Chapter 18

She hurried along the overgrown trail, stumbling over roots and half-buried rocks. Tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks, blinding her. She tripped, staggered a few steps, and fell. Her left knee landed on an exposed root, and she let out a yelp. Using her sleeve, she wiped her streaming eyes and scrambled to her feet. Mud caked the knees of her black leggings. Her knee throbbed. She tested her weight on her injured leg and winced.

Hobbling down the path, she soldiered through the pain. A vision of clinging to Russ, thrilling at his touch and welcoming his kisses, flashed before her. She stumbled over a rock and would have fallen again if she hadn’t grabbed onto a low-hanging branch.

What was wrong with her? How could she react so strongly to a man she’d met only yesterday? Worse, a man so closely connected to Angus Crawford. Her traitorous body tingled where he’d touched her as if his warm, callused hands had branded her.

She hadn’t wanted him to stop. Far from it. She’d ached to dissolve in his arms, to get lost in his caresses, anything to take the edge off her anguish. But the escape from her torment would be temporary. The second the euphoria was over, regrets would return full force. She’d hate herself. Him too, probably, though he wasn’t to blame.

Revisiting her old home, that was unchanged after twenty-three years, her family’s possessions in the places they’d been left that day, was even harder than she’d expected. The familiar rooms rehashed painful memories and opened old wounds until the walls of the house closed around her and she couldn’t breathe. Like a coward, she’d run, fleeing the heartbreak, escaping to the fresh air.

Visiting the island was a mistake. She limped around a fallen tree branch and clambered over a large boulder. Where was the damn trail? She was determined to leave the island, even if she had to swim all the way to Vancouver, but she hadn’t paid attention to where she was going. And now she didn’t know where she was. She should have reached the beach where they’d left the dinghy by now.

The trees towering over her swayed, creaking and groaning in the face of a rising wind. Dark, ominous clouds filled the sky, and the air was heavy with impending rain. Another gale was on the way. The storm would make it impossible for the Minerva to sail back to Vancouver.

“Athena!” Russ’s voice echoed through the forest, rising above the screech of wind. He loped along the path, his long legs eating up the distance between them. “Where are you going? You’re on the wrong trail.” His words puffed out between gasps of air. “This isn’t the way to the bay.”

She glanced at the unfamiliar surroundings. “I…I didn’t realize.”

“Another storm’s blowing in.” He looked up at the patch of sky visible through the thick canopy. A furrow creased between his dark eyebrows. “We’re a long way from the bay where we left the dinghy. I don’t think we’ll make it back to the Minerva before the storm hits.”

As if to confirm his prediction, the wind rose to a shriek, the heavy, dark clouds burst, and a torrent of rain pelted them. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her behind him as he trudged down the path.

Limping along the uneven trail, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride, she bit back a moan, as with each step, her weight landed on her injured knee.

He stopped and peered at her through the driving rain. “What’s wrong?” His brow furrowed. “Are you hurt?”

“My knee. I—”

He released her hand, crouched on the mud, and rolled her legging over her knee. Even in the muted light, the discoloration and swelling of her knee was obvious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rain streamed in her eyes and plastered her hair to her head. “I…I—”

“Never mind.” He stood and, in a single fluid motion, lifted her in his arms.

“What…what are you doing?” She shoved against the wall of his chest. “Put me down.”

“You can’t walk.” He trudged along the narrow, muddy path, carrying her as if she weighed nothing. “Let me help you.”

She stopped struggling. He was right. She couldn’t walk very fast, and the storm was getting worse. Already her clothes were soaked through, and goose bumps riddled the exposed skin on her arms. Numb from the penetrating cold, she snuggled closer to his warmth.

Rain poured down, and the wind raged as he followed a worn trail through the old-growth forest. He broke through the trees and stopped at the edge of a large, manicured, emerald-green lawn. Lowering her to the grass, he kept his arm around her waist and held her steady.

She wiped the rain from her face, and her blood chilled.

A wide, winding path of crushed oyster shells led to a huge ranch-style house. Set on a grassy hump that overlooked the bay, the graceful lines of the cedar-and-stone cottage with large, gleaming windows fit the rugged landscape like a hand in a glove. A covered deck wrapped around the front of the house flanked by wide, stone steps at either end. A white garden swing sat on the deck, rocking in the wind.

“This is Angus Crawford’s cottage.” Panic thickened her voice as a blast of memories of the last time she’d been there struck.

“We need shelter from the storm. This is the closest building.” He wiped the rain streaming into his eyes with his sleeve.

“But—”

“I didn’t think you’d want to go back to your old house. Was I wrong?”

She shivered and shook her head. Her stomach heaved at the thought of those cold, empty rooms.

He tugged her hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of this storm.”

She pulled back, refusing to budge.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Russ’s shirt was plastered to his chest. Rainwater dripped off his dark hair.

Shivers wracked her body.

Whitecaps crested on the choppy water visible through the trees, and large booming breakers crashed onto the rocky shore as if reclaiming the land. Rain poured down, and the wind howled with increasing fury.

Her heart sank. The waves would capsize the small rubber dinghy, so unless they swam to the Minerva, they were stuck on the island. If they stayed out in the raging storm they’d freeze.

“Come on. Let’s get inside.” Russ tugged on her arm, urging her forward.

“I…I…” She bit hard on her bottom lip. What was she afraid of? She wasn’t a frightened twelve-year-old child, and he wasn’t Angus Crawford.

The warm light of compassion shone in his hazel eyes, turning them liquid gold. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here, Athena, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

His words washed over her like a soothing balm, and the fight drained out of her. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” How could she explain her long-held terror of his adoptive father? A frigid blast of air whipped her sodden hair about her face, and icy water dripped down the back of her neck. Her teeth chattered, and shivers wracked her bones. “We’d better get out of this rain.”

“Attagirl.” Clasping her hand, he helped her across the lawn and up the steps to the covered porch. He reached above the doorframe to a narrow ledge and removed a key. Unlocking the carved wooden door, he turned the handle and opened the door.

She clutched his arm, stopping him. “How did you know where the key was?”

“What?” His brow furrowed.

“I thought the last time you were on the island was years ago. How did you know the key was above the door?”

A sheepish look crossed his handsome face. “I was here a few weeks ago.”

“What? You came to the island?”

“After I learned the details of Angus’s will, I wanted to check out the island and see what I’d inherited. I hadn’t seen the place in years. The lawyer told me where the key to the cottage was hidden. I spent the weekend exploring the island, but I didn’t have time to check out the northern part where your old house is.” He ran his palm over his hair, slicking the dark, wet curls back from his forehead. “Now, do you have any more questions, or can we go inside and get out of the rain?”

She released her grip on his arm.

He stepped into the house. “Come on.”

Inhaling several deep breaths, she inched closer to the open door. She could do this. The mantra ran through her head in an endless refrain. She could do this. Sucking in a deep breath, she limped through the door and into the house.

The door slammed closed behind her, and she jumped.

“Easy. It’s just the wind.” He prowled around the large room, opening the heavy drapes, letting in the dim light of the dreary day.

Shivering, she wrapped her arms across her chest. Rainwater dripped from her clothes and puddled at her feet onto the gleaming oak floor. The sweet scents of lemon furniture polish and dried roses permeated the air. Antique tables, their glossy surfaces gleaming, a plush oversized leather couch, and two matching reclining chairs filled the expansive room.

A river-stone fireplace, fronted by a gleaming brass screen, dominated one wall. The spacious hearth was filled with a pile of neatly stacked kindling. A bundle of split firewood, encased in a stylish canvas bin, was set beside the fireplace. Watercolor paintings featuring vibrant seascapes covered the cream-colored walls.

Russ rubbed his hands together as if trying to warm them. “When Angus passed away, I asked the lawyer to keep the caretaker on. It didn’t seem right to let the place fall apart.”

“The caretaker must look after my old house too.”

“We’ll have to ask him. I’m sure he’ll come by when he sees we’re here.” He shivered. “I’d better get a fire going before we freeze to death. Why don’t you check the bedrooms and see if you can find some dry clothes?” He removed an antique enamel tin from the mantel and tugged a long wooden matchstick free. Crouching before the stack of kindling, he struck the match against the stone hearth and ignited the wood. Flames flickered, promising warmth. He rubbed his hands together in front of the fire. “There’s a generator in a shed out back. I’ll see if I can start it, and you’ll be able to have a hot shower.”

In spite of her bone-deep chill and her sodden clothing, she stayed where she was. Angus Crawford’s larger-than-life presence was everywhere, from the original artwork lining the walls to the expensive antique furnishings. The thought of searching the cottage for dry clothing made her stomach heave. A bout of shivering released her from her paralysis. Angus was dead. Freezing to death because she was afraid of a ghost was ridiculous. She limped down the dark hall.

The first door she opened revealed a spacious room filled with a massive, king-size bed covered by a thick burgundy bedspread and matching pillow shams. A hint of cigar smoke and men’s spicy cologne scented the air. Several pieces of heavy, dark mahogany furniture shone in the pale light glimmering through the sheer drapes covering the floor-to-ceiling window.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Angus Crawford’s bedroom.

Who else but the owner of the cottage would have such a large master suite? She backed out of the room as if poison filled the air and slammed the door. Leaning against the cold wood surface, she struggled to steady her breathing. In spite of the chill of her soaked clothing, perspiration beaded her forehead.

Shaking off the paralyzing fear, she inched along the wide hallway to the next closed door. She clasped the doorknob and opened the door. The room was dark, with not even a hint of light. Edging into the room, she felt along the wall for a light switch. She breathed a sigh of relief when the overhead light flickered on, dispelling the shadows. Russ must have started the generator. If she found some dry clothes, she could locate the bathroom and have a shower. The thought of hot water cascading over her chilled body lent her the courage to step into the room.

A queen-size bed covered with a thick navy quilt and four overstuffed pillows was set beneath a large window. Heavy brown drapes covered the window, shutting out any outside light. A golden pine dresser and matching armoire filled the small room. Unlike the first bedroom she’d stepped into, this room had an impersonal feel and was most likely intended for guests. She grimaced. She couldn’t imagine dour-faced Angus Crawford entertaining visitors.

Crossing to the dresser, she slid open a drawer. Folded cotton T-shirts and sweaters filled the drawer. She chose a navy-blue, long-sleeved shirt and held it up. The shirt was a man’s large, but the fabric was soft and dry and better than her wet shirt.

The second drawer contained a collection of casual pants. She pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants and prayed the clothes hadn’t belonged to Angus Crawford. The image of that elegantly dressed man wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt was ludicrous. He must have kept the clothes in the spare bedroom for guests.

Borrowed clothes in hand, she searched for the bathroom. Like the rest of the cottage, the bathroom was luxurious and contained a jetted bathtub large enough for four people, and a tiled walk-in shower they could all rinse off in after their soak in the tub.

Struggling out of her wet clothing, she wrung her leggings and T-shirt out over the sink and hung them on a towel rack to dry. She twisted on the taps, and in seconds, the room filled with billowing clouds of steam.

Grabbing a bottle of body wash from the glass shelf over the sink, she stepped into the spacious shower and under the warm spray. The hot water streamed over her chilled skin, easing the stiffness in her sore knee. She squirted a handful of soap into her palm, and the soothing scent of lavender filled the stall. She closed her eyes, shut down her mind, and relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived on the island.

The water was cooling when she turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower. Shivering in the chilly room, she grabbed a thick, white cotton towel from a pile on a shelf and dried her body. She tugged the T-shirt over her head and pulled on the sweatpants. The waist gaped, and the fleece pants dragged on the floor and bagged around the legs. The T-shirt hung past her knees. She looked like a child playing dress up in her father’s clothes. But they were warm, and that’s what mattered.

She wiped the fogged mirror with a corner of the towel and studied her reflection. Her towel-dried auburn hair stood out in wild spikes from her pale face. Shadows were etched beneath her eyes, and an angry-looking scratch from a too-close encounter with a blackberry bramble marred her right cheek. Good thing she didn’t care what sort of impression she made. Yeah, good thing she wasn’t attracted to Russ.

Liar!

She ignored the snarky inner voice and smoothed the palm of her hand over her hair and pinched her cheeks to add color to her face. Clutching the loose waistband, she opened the bathroom door. Scented steam billowed into the hall as she retraced her steps to the living room.