated with gold.
Softly
rounded hips.
Long
legs.
The
damn pulse in his head was a snare drum. He knew men whose cravings for
feminine flesh got the best
of
them when they finally came into port. He had never been one of those men.
Women weren’t to be enjoyed
like
a randy stallion taking a mare, rather with as much appreciation as a man
savored a tumbler of fine brandy,
or
a sublime piece of music, or a painting by an Italian master—a Michelangelo or
Botticelli.
Sweet
curves.
Her
garments were fine, her speech cultivated, and she was old enough to know that
her damp gown was not in
the
least modest at present.
The
stallion was winning.
“
‘Twill be some time before the storm passes,” he said in too husky a voice. “
’Tis miles wide.”
The
brilliant cloverleaves popped round again.
“Miles?”
Beneath
the freckles and agitated flush, her skin was smooth—cheeks, brow, hands. She
had not been
in
the islands long, and she was little more than a girl.
After
nearly a decade at sea, Gabriel could barely remember boyhood.
“You’ve
just arrived?” he said.
“Two
days ago on the Camelot.”
Gabriel
knew it. As first officer on one of His Majesty’s finest ships of the line, it
was his responsibility to know
the
merchant vessels that docked at English ports.
“No
one warned you o’ hurricanes?”
“No.”
She had remarkable features: mobile and bright and expressive. “Should they
have?”
“It’ll
be hours still.” And it would leave a mighty mess of destruction.
“How
many hours?”
“No’
till morning.”
With
a long inhalation, she released her arms from about her chest. “Then we should
make ourselves comfortable,” she said with newly crisp decision and swept him
with another perusal, lingering ever-so-briefly on the medals pinned to his
coat. “If you can. You are as wet as I, yet you look like a toy soldier,
standing there so erect and unbending. I suppose sailors are accustomed to
being soaked through, of course.”
“If
they’re bad sailors, aye.”
Pleasure
flared in her eyes. “Now, make yourself useful and help me search these crates
for a woolen shawl or blanket. For I am soaked through.” She set to her
task on the nearest crate, but the lid was nailed shut and her fingertips
strained at the wood.
He
went to her side. Scent arose from her damp hair and skin. She smelled like a
memory. He withdrew the knife from his coat and pried open the lid.
“It
seems that you are useful after all,” she said with a half grin that abruptly
turned something very sharp in
his
gut and made him want to tell her the truth. Urgently. All truths. Truths about
the hurricane and truths about the
depths
of the sea and the stars in the heavens and every one of the sins that made him
a beast indeed.
“Lass,
’tis as likely as no’ that before this night is o’er, the sea will top the
wharfs an’ swallow this building.”
“And
we in it.”
“Aye.”
“I
see.” For a moment she said nothing. “After we find blankets we should look for
a deck of cards or a backgammon board in these crates. For if we are to die
tonight, we had better enjoy our final hours on earth, hadn’t we, Shark Bait?”
“Lieutenant.”
He could not look away from her eyes. Black clouds without blotted the tropical
sun, allowing
only
the most reluctant light into this room, yet her eyes sparkled.
Backgammon. She had the body of
a siren and the innocence of a girl.
“You’ve
a disliking for sailors, it seems,” he said.
“The
officers aboard the Camelot confined me to my quarters for the entire
duration of the journey. They said it was not suitable for me to be atop, but I
think they simply did not want me to witness them drinking the day away every
day.”
More
than likely they did not trust themselves with the pretty little siren
wandering about.
“I
think you are trying not to smile, Shark Bait. Will you attempt to deny that
sailors drink excessively?”
“No.”
“So,
you understand the reason for my dislike.
“Because
hardworking men are fond o’ spirits?”
“Because
they refused to share their spirits with me.”
They
found blankets woven of soft wool and tins of biscuits. They had no lamp, which
Gabriel said was for the better, and she accepted that without comment. As the
storm lashed the shop above and water trickled through the seams of the window,
and darkness fell, they found a cask of new rum. She said that she had never
tasted rum, and asked if, being a Scot, he preferred whiskey. He replied that he
did, but that any grog in a storm would do.
She
smiled so readily, as though her lips were more accustomed to smiling than not.
Despite her obvious breeding,
there
was no maidenly modesty in her frankness. It was on the tip of his tongue to
say that over both whiskey and
rum
he already preferred her.
She
discovered sugar, which he added to the rum to make it more palatable for her,
and she sipped warily. As
the
daylight waned and she explored the contents of crates and barrels, she darted
glances at him—frequently.
She
spoke with ease but she came no nearer to him than necessary. When the black
night consumed every last wisp of light she ceased speaking. As the hurricane
shook the walls, Gabriel settled onto the ground with his back against a crate.
Closing his eyes, he made himself picture the Theia bobbing violently at
anchor in some nearby port, its decks flooded in foam but its crew and officers
tucked into some terrestrial haven.
No
time left for repentance. He had thought he and Jonah would have plenty of
time. Sailors perished every day at sea, but somehow he had believed them
untouchable.
Invincible,
Gabe. That’s what the storytellers will say of us someday. Invincible.
In
the heavy darkness, her scent came to him again. Like home. Not the mossy grass
of the mountains of Kallin, nor the wildflowers that carpeted the hills of
Haiknayes. She smelled of woodland fir: crisp and warm and rich.
The
room rattled and he felt her settle silently at his side.
“How
did you come to be here in this cellar?” she said very quietly. She was close
to his shoulder, closer than he
had
anticipated.
“I
was watching for a ship. You?”
“I
walked to post a letter and got caught up with exploring. Everything here is so
different and interesting. I
was
far from the hotel before I thought to turn around.” She made a sound that
might have been a sigh. “I failed to heed the warnings.”
“Dinna
fear, lass. ‘Twill be morning before long.”
“You
are lying again, Shark Bait.” Then he felt the pressure of her body against his
arm, her shoulder leaning
in.
“But this time I don’t mind it.”
He
did not move. He could not move. He wanted her bone and flesh pressing against
his so simply. Perhaps in
these
final hours that had come far too soon in his life, God was offering him mercy,
a moment of innocent pleasure
after
all the moments of sinful pleasure he had seized.
Something
bumped against his leg. Then her fingers slipped beneath his hand. Her clasp
was unhesitating, her
fingertips
brushing across his palm then pressing tight against his knuckles. Palm to palm
with her, he strove to
breathe
and his heartbeats flew at twelve knots.
“You
are lying to comfort me,” she said, “so that I will not dwell on how we are
about to die.”
“Am
I?” Only thin wooden walls and ceiling separated them from death, and yet the
touch of a girl’s hand was all
he
cared for now.
“You
are,” she whispered clearly and softly beneath the storm’s scream. “It seems
that I will be obliged to reconsider my poor opinion of sailors. One sailor, at
least.”
Blindly
he turned his face to her. He was in fact a beast of a man, and she was a
little thing that he could crush
with
a single arm, and he knew he should not be holding her hand, not even in this
circumstance.
He
bent his head closer. “Aye?”
She
did not reply and her hand remained snugly in his and the night raged on.
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