Mary Burton - Heart Of The Storm

She was aware only of the beating of her heart and of him.

Rachel imagined that this was what a lover’s touch must feel like. Tender. Soft. Gentle.

This man, she realized, was doubly dangerous.

Not only did questions lurk behind his gray eyes, but he had her dreaming of kindness and lovers’ touches—things she’d given up on.

She met his direct gaze. “Don’t worry about me. I will be fine.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. Once again he was trying to peer into her soul.

Finally he drew back. “If you’re not wanted by the law, I guess that means you’re a runaway. The question now is who are you running from?”

Her skin itched with fear. “Stay out of my business, Mr. Mitchell.”

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. “I wish that I could.” He rose and left the room….

The Unexpected Wife

“If you liked Sarah, Plain and Tall, you’ll love this book. It’s a touch different, but alike in all the right places.”

—Romantic Times

Rafferty’s Bride

“Ms. Burton has written a romance filled with passion and compassion, forgiveness and humor; the kind of well-written story that truly touches the heart because you can empathize with the characters.”

—Romantic Times

The Perfect Wife

“Mary Burton presents an intricate theme that questions if security rather than attraction defines the basis of love.”

—Romantic Times

The Colorado Bride

“This talented writer is a virtuoso, who strums the hearts of readers and composes an emotional tale. I was spellbound.”

—Rendezvous

#755 SPRING BRIDES

Judith Stacy, Cheryl Reavis and Pam Crooks

#756 THE VISCOUNT’S BRIDE

Ann Elizabeth Cree

#758 MY LADY’S FAVOR

Joanne Rock

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For Elizabeth and Lee

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Washington City

March 1866

She couldn’t breathe.

Rachel Emmons had never done anything more desperate in her life. She was running away from her husband, Peter Emmons, a man who in a rage had struck her so hard last night that the pins from her chignon had pinged on the Italian marble floor of their Washington town house.

This hadn’t been the first beating in their eleven-month marriage, but it had been, by far, the worst.

The early morning air was damp, the fog thick as she hurried down the cobblestone streets past the bales of tobacco, sacks of flour and piles of freshly milled lumber. The Potomac shipyards were busy this morning. Sailors readied their ships, farmers drove their carts filled with produce and men of business inspected cargo. Her heart pounded in her chest as she searched for the Anna St. Claire.

She’d dressed in widow’s weeds with a heavy lace veil over her hat. Widows were invisible. And she wanted no one to remember her or to see the bruise on her face.

She pushed through the crowds and moved toward the docks. The innkeeper had told her the Anna St. Claire would be moored on a pier near the tobacco warehouses. The small freighter was scheduled to leave on the morning tide. But as she made her way through the early morning throng, she saw no sign of the ship. She scanned the vessel nearest her. The Maria Nova.

A sailor bumped Rachel’s shoulder. She murmured an apology and hurried further down the dock, fearing she’d taken a wrong turn. What if she couldn’t find the freighter before it sailed out of port? She clenched her gloved hands. She couldn’t go back.

She stepped around a crowd of men, not daring to ask for directions for fear they’d remember her if questioned later. The next ship was a slow draft steamer, the Zephyr. Her brisk pace quickened to a run as she headed toward the next set of sails.

To her relief she found the Anna St. Claire two blocks north of where the innkeeper had said it would be. The three-masted schooner was weathered and in desperate need of cleaning. Cargo was piled high on the deck and her hull rode low in the water, a sign she was loaded and ready to leave. Her patched sails flapped in the wind.

There were eight men aboard. The sailors who manned this ship were rough, hard-bitten men. Several shouted profanities. One sailor dropped his trousers and urinated over the side of the ship.

Two sailors pointed at her. A redheaded one grabbed his crotch and laughed. “Nay, I can’t see her face. But I can tell by her stiff back that she needs a man to loosen her up. She’s in need of a good poke.”

“Ah, but with a stick like yours, Sebastian,” the shorter sailor said, “she’ll never know she’s been had. She needs a real man, like me.”

The men laughed, each going into detail about what they’d do if given an afternoon alone with her in a cabin.

Such indignities would be a part of her new life. But Rachel would pay any price to be free of Peter and her godless marriage.

She could do this.

From the top deck a man shouting orders to his sailors caught her attention. He wore a bright blue coat, black pants, polished knee-high boots and a wide-brimmed hat. A black beard covered his olive-skinned face. Captain Antoine LaFortune. The innkeeper had said LaFortune would give her passage, no questions asked.

Gathering her courage, she climbed the steep, slippery wooden plank and stepped onto the deck. The captain noticed her instantly, his gaze lean and hungry.

The fine Belgium lace of her veil fluttered in the wind and her black wool skirts rustled as she stepped over the thick coiled rope on deck. The ship smelled of tobacco and lumber.

Each man working on deck stopped to watch her as she walked toward the captain. The redheaded sailor grinned at her and licked his lips.

Captain LaFortune climbed down from the upper deck and tugged at the edges of his cuffs. The former blockade-runner’s belly was round, straining the buttons on his vest. His face was pock-marked under his beard and he wore his thinning black hair tied at the nape of his neck. “Bonjour, madame.”

Through her veil she looked up at him. “Bonjour, monsieur. Captain LaFortune?”

He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. “Oui. Américaine?”

“Oui.”

“I speak English,” he said proudly. “How may I be of service to you, my lady?”

Her spine was so straight she imagined it would snap. “I need passage.”

He lifted a brow, amused. “I command a freighter, madame. I am an honest businessman who carries lumber, tobacco and wine, not young widows.”