Mary Burton - Heart Of The Storm

He didn’t want to wake her. She needed her sleep and, in truth, he liked being close to her. He liked it too damn much.

Taking in a deep breath, he stared out the window. He had no rights to the desires flooding his veins. She’d said her husband was dead, but she could very well have children and a whole other life waiting for her return.

Chance had brought her to these shores, but she would soon leave. She didn’t belong here.

He shifted his thoughts to the work to be done today—the ropes to be rewound, the oil that would have to be hauled up the one hundred plus steps of the lighthouse and the lenses that would have to be polished. When that didn’t ease the throbbing in his groin, he thought about the frigid waters of the Atlantic. If only he could dip into those waters now.

Rachel stirred and muttered something in her sleep. She rolled onto her back, revealing the other side of her face. In the morning light, he saw the bruise. Angry and purple, it marred an otherwise flawless face. He’d not noticed it last night in the dark.

A primitive anger stirred inside him. Had the sailors done this to her?

Suspicion replaced desire. A woman of means, bruised and traveling alone on a frigate manned by hardened sailors. Nothing about Rachel Davis made sense.

Restless now, he eased up and leaned against the headboard. He’d serve them both well by getting dressed and giving her privacy. When she woke, she’d likely be confused and dazed as most near victims of the sea were.

Later he would talk to her and find out where she came from.

“Ben!” His aunt Ida’s voice echoed through his cottage. Ida had taken him in and raised him as her own after his parents had drowned crossing the Sound when he was six. Whenever news of shipwreck reached the nearby village she came to check on him the next morning.

Very aware of his and Rachel’s nudity, and the picture they made, Ben vaulted out of bed toward a small dresser. He stumbled over their wet clothes entwined in a sopping mess on the floor.

“Mama, I want to check on Timothy to see if he’s doing all right.” The voice of Ben’s cousin Callie drifted through the small house.

“Not until you’ve paid your respects to your cousin first. Ben! Are you home? It’s Ida and Callie.” His aunt’s voice grew closer.

“Hello, Ben,” Callie said.

He yanked open a dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of dry pants. Their timing was flawless. “I’ll be right there.”

He yanked the pants up over his hips. As he fumbled with the thirteen buttons on the dual front flaps, Rachel awoke with a start. She sat up in bed, her eyes wild and full of fear.

Her gaze drifted over to him, taking in his naked chest and his half-buttoned pants.

Before he could explain, she scrambled out of the bed, dragging the sheet with her. She scurried into a corner and screamed.

The piercing sound no doubt had been heard thirty miles down the beach at Manteo. Certainly, Ida and Callie had heard it. Damn.

Ben fumbled with his buttons and moved toward Rachel. “Rachel, do you remember me?”

Her doe eyes wide, with panic, stared back at him. White-blond hair streamed over hands that clutched her sheet.

She shook her head and tried to retreat another step. She bumped into the wall.

“Ben!” Ida shouted. “What the devil is going on in there? We heard a woman scream.”

Shoving out a breath, he reached for Rachel as if handling a skittish horse. “It’s okay. You are safe. I won’t hurt you.”

She shrank back.

He recoiled his hand. Whoever had hit her had marked her with more than bruises.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I saved you. Remember? Your ship, the Anna St. Claire, sank.”

She dragged a shaking hand through her hair and straightened her slumped shoulders. “I remember the cold water.” Her husky voice was barely a whisper.

“Aye, it was cold. Your skin was like ice when I carried you here.” He swept his arm over the room. “This place…it’s the lightkeeper’s cottage. You’re in my room. I’m the lightkeeper.”

Flushed cheeks made her blue eyes all the more vivid. She conjured images in his mind of sirens and sea nymphs destined to tempt sailors into dangerous, uncharted waters. The memory of her soft flesh pressed against him this morning still hammered his senses. His arousal hardened against his sloppily buttoned breeches.

There was a hard knock at his door. “Benjamin!”

Double damn. Ben moved to the door and blocked it with his body. “Just a minute.”

Rachel glanced down at her sheet-clad body. “I’m naked.”

“Your clothes were soaked, draining the heat from your body. You’d developed hypothermia. I took your dress off so you’d be warm. Even with the fire and blankets you were still so cold. That’s why I stripped and got into bed with you. For the body heat alone.”

She studied him, clearly not trusting him.

“Look, your clothes are still in a cold heap on the floor along with my clothes. I nearly tripped over them just a moment ago.”

“Benjamin David Mitchell,” Ida said just outside his door. “Your cousin and I are coming in, now!” The doorknob turned.

“Just a minute!” he shouted. He leaned against the door.

Rachel’s gaze darted like a caged animal’s. “Who is that shouting?”

“That’s my aunt and her daughter, my cousin. They’re good women. Nosy, but good.”

The door opened a crack. He shoved it closed.

“We don’t mean to disturb, Ben, but we heard a scream,” Callie said.

Ben shrugged. “There’s no keeping them out.”

Rachel jerked the edges of the sheet around her. “I need clothes!”

“Do you have that Phoebe from Corolla in there?” Ida said. “She’s had her eye on you for months. Lord knows, the woman is known for her dramatics.”

“Phoebe is on the mainland, Mama,” Callie said. “I bet it’s Sara Plank he’s got in there.”

His aunt and cousin were discussing the intimate details of his life. The day was getting better and better.

Ben shoved out another breath. “There’s no avoiding Ida and Callie.” He stepped back from the door and opened it.

Ida and Callie burst through the door as Rachel turned her face slightly so that her hair hid her bruise.

She was ashamed of the bruise. The realization dug in his gut.

Ida’s silver hair caught the morning light as she stood in stunned silence, a basket of muffins clutched in her hands. Callie’s brown eyes, like her mother’s, looked surprised as she studied Rachel.

Each woman wore a simple gray wool dress. Ida was the shorter of the two. Callie’s body was trim and supple whereas childbirth and the years had left Ida’s plump.

“I know every woman on the banks and I’ve never seen her before,” Ida said.

Normally, Ida would have offered him one of her muffins the instant she saw him. He never ate enough for her task. This time, she held on to her basket with a white-knuckled grip.

“Your timing is bad,” he said more gruffly than he’d intended.

“Don’t you growl at me, Ben Mitchell,” Ida said. “What are you about?”

“This isn’t what you think,” he said, softening his tone.

Ida’s and Callie’s gazes darted between him and Rachel. Their tight-lipped expressions challenged him.

Ida’s grip on the basket was firm. “We understand a man alone has…well, needs, but bringing a woman here isn’t discreet, Benjamin.”

Ben prayed for patience. The last thing he wanted to do was to discuss his needs with his aunt. “You’ve got it wrong, Ida.”

“What would the people in the village say?” Callie countered.

“I could give a tinker’s damn what they think,” he snapped.

Ida wiped a wisp of gray hair off her face. “Language, Benjamin. And you’re still the winter man in the Service’s eyes. They’d not have offered you the position in the first place if not for the admiral’s kind words. And they’ll surely withdraw their offer if they get the breath of scandal.”