Chapter Thirteen
Bascom Stoneham felt the eyes of his flock on him. For the first time since he had become a preacher, he knew the emotion of fear. If he couldn’t control his wife, how could he minister to and aid his followers? He had to do something, say something, and it had to be now, before the mass in front of him revolted. Even his parents were looking at him strangely. He cleared his throat loudly and opened his prayer book. Deliberately, he lowered his eyes and read the printed words in a somber tone. The thick book closed with barely a sound. His eyes were hooded and his mouth grim when he began to address his congregation.
“I see now that all my prayers, all of your prayers, were not enough to drive the devil from my wife, Lydia. Sometimes the Lord works in strange ways. It has come to me that Lydia’s fate is to be an example to all of us. Just this day I’ve perceived a vision. Lydia is lost to us and can never return. But,” he said, opening his eyes wide till the pupils were bare pinpoints, “we will continue to pray for her soul. Even though she is lost to us, we must never forget her. Now we are in a tunnel of darkness, but there is light at the end, and we will all walk toward that light while Lydia remains forever in the darkness with the devil at her heels.”
If the devil was indeed at Lydia Stoneham’s heels, she paid him no heed as she blurted her tale to a sympathetic Wren. “I’m so frightened. When we get to America, what will I do? How will I survive? What’s to become of me?” she cried pitifully.
Emotion welled in Wren’s throat. What would become of this gentle creature in a new land? What would become of Wren van der Rhys in the new land? It was her fault that Lydia had defied her husband and was now sitting next to her with no future before her.
She squared her slim shoulders and spoke confidently. “I’ll take care of you, Lydia. I have some money, and we’ll manage somehow. We’re young and strong and we can surely find something to do in America. Something that will pay us enough money to live on. You must not worry, Lydia, promise me.”
Lydia smiled and threw her arms around Wren. “I feel so good. So free for the first time in my life. I could sleep on the floor with the sleep of pure joy. And when I wake, I’ll thank the Lord, my Lord, for giving me the courage to do what I did, and I’ll thank Him for sending you to me to show me the way.”
Damnation! Now what had Wren gone and done? She had saddled herself with another responsibility when, according to Caleb, she couldn’t even take care of herself. Money. She had to get money for Lydia. If need be, she would badger Caleb to take her back to Java. How he would love to see her come crawling to him for help. She quailed at the thought. She’d make her own way and the devil take the hindmost!
It always came down to money. Aubrey Farrington had money, she was convinced of that. Bascom Stoneham had money. Bascom Stoneham had a lot of money. All the Puritans had entrusted their life savings to him. He had a fortune and she had a deck of cards. A deck of marked cards. And Caleb had money, probably more than Farrington. All she had to do was figure out a way to relieve each one of his hoard, and then she could set Lydia up in America and not have to worry about her. All she needed was a foolproof plan, and she herself would be comfortable indefinitely. It never occurred to her that she would not come out the winner. After all, she was the one with the marked deck, and even a professional gambler like Aubrey hadn’t been able to spot the markings. By the time they reached America, Lydia would have so much money she would need someone to help her carry it off the ship.
Sara entered the cabin, her eyes widening when she spotted Lydia talking to Wren. She looked at both women and said nothing. The flush that rode high on Sara’s cheeks didn’t escape Wren’s notice, and her jaw tightened. She knew where Sara had been recently and what she had done. Her heart pounded in her chest at the thought. Sara looked like the cat that had sat in the cream crock.
Lydia walked over to her sister-in-law and put her arms around the girl’s shoulders. “I want to be the one to tell you that I’ve renounced your brother. It’s better you hear it from me. I hope it doesn’t upset you, Sara,” Lydia said softly.
Sara grimaced. “Why should it upset me? Bascom is insane; we both know it. I’m just surprised that you had the courage to leave him. I could never understand how you tolerated him from the day you married him. Speaking personally, I think he’s the devil reborn. I applaud you, Lydia.”
Lydia tightened her hold on Sara and laughed. “It seems the three of us have the same opinion of Bascom. I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better, Sara. I was truly worried about you when we were both in the hold. The sea air has worked its magic on you, and for that I’m glad.”
“Sea air, my foot!” Wren snapped. “You can stop all this needless pretense, Sara Stoneham. I know what you’ve been doing and with whom, and you should be ashamed of yourself. Dallying with Caleb will get you nowhere, and it only cheapens you. He’s a womanizer of the worst sort!” Her upper lip curled in distaste.
“Is that a note of jealousy I hear ringing in your tone?” Sara asked coolly. “Caleb isn’t your real brother and you’re simply jealous. Just the way you were with Malcolm because it was me he loved, not you. I told you, tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. It was only the van der Rhys’ money Malcolm found alluring, Wren, not you!”
Wren’s eyes glittered dangerously, sparks of fury lightening their depths. “Think what you will. I know Caleb, and if you have any serious plans, you might as well forget them. Caleb isn’t the marrying kind. He plays with women the way children play with toys. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The slim blond girl faced Wren defiantly, the naked truth of her hatred for Wren written on her features. “I’m glad Malcolm is dead! Glad, do you hear!” she shrilled. “Now you will never have him! I told you he belonged to me! He was mine, and now he’ll always be mine! Just the way Caleb is mine! I only wish you had caught the pox, too. I only wish you were with Malcolm—in his grave!”
Wren nearly staggered beneath the hatred in Sara’s voice. Lydia, too, was aghast at what she had just heard. Sara, with a smirk on her face, lay down on the bunk and turned her back on the two women.
Wren felt the need to breathe clean air, to be away from the stifling contempt which Sara exuded. She stumbled toward the door and Lydia followed, her hand ready to steady her new friend. Out on deck, leaning against the rail, Wren braced herself against the wind, the color slowly returning to her features. Lydia watched her anxiously, her own vivid red hair coming loose from its pins and whipping against her face. “I don’t know what’s come over that girl,” she said tonelessly.
“What comes over a woman when she’s been spurned by a man she loves?” Wren said, her words more a statement than a question. “Lydia, it’s not true that Malcolm is dead. When last I saw him, he was very much alive, although somewhat the worse for wear. I told Sara he was dead only out of cruelty. I should go back in there and admit I had lied.”
Lydia placed her hand on Wren’s arm. “No, don’t. It will do her little good. Better she thinks he’s dead, for all the good he can do her. She has greater problems on her mind right now. Sara is with child.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Wren asked in a shocked voice, the terrible implications dawning on her instantly.
“It’s true. A woman can always tell. It also explains the sickness she had below. I’m familiar enough with women when they’re bearing a child. My own mother brought nine besides me into the world. I feel sorry for Sara when Bascom discovers it. He’ll kill Captain van der Rhys for taking advantage of his sister.”
“What makes you think Caleb is the father?” Wren demanded indignantly. “Caleb cannot be the father of her child, if she is in truth carrying a child.”
“Then who?” Lydia asked quietly, watching Wren’s face.
“Who?” Wren repeated. “I don’t know who. I just can’t believe it’s Caleb.” Damnation, it couldn’t be Caleb, it just couldn’t be! Wren’s thoughts raced. There hadn’t been enough time, the journey was barely two weeks gone. An unbidden memory of Sara and herself in their room at Tyler’s house, and Sara’s boasting that she could have Caleb madly in love with her before dinner was over that evening, came to Wren’s mind.
Will you wait for me to grow up? How often those words came back to haunt her. She had said them to Caleb the minute she had laid eyes on him in England, so long ago. Will you wait for me to grow up? Caleb had laughed and stared deeply into her eyes and said, “I may just do that.” Damn liar, just like all men. Why could a woman speak with another woman and pour out her heart and be completely understood, whereas a man had to lie and twist the truth? Did that make him feel more manly, more worldly? Her lip curled as she muttered, “I may just do that.” Damn liar. Caleb van der Rhys was a liar, and he had probably learned his trade from Regan.
Too bad dear old Caleb doesn’t know what dear, sweet Sara has planned for him, Wren fumed inwardly. Instant fatherhood. Well, he can just stew in his own masculine juices for all I care!
Later, lying in her bunk, Wren admitted to herself that she was jealous of Sara. At the very least Caleb could have given her the opportunity to reject him. And reject him she would. Damnation, it was her inalienable right! He was making a fool out of her and she was allowing it. She would cut him down to size if it was the last thing she did.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I think I’ll take a turn on the deck and see who’s afoot,” Sara said, looking from Wren to Lydia, defying either of them to make a comment. Neither said a word as she walked through the door.
“Twice in one day is a bit much,” Lydia said pontifically. “She’s like a harlot on the prowl.”
Wren shrugged as jealousy once again coursed through her. Damn you, Caleb van der Rhys, she thought murderously.
On deck, Sara carefully looked around and waited for Aubrey Farrington to make his appearance. For three days now she had seen him stuff leftover bread and cheese in his coat pockets. What did he do with it? If she could find out what Farrington was up to, she could go to Caleb and deepen his trust in her. She would say she wanted to help him and that whatever the old gambler was up to, Caleb should know about it.
Dressed in her Puritan garb, a black scarf around her bright hair, she stood waiting for the moon to take cloud cover. The spindly-legged gambler was late this evening. Perhaps he wasn’t coming, she thought nervously. A footstep, another, and Aubrey Farrington came into view just as the moon ducked behind a dark cloud. She removed her stout shoes and pursued him stealthily.
Once Farrington stopped and looked over his shoulder to see if he was being observed. Sara crouched behind a thick roll of canvas and held her breath. Had he seen her? No. He was continuing his silent trek, and she was but a few steps behind him. She followed his cautious progress down the ladder of the fore hatch, her stockinged feet hesitantly finding the ladder rungs, and she dreaded stepping into the shallow pool of bilge water that sloshed rhythmically with the rise and fall of the ship. Plunging her feet into the murky, ankle-high depths and refusing to give her imagination free reign as to what unspeakable creatures might attack her from beneath the dark surface, she listened attentively for the sound of Farrington’s treading water. Heeding her instincts, she caught up with him and winced from the light as he struck a flint to a tallow candle.
She stopped in midstride as she saw his arm reach out and slide back a bolt. After he had closed the wooden door, she tapped her stockinged foot impatiently on the planks. Who was inside that room, and what was Farrington doing in there?
Crouching low, she crept over to the door and pressed her ear against it, trying to hear what was being said. A chair scraped on the floor, and the words spoken within were muffled, as though the people talking didn’t want anyone to overhear them. She would have to wait; when Farrington left, she would open the door to see for herself, but first she would have to arm herself with some sort of weapon. God only knew whom the gambler was harboring inside. A cutthroat, a pirate, a murderer. She crept cautiously back to the dim recesses and fumbled around for something that would serve as a weapon. Her fingers fastened on a stout piece of board, and she clutched at it like at a lifeline. Now all she had to do was wait for Farrington to leave. Her stomach churned at the thought of what she might find behind the door, but she had to do it. She had to do it so that Caleb would be indebted to her and trust her. Lovemaking was one thing, but this was something else entirely. Men didn’t like to be made fools of, especially by other men. Malcolm had taught her that at the very beginning of their relationship. Yes, Caleb would thank her.
What seemed like an eternity later, the door of the locker box opened and Aubrey Farrington exited, but not before he had looked to the right and then to the left, a wry expression on his face. Satisfied that no one was about, he slid the heavy iron bolt into place and quickly walked away, his pockets noticeably lighter.
Sara drew in her breath and tiptoed over to the thick wooden door. Surprise would be on her side. Whoever or whatever was on the other side of the door would think the gambler had forgotten something and was returning. Slowly she slid back the bolt, the stout board clutched between her knees. The moment the bolt slid back, she grasped the club and flung open the door. Lantern light cast an oily, yellow glow over the small area. A rough bunk stood against one wall, bare of mattress or bedding. On it lay a man who was slowly getting to his feet, muttering, “Well, what did you forget to tell me, Farrington?”
Sara gasped, all senses frozen, her breath locked in her lungs. It couldn’t be! Her mind was playing tricks on her! “Malcolm! Is that you?” she cried in a shocked voice. “Malcolm, how can you be here? Wren said you were dead!” At last believing her senses, she rushed toward him. “Malcolm, Malcolm!” Her arms locked around his neck, and she buried her face in his chest. “Oh, Malcolm, I thought you were dead. My love, we’ve found each other, and I’ll never let you go. Never!” she cried vehemently as she clung to him.
Malcolm was stunned. “Sara! How did you get here? Darling child!” he exclaimed, his mind working furiously to determine what advantage she could serve him. Suddenly he remembered his disfigurement. “Don’t look at me, Sara,” he pleaded. “I’ve suffered a misfortune that’s seriously altered my appearance. That’s why I left England, thinking I would never see you again. I’d rather suffer the fate of an outcast than bear the pain of having you see me as I am now.” His words and tone were carefully calculated to elicit her pity. “It was always you I loved, darling Sara. Never Wren. Wren did this to me—to us,” he added meaningfully. “I told her it was you I loved and would cherish for the rest of my days. She turned wild and took a hot poker to my face, saying if she couldn’t have me, no other woman would. She tried to kill me, and there are days I wish she had. Anything rather than have you see me this way. I broke your heart and knew in my own you would never have me after the way I had made you suffer. Now I’m disfigured, a horror, and it’s too late, my darling Sara. Please forgive me.”
“Malcolm, darling, I love you, and a little scar couldn’t change my devotion to you. If it did, what would that say for my love? Let me look at you, please, darling.”
Slowly Malcolm turned the left side of his face toward the light, his anxious eyes willing her to tell him that his disfigurement wasn’t as hopeless as he imagined. Sara’s face whitened as a gorge rose in her throat. God! What had she just promised to this monster? Fighting to regain control of herself and to hold in check the trembling that had seized her, she wrapped her arms about him, pity for his condition and fresh hatred for Wren consuming her. Wren had done this to him—purposely, vindictively, with malice. Wren had reduced Malcolm to hiding in the depths of a ship, afraid to show his face in public, nearly maddened by the loss of the one thing which had been his mainstay besides herself—his good looks.
Her mind rambled and raced, jumping from the past and then into the future. A future with a man who resembled a gargoyle. The scab on his face was crusted; his forehead was puckered from the burn; his blinded eye stared sightlessly from behind a contorted eyelid that would never close again. Never again would Sara dream of being the envy of other women when they saw her sported on Malcolm’s arm. She would be the object of their pity. Women would run away from Malcolm in terror instead of pursuing him. Oh, God! she thought wildly. Why had she followed Aubrey Farrington down into the reaches of Hell?
Malcolm’s hands tightened about her, seeking, pressing, attempting to arouse.
“You smell, Malcolm. Poor darling,” she added hastily, “doesn’t that old man provide you with soap and water?” There was no way Malcolm was going to seduce her in this stench-filled room, smelling like a rutting pig. She had to get out of here before he overpowered her. Merciful God, she didn’t know which eye to look into.
“Did you hear what I said to you, Sara? Your friend, Wren, did this to me. What are you going to do about it? I know from Farrington that she’s aboard this ship. If I could get out of here, I’d finish her off myself.”
“What would you have me do with her, Malcolm? Why did she do this to you? I don’t for one minute believe that story you just told me. Wren’s not violent, excepting her tongue. She is aboard ship, that’s true. As a matter of fact, my sister-in-law, Wren and I share Captain van der Rhys’ cabin.” Her voice took on a sudden lilt when she mentioned Caleb, which didn’t escape Malcolm’s attention.
He sensed her withdrawal and was engulfed with rage. “Say it, Sara. My face offends you. Suddenly you find you no longer love me. You’re comparing me with your Captain van der Rhys, and I come out a poor second. Say it!”
Sara suddenly felt very powerful, more powerful than she had ever felt in her life. “Actually, Malcolm, you sicken me. You’re right, I no longer love you. I doubt if I ever did love you. And yes, Caleb does come out first. Any day now I expect a proposal of marriage. It’s over between us, Malcolm. It was over the day you decided you wanted Wren van der Rhys and her dowry. I wasn’t good enough for you, and now I’ve decided that you aren’t good enough for me. Good fortune to you, Malcolm. When we get to America, perhaps they’ll employ you to frighten off those savage Indians.” She enjoyed her cruelty toward him. “And don’t worry, I won’t give away your secret. I’ll tell no one that you’re hiding down here with the rats. By the way, why are you hiding? Passage for this voyage was very cheap. It wouldn’t have anything to do with the captain’s seeking retribution for something you’ve done to his sister, would it?” Seeing her suspicions confirmed in Malcolm’s expression, she laughed, the sound mirthless and harsh in the stillness of the locker box.
Malcolm wanted to slap her, to hit her till her teeth rattled, but he knew she would fight back, and he had already had a taste of what a woman would do to protect herself. He no longer had any control over Sara, and the realization frightened and emasculated him. All he needed was another jab to his good eye, and he might as well lie down and die. Women were the root of all evil. He had heard that Sara’s brother was always spouting off about the evil that festered in a woman’s breast. How right Bascom was.
“Ta-ta, darling,” Sara cooed as she slammed the door behind her and quickly shot the bolt home.
The darkness of the ship and the soft lap of the water against the sides was like a balm to Sara’s uneasiness. She felt as though a mountain had been lifted from her shoulders. She was free of Malcolm, free of Bascom and free to go to Caleb. Caleb was her answer, her salvation.
Sara’s feet took her up the fore ladder, through the hatch and onto the deck. There was no one about, only the seaman on watch in the wheelhouse. Vaguely she wondered where Caleb was and if he knew of the fugitive hiding belowdecks near the bow of his ship.
As she walked quietly toward the cabin she shared with Wren and Lydia, a queer feeling within her body made her hesitate. She waited, as women had from time immemorial, for the featherlike quickening to occur again. The child. Her and Malcolm’s child. Sudden fear struck her. God! What if seeing Malcolm the way he was now had marked the child? Heaven forbid it be born with a hideous disfigurement brought about by its mother seeing its father! Suddenly Sara began to giggle, a light chortle at first, which built to ringing peals of laughter that brought tears to her eyes. Even now Malcolm could not allow himself to be honest with her. He had tried to use her again, to win her over with pity, to lie to her and think her stupid enough to believe him, pity him and even love him. But she had been smarter this time, craftier.
How ugly Malcolm was now. Gone were the abundant good looks which had always attracted women to him. Now his glance was sly, feral. His words seemed slick and well rehearsed. Never again would he be a strikingly handsome man who could win a woman’s heart just by the grace of his looks alone. What could he have done to Wren to make her take a poker to his face? That was the only thing Malcolm had said that Sara could believe. The only thing that would move Wren to violence was an attack on her person. Sara laughed again, the sound ringing out over the water, the note of hysteria rising to a shrillness. So Wren was no longer a virgin. That was the only thing she would protect with her life; Sara knew it in her heart. Malcolm must have tried to seduce her before the wedding and Wren had refused. Malcolm, not used to refusal, had become violent, and Wren had reacted in the only way she could. Dirty scum, Sara thought, he deserved whatever he got.
It never occurred to Sara that just hours before she had lain in her bunk dreaming of Malcolm. Now she had to concentrate on Caleb, definitely the better man of the two. Her child needed a father and she needed a husband to save her from the outraged scorn of the community of Puritans. She sniffed delicately and continued with her stroll as if it were something she did in the middle of every night. Her hand caressed her burgeoning belly and her thoughts whirled in crazy circles. No one would stand in the way of what she meant to have for herself. Slowly, her footsteps led her in a circular course around the deck.
A seaman was coming on duty to take the watch, and in the darkness he bumped into her. He lifted his lantern to identify the woman and was perplexed when he saw the expression in Sara’s eyes.
“Can I help you to your cabin?” he asked politely. “You shouldn’t be out here this time of night. It’s too easy to fall overboard—” He broke off his words, the flesh on his back rising as though a goose had just walked on his grave. In the dim light of the lantern Sara’s eyes were wild and staring, her lips drawn back over her teeth in a soundless, mirthless laugh. When she at last seemed to notice him and the light, he had the feeling that a sly, demonic creature was peering out from behind her eyes. The seaman backed away, unable to take his gaze from her face, remembering the time he had taken a ha’penny tour of Bedlam and seen the stark raving madness on the faces of the inmates. His hackles still rising in warning, he backed away still further and broke into a run. As he ran he could hear the woman’s laughter, demonic in its intensity, leaving the ranks of saneness and breaking into a possessed howl
Back in her quarters, Sara stood looking down at the sleeping women, her thoughts vaguely disoriented. Ever since she had seen Malcolm, she felt somehow different. Her brain seemed fuzzy and her thoughts weren’t clear. She stared down at Wren, moving closer to her bunk. There was something about Wren, something she should do, but what was it? Was it a secret? She had to think, to clear her head so that she would know what to do. She would talk to Bascom in the morning; he would know what to do about the problem. Perhaps if she slept, she would be able to remember what it was she was supposed to do in the morning. If she couldn’t remember then, she would go to Bascom anyway.
Wren was not asleep. She watched Sara out of the corner of her eye, her heart thudding in her chest. Something was wrong with Sara. The girl’s eyes were peculiar, and the way she was hovering over the bunk made Wren nervous. How pale Sara looked with the moonlight streaming through the porthole and casting a silvery aura around her, as if she were a ghostly specter. But it was Sara’s eyes that frightened Wren.
Once Sara had settled herself in her own bunk, Wren realized there was no point in trying to sleep. The air in the cabin was very close, and she was fearful that her tossing and turning would disturb Lydia’s sleep. A walk on the deck might help her sort out her thoughts. There would be no one about except the man on watch, and she doubted if he would pay her much notice. She had to think. The time had come to face a few truths.
The night air was brisk, yet it held the promise of the coming summer. She leaned against the rail and pondered the happenings in her life since Sirena and Regan had returned to England to take her back to Java. Why had she been so stubborn? Why hadn’t she trusted their love and listened to them and done what they wanted? Now look at me, she wailed silently. What’s to become of me? She also had Lydia to worry about, and the way Sara was behaving, it wouldn’t be long before she would be saddled with her, too. She watched the dancing waves, eerie in the moonlight, as she pondered her problems. If she went over the side, she wouldn’t have anything to worry about, she thought morbidly, but then that was the coward’s way out. She had gotten herself into this situation, and she would have to extricate herself as best she could.
She was so deep in thought that she didn’t hear the footsteps till a dark shadow caused her to turn her head. Caleb! She said nothing but returned her gaze to the water. Her heart pounded in her chest at his nearness.
How fragile she looked in the moonlight, Caleb thought. He said nothing but folded his arms and stared out across the water.
Wren wanted to shout at him and tell him what she thought of him, but the words wouldn’t come. Was she finally growing up? If so, it was a painful business indeed. She didn’t have to be so physically aware of his presence if she didn’t want to be. Then why was she? How close he was. Wasn’t he ever going to say anything? Was he waiting for her to say something? She gulped and wet her lips, her knees trembling madly. What did he want? He wanted Sara. Her back stiffened at the thought and her jaw tightened. Well, he could have her, with her wild eyes, and he could have Bascom, too. The lot of them could sail off to the end of the world, for all she cared!
His voice, when he spoke, was soft, yet husky. “It’s not wise for you to walk the deck at this hour of the night.”
Her own voice matched his for softness. “I couldn’t sleep, and the room was too warm. I wanted to feel the spindrift on my face.” Was that soft, purring voice hers?
“How long have you been standing here?”
“Not long. If my being here upsets you, then I’ll go back to my quarters. Caleb, I—”
Caleb touched her lips gently with his finger. “It doesn’t upset me. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” How soft her skin felt beneath his fingertip.
Wren moved slightly, his touch searing her mouth. She had to say something. “I guess I haven’t done so well with things. I seem to have botched everything up. I’m sorry, Caleb.” She looked up into his face, her features composed in the moonlight, belying the torrent of emotions that churned through her breast.
Caleb drew in his breath sharply. This beautiful creature standing before him couldn’t be the same fire-breathing Wren who had so deftly defended herself when he had kissed her in Tyler Sinclair’s garden. Nor the same girl who would have him believe she had killed a seaman and disfigured a man in self-defense.
He had to say the right words so as not to frighten her and cause her to run off. “It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Isn’t that what a brother is for?” The moment the words were out he knew he had said the wrong thing. He wasn’t her brother, didn’t want to be her brother. That was the last thing he wanted. The vision of her as a child, staring up at him, flashed before his eyes. Will you wait for me to grow up?
Wren backed off a step and lowered her eyes. Her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it. “Somehow, Caleb, I never thought of you as my brother. I’m certain you don’t remember, but a long time ago, the first time I ever saw you, I fell in love with you, the way a little girl does with her schoolmaster. I remember . . . remember asking you if you would wait for me to grow up.”
“And I said, ‘I may just do that.’”
Wren’s eyes widened and she smiled. Suddenly a brisk wind came up and penetrated her cloak and thin nightdress.
“You’re cold,” Caleb said, wrapping her cloak closer about her chin. “I don’t want you getting chilled, not after what we all went through to make you well.” He took her by the hand and led her across the deck. “Come into my cabin. I have a bottle of brandy, and it will warm you.”
Obediently she followed his lead into the small cabin he had taken since giving the women his. It was lit by a dim, glowing candle, and when his hand reached out to lengthen the wick, she stopped him. “No, don’t. It’s so pleasant as it is.”
He filled two snifters with brandy and handed her one. “Drink up. It’ll ward off the chill. Then back you go to your bed.”
“Don’t treat me as though I were still a child,” she pretended to pout. “I’m grown up, Caleb, or haven’t you noticed?”
Caleb threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve noticed.”
At his words a delicious tingle worked its way through Wren’s veins, mingling with the warmth from the brandy. She felt drawn to him, yearned to have his arms encircle her as they had when he had helped her through her illness.
Caleb reached out and drew her to him. Her body seemed to have a will of its own as she moved into his embrace. Tenderly he covered her mouth with his and felt her lips tremble. His breath was warm upon her cheek, and his lips coaxed hers into a lingering kiss.
Wren felt his arms tighten around her, pulling her close against his lean, muscular body. She was aware of the warmth he offered and the tenderness of his arms. She knew without a doubt that he could have crushed her in a bone-breaking embrace, but his arms were gentle, holding, persuading, not brutal and forceful, as Malcolm’s had been. The stubble on his chin scratched her cheek, making the soft contact between their mouths more gentle by comparison. This is Caleb, she told herself—Caleb, who would never hurt or degrade me. Yet the memory of what she had suffered at Malcolm’s possessive, hurting hands and the indignities she had undergone at the hands of the seamen pervaded her consciousness.
Caleb held her, soothing away her tremblings with his lips, encouraging hers to part. He felt the slimness of her body through the light material of her nightdress, and the dual provocation of her high, full breasts against his chest. He slid his hands along her hips and pressed her firmly against his loins, taking pleasure from the warmth of her body against his rising desire. Her lips were soft and tasted of the brandy she had drunk. Her arms tightened around his back and her fingers lightly traced a path along his muscles. She felt so small, so pliable. He grew dizzy with his urgent need for her, a dizziness that climbed from his loins to his head. His desire for her became overwhelming, and his fingers found the opening to her nightdress. He wanted to rip the cloth from her body, to touch her flesh, to drink in her beauty, to be naked with her and make love to her.
Wren pulled her lips from his. In the frightened astonishment in her eyes he could read the lusty savageness on his own face. He felt himself beyond the point of judgment. No other woman had ever excited him this way, tantalizing him with her lips, teasing him with the pressure of her body against his. He knew only that he wanted, needed, intended to have the woman who had driven him to such passionate heights.
Indifferent to her terror, he picked her up and carried her over to the bunk. Dropping her down onto the mattress, he threw himself beside her, seeking her mouth with his own, his hands tearing at her flimsy nightdress in his eagerness for her silky skin and the place protected by her tightly clenched thighs.
Wren attempted to fight him off, making unintelligible sounds of protest, but he overpowered her by twining one leg around hers and pressing himself over her, reveling in the feel of her breasts against his chest. From deep inside him he growled, “I want you. I mean to have you.”
Wren struggled, images of Malcolm and the seamen heightening her terror. She raised herself up in a sudden movement and crawled down the length of the bed. He caught her by the ankle and pulled her backward, attempting to cover her with his weight. She drove her fingernails into his wrist, savagely slashing at him, her other hand reaching for his face to tear at it. Their eyes met, each staring at the other—the friend and the foe, the trapper and the trapped, the predator and the prey.
Two tears welled in Wren’s eyes and coursed down her cheeks, and from her throat came a desperately pleading voice. “Not you, Caleb. Please, I beg you,” she whispered. “Never you!”
Caleb looked into her eyes for a long moment. Suddenly he reached for her and brought her into his arms, kissing her tenderly and brushing the tears from her face. She buried her head in his chest, her body trembling with unshed tears and remembered terror. “I don’t think I could ever have forgiven you,” she sobbed, the hot tears scalding his flesh.
From out the mullioned windows of the sterncastle, the moon could be seen dipping into the ocean. Soon it would be light.
Like two abandoned children, they huddled together on the bunk, one forgiving, the other begging forgiveness. The hours passed and Wren’s tears were dry; yet still she hid against his neck, and from time to time, at long intervals, she sobbed.
Caleb’s desire had completely subsided, even to the point that he was indifferent to Wren’s hand which had slipped between his legs. The weight of what he had nearly done to her lay heavily on him. He realized that he had almost brutalized her, and he was deeply saddened. Knowing that she had been raped and abused and denigrated, he considered his brutality and unquenchable lust unpardonable. And yet, she had pardoned him. She was holding him tightly and taking comfort from him. He cradled her, feeling the warmth return to her body, knowing that, above all else, he loved her. He wanted her, but he wanted her to desire him, to seek him as her lover. Bewildering thoughts rampaged through his head. How could she desire him when the very thought of giving herself to a man filled her with terror?
When the sun’s first golden light stained the sky at dawn, Caleb remembered Regan’s words. Patience, he had said. Nuzzling against Wren’s fragrant drape of dark hair, Caleb once again tightened his protective embrace. Closing his eyes as a smile came to his lips, he repeated the word to himself. Patience.