Mary Burton - Heart Of The Storm

She hugged her arms over her wet shoulders, unsure if she should be grateful or sick to her stomach.

Mr. Mitchell dug the oars into the water. The boat started to glide. How he had the energy to row was beyond her comprehension.

Strength radiated from his body. Such power, she’d learned, gave him complete control over her. The man had just saved her life and already suspicion clouded her thoughts of him. Marriage to Peter had done that.

The name was ordinary, but the man was not.

Mr. Mitchell was dirty, covered in sand and seaweed, yet unlike the sailors on the ship, there wasn’t the stench of rotting teeth or filth about him. Instead he possessed a musky kind of man smell that intrigued her.

She closed her eyes. Lord, but she was tired of being afraid. She wanted her life back. She wanted to laugh again.

But she was so cold. And so very tired. She simply wanted to sleep now. Exhausted, she leaned to the left. Her cheek brushed Mr. Mitchell’s thigh.

“What’s your name?” Mr. Mitchell said.

His gruff voice startled her. She opened her eyes and sat up straight, suddenly aware that she’d laid her cheek against his thigh. “It’s Rachel.”

“You have a last name?” he said.

She hesitated. Peter would return to Washington soon. And he’d be looking for her. “Davis. Rachel Davis.” The surname belonged to her maid.

“Where are you from?”

She didn’t want to talk. She was so tired and cold she could barely string two thoughts together.

He stared down at her unsmiling. Lantern light deepened the hard planes of his face. She feared for one moment that he had the power to read into her soul.

“What were you doing on the Anna St. Claire?”

“I’ve family in the Caribbean.” She hated lying, but trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

The boat rose and fell with the tides. His thigh brushed her shoulder. “Most women don’t travel freighters.”

“It was economical.” And very expedient.

Tension tightened the muscles in his body, as if he sensed she was lying. “I see.”

She suppressed a shiver, telling herself it was the cold. The rain had slowed but the night air cut through her drenched gown. Rachel longed to escape this boat and Mr. Mitchell’s scrutiny. “I owe you my thanks, sir.”

He shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

“You’re lucky Ben was on duty,” Timothy said rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Not all keepers would fight the surf as he does.”

She glanced at the boy. About her age, yet he looked so young. Or was it that she just felt so old?

Her teeth started to chatter and her hands to shake. Mr. Mitchell tightened his legs around her shoulders, giving her his warmth.

She shifted, uncomfortable with the contact.

“You’re freezing. My legs will keep you warmer.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’re blue.”

Unconsciously her fingers curled into fists, ready to fight if need be. Her days of giving in were over. “The blankets will warm me soon enough.”

“You must put your modesty aside, Mrs. Davis, until you are warm. The cold can take your life as easily as the ocean.”

Mrs. Davis. He’d called her Mrs. Davis. He’d not looked past her widow’s weeds. Good.

She forced herself to relax, which was hard because her teeth were chattering. However, she did see the wisdom of his words. She’d die if she didn’t get warm. “You’re right of course. I—I’m being silly.”

“No problem.”

She adjusted the blanket so that it covered her shoulders. He tightened his legs around her. The warmth of his body lulled her closer.

She should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. Depending on anyone was simply too dangerous.

Davis. As common a name as there was for a woman who looked anything but common.

The woman’s body felt fragile against Ben’s thighs. Her thick tangle of hair had escaped its braid and hung freely down her back, skimming the middle of her backside. He imagined when dry it shone like gold and felt like down. Her fine-boned features were ghostly pale now, but warmth, time and a few good meals would make her stunning.

As he held her against him, he was very aware of the full curve of her breasts rubbing his thigh. He imagined the ripeness of her nipples straining against the wet fabric, and the narrow curve of her hips.

Again she laid her head on his leg. She was falling asleep. In this cold, that wasn’t good.

“Where is your husband?” he said, determined to keep her talking.

Startled, she opened her eyes. Confusion and fear flashed in their blue depths before they cleared. She shifted her gaze out to the sea. “He’s dead.”

“How long?”

“Not long.”

The news should have meant nothing to him. Widow or married, it shouldn’t matter either way to him.

But it did.

He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.

Her silence spoke volumes.

Ben frowned. It wasn’t simply the cold that was affecting her now.

Rachel Davis was hiding something.

The tide had been more brutal than Mr. Mitchell had first thought. He told Timothy as much when he’d ordered him to the oars. The boy had taken his place by Ben and together they rowed to shore. It seemed there was a time or two that Mr. Mitchell and Timothy looked worried.

However, fifteen minutes later, the boat bottom scraped the sand. The rain had all but stopped, the heavy winds had thinned and the thick clouds had parted. Moonlight shone down on the beach and the dunes.

The wind sliced through her wet clothes like a knife. Rachel feared she’d never be warm again.

She sat up, pulling free of Mr. Mitchell’s embrace. “Where are we?”

“Off the coast of North Carolina, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Between Corolla and Hatteras.” He rose. “Stay put. I’ll be back.”

Leaving her, he climbed out of the boat. Immediately she missed the heat of his body.

Mr. Mitchell grabbed the side of the boat. Waves crashed around his feet. His biceps bunched and corded muscles in his neck strained as he and Timothy yanked the boat ashore.

Her mind, befuddled by the cold, marveled that Mr. Mitchell could stand so tall and strong after such an exhausting rescue. The fact that he could pull the heavy boat ashore was nothing short of a miracle. The man’s tenacity simply wasn’t human.

She glanced up and down the long beaches that stretched and curved into the horizon. She could make out the outline of the dunes topped with sea oats that swayed in the wind. There wasn’t a soul to be found in either direction.

Hundreds of miles separated this isolated land from Peter and Washington, but she feared it wasn’t enough. His reach could be quite far.

Her stomach tightened, warning her that she’d have to move on soon. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart.

“I’ll put the boat up, Ben,” the young man said. “And I’ll take the rest of tonight’s shift.”

“Thanks.” Mr. Mitchell walked over to her and held out his hand. “Ready to go, Mrs. Davis?”

Automatically she rose and took his hand. Steady, warm fingers closed around her hand.

Yet despite her best efforts to stand tall, she started to crumble. Her legs wobbled under the weight of her skirts and her head began to spin. Fisting her hand around the blanket, she drew in deep breaths, trying to will her body to move.

Heavy hands cupped her shoulders. “I’ve got you.” He lifted her out of the boat.

She leaned into him. If she could just rest a moment and catch her breath. “I can’t stay here. I have to leave. Is there a town nearby where I can buy clothes?”

A humorless smile tipped the edges of his mouth. “Lady, you’re not going anywhere.”

Rachel’s head spun and her stomach churned. “I have to go.”