Mary Burton - Heart Of The Storm

“Let me help you,” he whispered against her ear.

Lord, but she was a pitiable creature. She glared up at him. A grim smile lifted the edge of his lips. She was aware that Timothy was also staring at her. “I need to go.”

“Where?” he demanded.

“South.”

His gaze grew serious. “Is there someone expecting you?”

Hunting me. “No.”

“Then give up the fight for tonight. Your skin is like ice. I’ve a warm bed at the lightkeeper’s cottage. Tomorrow you can leave.”

The offer was tempting. To wrap herself in the dry comfort of a bed and let sleep take her for just a little while. But a little rest could cost her her life. “I need to go.”

He loosened his hold, a clear sign he’d not argue with her.

Rachel staggered over the uneven sand for several feet. Her fingers ached with cold and fatigue. The added exertion of walking on sand sent her heart pounding and soon her body began to perspire. Her head spun faster and her mouth began to sweat.

Humiliation welled as she realized she was going to throw up in front of this man. She dropped to her knees. She threw up bile.

Mr. Mitchell knelt beside her. He held her hair back from her face and patiently waited until the spasms stopped. “Better?”

She didn’t dare raise her eyes to look at him. “Yes.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Mrs. Davis. You can’t go anywhere until morning. Let’s get you up to the cottage.” He scooped her in his arms and carried her over the dunes.

Rachel didn’t argue this time. She was so cold, she couldn’t think. But wrapped in his musky, very male scent, she felt safe and protected.

Tomorrow, she’d leave.

For now, all she wanted to do was to sleep.

Ben was losing Rachel.

The woman he’d battled so hard to save from the doomed Anna St. Claire was slipping deeper and deeper into a sleep borne not of fatigue but of a bone-chilling cold that was robbing her of her life. He shifted her in his arms.

She weighted no more than a sack of feathers. Her breathing was rapid and uneven.

Ben glanced at his assistant. “Timothy, I’ve got to get her inside. The cold is killing her.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Get yourself into dry clothes and grab something to eat before you head back to the light.”

Timothy’s shoulders slumped with fatigue. “Aye, sir.”

Ben marched up over the dunes and across the sandy yard toward the white lightkeeper’s cottage.

Timothy headed into the base of the lighthouse as Ben climbed the stairs of the cottage. The keeper’s cottage with its red-tiled roof and large front porch was split into two sections—the larger quarters reserved for the lightkeeper and the smaller one for his assistant.

He pushed open the front door with his wet booted foot. The house was dark and very cold. He was so familiar with the interior that he didn’t need a light to know his way. To his right was a parlor. The room was filled with boxes of his belongings. He’d never taken the time to unpack. Beyond the parlor was a large kitchen. He’d made a few unappetizing meals in the kitchen but, like the parlor, the room went unused. He was simply too exhausted after long shifts in the lighthouse to sit and read, let alone cook. Now that Timothy was on board, his long hours would ease. Soon his life would find more balance.

Ben moved purposefully toward the back room. What Rachel needed was a hot bath to warm her bones, but heating water would take more than an hour. He glanced down at her pale skin. Her lips had taken on a blue hue.

Hypothermia.

He moved down the darkened center hallway past two more doors—bedrooms he never used—to his own at the end.

The woman moaned softly. Her fingers were bunched into small fists. No bigger than a sprite, she possessed a warrior spirit he had to admire.

Her face nestled in the crook under his chin. He could feel her warm breath against his skin.

Ben laid her gently on the bed. She rolled onto her side and curled her legs close to her body. She still clutched the blanket close.

He lit a lantern. A soft glow of light shone on the double bed, dresser, sea trunk and large hearth.

He quickly removed his wet jacket and tossed it into a heap on the floor.

Ben turned his attention to Rachel and her damp clothes. She whimpered when he pried the blanket from her hands. “You’ll be warm in a minute.”

He quickly undressed her. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the softness of her skin or the ripe fullness of her breasts. He covered her with the thick bedspread. She shivered and burrowed deeper. Lantern light cast a soft glow on her skin.

Ben set to work on lighting a fire. It didn’t take long before the wood took flame.

The woman’s breathing sounded more labored now, and though the blaze was slowly warming the room, she still trembled under the blankets.

Ben opened the chest at the foot of the bed and removed another blanket. He laid it over her, tucking the edges around her slender frame.

She moaned and rolled onto her other side. “I’m so cold.”

Ben touched her forehead. Cold as ice.

He sat on the edge of the bed and uncovered her feet. She moaned in protest until he cupped them between his hands. Slowly her feet warmed.

Warming her with the blankets would take hours.

Accepting what must be, he stripped completely and climbed into the bed. He pulled her cold, naked body against his, tugged the blankets over them and draped his arm across her very narrow waist.

She’d not die on his watch.

Ben awoke with a start.

His mind fogged with sleep, he thought for a moment he was still a decorated naval officer in command of twenty-six sailors and destined to rise higher through the ranks.

As much as he wanted to believe he was on the clipper ship Intercept, reason whispered he couldn’t be. Absent were the sway of the ship and the sound of men working. And when had he fallen asleep? He’d never slept the night through when he was at sea.

He sat up and shoved his hands through his hair. Morning sunlight streamed into the cold room through the window by his bed. Outside the wind banged a shutter open and closed. Gradually his mind cleared. He wasn’t on his ship. He was in the lightkeeper’s cottage.

Ben relaxed back against the pillow. A flock of seagulls squawked outside his window. He glanced over at the hearth to the dying embers.

His senses kicked into play. The Anna St. Claire had wrecked. The rescue. He remembered.

He looked down at the woman beside him. Curled on her side, she lay naked under the blankets, her long hair flowing down her back.

Rachel.

The coarse blankets covered her petite frame and molded to the gentle curve of her hip. Her profile was classic, a long patrician nose, high cheekbones and full, round lips. Her skin was the color of porcelain. Beautiful. Her hair, dry now, glistened. He captured a stray curl between his fingers. Silk.

She stirred, stretching her legs. Her bare toes peaked out from the end of the blankets into the morning cold. But they retreated under the blankets and rubbed against his, seeking warmth.

The touch was innocent enough and yet it possessed an intimacy that unsettled him. In the quiet morning hours this was the kind of moment a husband and his wife shared before the day began.

She nestled her bottom closer to him. He grew as hard as a pike. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman and he was accurately aware of it now.

Of course, if Rachel were his, he’d be under the covers with her. And he’d be kissing her awake as he moved inside her.

Embarrassed by the direction of his thoughts, Ben lay very still, waiting as she settled. She sighed and burrowed her face into her pillow.