“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?”
“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.”
She wasn’t fooled by his kindness. Peter, too, could be kind. And kindness could be used as a lure into a snare.
He pulled the heavy blanket over her body. Despite the fever, the warmth of the blanket felt good.
“You’re acting like a woman with a lot to hide, Rachel.”
She moistened her dry lips. Why couldn’t he leave her be? “I swear to you I’m not wanted by the authorities.”
He tucked the blankets around her thin body. Gently he brushed the loose strands of hair off her forehead with calloused fingers.
His masculine scent enveloped her. For an instant, time stopped. She was aware only of him…and the beating of her heart. “No, I don’t believe you are.”
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 lover’s touches—things she’d given up on soon after she’d married a monster. If only she’d never met Peter.
She met Ben’s 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 withdrew. “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.
Ben couldn’t put Rachel out of his mind.
He spent the better part of the next half hour brewing Yaupon tea for her.
Rachel Davis had secrets.
He’d be wise to leave her to her demons. She wasn’t his problem or his concern. And his days of taking on other people’s battles were over.
Still, he’d been glad when the kettle had hissed and the dried leaves had turned the water to tea. Returning to her room with the tea was an excuse to see her. And he liked being close to her.
He carried the tin cup filled with tea to her room. The brew would help her fever and it would also give him another chance to talk to her.
However, to his disappointment, she’d fallen asleep. She lay curled on her side, her small hands fisted in front of her as if she would wake up fighting if he startled her awake.
Trouble. She was trouble.
He set the mug of tea down on chest beside the bed.
His gaze trailed over her full breasts, past the gentle curve of her hip and down her slender legs.
Aye, she had a siren’s body.
But she was more than that. Intelligence lingered behind her blue eyes. And she possessed strength. It had taken guts to board a vessel like the
Anna St. Claire
and courage not to crumble when the freighter had started to sink.
Rachel mumbled something in her sleep and
rolled away from him. He saw her bruise. A fist had made that bruise. And the marks on her arms were clearly finger imprints.
Annoyed, he turned and walked to his dresser. From the second drawer, he pulled out a clean cable-knit sweater. The one from last night was still damp and smelled of seaweed.
He tugged the sweater over his head. Like everything else he owned, the black garment was practical—anything that wasn’t functional had no place in his life.
As he smoothed the sweater over his flat belly, Rachel started to speak.
“I know what I need to do,” she said.
“I’ve tea,” he said, annoyed that his veins sang with anticipation.
“I know.”
Adjusting the sleeves around his wrists, he turned. She still lay curled on her side, facing him. Her eyes were closed. She was talking in her sleep.
Her feet pushed and kicked under the sheet and blankets. Her face was knotted in a frown.
“Peter, no!” she wailed.
Ben moved to the bed and sat on the edge. He laid his hand on her shoulder. She started, as if defending herself. She swung her fist wildly, catching him squarely in the chest.
Recoiling, he inhaled a breath, biting back the jolt of pain and an oath. For a tiny woman, she packed one hell of a punch.
She was having a nightmare. “Rachel, wake up.”
This time he grabbed her wrists. He noted she felt hotter than before, yet she still fought harder, kicking her legs like a hellcat.
Ben could feel her pulse in her wrist pounding furiously against his fingertips.
This was the kind of strength borne of fear.
“Rachel. It’s all right. It’s Ben. Peter isn’t here.”
Her thrashing slowed.
“Peter is not here,” he repeated. “You are safe. Peter is gone.”
She whimpered and stopped fighting. She relaxed back against her pillows. Slowly the frown lines creasing her brow eased.
Seeing her so distraught made him angry. What the devil had happened to her? Whoever the hell Peter was, he’d done one hell of a job of scaring Rachel.
When Rachel awoke, the sun outside was bright, slashing through the window into the room. Her fever had broken and her head no longer pounded. Immediately she sat up in her bed, wondering how long she’d been asleep. Her
heart racing, she frantically searched the room for a clock.
How much time had she wasted? She had to get out of this place before Peter found her.
She scanned the room for something to wear. She spotted a large shirt draped over the edge of her bed. Her head swam as she leaned forward and with a trembling hand grabbed hold of the shirt. Pausing, she took several deep breaths until her body settled.
The shirt, no doubt that was Keeper Mitchell’s doing. Though clean, his musky scent still clung to the coarse, blue fabric. She lifted the sleeve to her nose and inhaled deeply. Oddly, his shirt had a calming effect on her. She felt safe.
“There’s no such thing as safe,” she whispered.
She yanked the fabric over her head and fastened the four buttons. Slowly she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor bit into her bare feet.
The bed was still warm and it temped her. She’d have liked nothing more than to lie back and rest a few more hours.
But Peter would soon return home. She had to find her clothes and move on. To her disappointment, her clothes were gone. Then she remembered the older woman—Ida—she’d said she’d launder the clothes.
Relax. One step at a time.
There was little concession to luxury in Ben’s room. As simple as a Spartan warrior’s, the room was furnished with a large chest by the bed, an old dresser and a worktable and chair covered with charts and maps. The walls were a stark white. No pictures or curtains adorned the room.
Frustrated, she looked around the keeper’s room for more clothing. She rose. Her legs wobbled. She held on to the bedpost and waited as her legs grew stronger. When she was certain she could walk, she moved to the dresser in search of pants. She opened the drawers and found pants in the third one down.
She held up the heavy cotton pants. They were Ben’s and clearly too large for her. She’d not be able to keep them up.
Clothes. She needed clothes.
Where was Ben? He would help once he saw that she was better.
Ben’s shirttail brushed against her bare thighs as she walked to the window. It was cracked open an inch. A steady sea breeze blew inside.
She inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh air and the unexpected warmth. The air here was so clean and unlike the city air, which always smelled of garbage in the streets and horse dung.
She squinted against the bright sunshine as she
stared over the sandy yard. To her right stood the lighthouse with its bold white and black stripe. It stood in sharp contrast to azure sky.
Rachel looked up the spiral to the light tower at the top. The light was extinguished now, but she’d remembered the night of her rescue. It had blinked so bright. She’d clung to it while she’d been on the
Anna St. Claire
staring out the portal, knowing it was her only link to the land.
Beyond the lighthouse stood the dunes. Tall sea oats swayed gently in the wind. There was a peace and serenity here that was so alluring. This was the kind of place she could call home. If not for Peter, she might have been tempted to stay awhile.
Peter.
Her skin prickled. She wondered what he was doing now. Had he arrived in Washington? Did he know she’d left? Time was running out. She could feel it in her bones.
A light knock on the door had her starting and turning. She hurried to the bed, grabbed a blanket and draped it over her shoulders.
“Yes,” she said.
“It’s Keeper Mitchell. May I come in?”
Immediately she felt her shoulders relax even as her inside tightened. “Yes.”
He pushed open the door with his foot. In his hand he carried a tray, which held a steaming bowl
of broth and a mug filled with coffee. “It’s good to see that you’re up.”
Memories of last night were jumbled at best. She remembered the keeper’s strong embrace and his soothing voice, but she’d not remembered what a truly attractive man he was.
His face looked chiseled from granite. His rich, black hair was dark as Satan’s and hung past his collar. This morning he’d brushed it back and tied it with a strip of rope. His clear gray eyes made her skin tingle each time he looked her.
Rachel was suddenly aware that her waist-length hair was in a terrible tangle. She must look like one of those wild Amazonian women from the old fables. If only she could muster the strength of a warrior woman. She felt frightened and scared. “I only just woke up. I’ve slept the morning away.”
He set the tray on the table. “More like the day and the next night away. It’s Thursday morning.”
A wave of panic washed over Rachel. “Thursday!” Already her head was spinning. Dear Lord, Peter had returned to Washington. “You should have woken me up.”
“You needed the sleep.”
Fists clenched at her sides, she started to pace. “You should have woken me.”
Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Why is this a problem? Do you have to be somewhere?”
She needed to run! To be as far from Washington as she could get.
But Rachel didn’t say that. She kept her feelings hidden—another talent Peter had taught her. Fear, anger, happiness could be used against her.
Inwardly, she was a mess, but she managed to calm the rigid muscles in her back and smile. “No, it’s just that I have friends waiting for me. I don’t want them to worry.”