Charlotte Douglas - The Bride's Rescuer

THAT NIGHT, CLAD ONCE again in one of Mrs. Givens’s voluminous nightgowns, Celia leaned against the veranda railing outside her room, watching the rain move in torrents across the dark beach. Mrs. Givens had taken away her drenched clothes to wash the bay water from them, but they wouldn’t dry soon in this rain. Thunderclouds obscured the waning moon, and water beat upon the tin roof above her, drowning out the rumble of the surf.

A blinding bolt of lightning split the sky, striking so close to the house that flash and thunder occurred simultaneously. She jumped back from the railing, throwing her arms over her face in a useless gesture of protection. With the boom reverberating in her ears, her throat tightened and her heart pounded. The storm that had demolished her boat flashed back at her. Images of murky water and towering waves crowded against her consciousness, and her breath came in tortured, painful gasps.

Post-traumatic stress syndrome.

That had to be it. Every time the thunder boomed, she relived the horror of her boat breaking up beneath her and the whirlpool pulling her under. She’d encountered storms before, had even capsized in them, but nothing had ever approached the pulsing terror that had grabbed her from the deck and dragged her down into the gray-green depths, charged with the lightning that had crackled all around her.

She closed her eyes, pushed the memories away, and grasped the balustrade so tightly her nails dug crescents into the wood. Thunder crashed again, and the house shuddered from the force of its concussion.

To ward off the panic attack that threatened to engulf her, she imagined herself in Sand Castles, her bookstore with its wide, sunny windows overlooking the traffic-thronged street and flooding the broad aisles with light. She could almost smell the inky tang of new books, the fragrance of freshly brewed tea, and the spicy, chocolate aroma rising from the basket of homemade cookies she kept beside the teapot for her customers. The soft murmur of customers’ voices, the rustle of turning pages, the clunk of books returned to the shelves, and the click of keys on the cash register echoed in her memory.

The familiar images calmed her. Slowly her breathing eased, and the rhythm of her heart steadied. The panic had gone, but at her own beckoning, she’d called up a homesickness as sharp as an injury.

Gradually the force of the storm passed over the island and out to sea, leaving a silence broken only by the irregular beat of water, dripping like tears from the eaves onto the papery surface of palm fronds. The air, cooled and washed by the rain, caught the folds of her gown, puffing it out like a spinnaker.

She peered down the beach where rain obscured the piles of debris. Even if a boat were to pass the island, the driftwood and palm branches would be too wet tonight to burn as signal beacons. She’d hidden beneath her mattress the matches she’d taken from the kitchen when Mrs. Givens’s back was turned. The debris would eventually dry, and she’d have her chance.

She tensed at the sound of movements in the room next to hers. A pool of light spread across the veranda, and the French doors of the room next to hers swung open. For a moment, she feared Cameron himself would step onto the porch beside her.

Then his shadow fell across the veranda floor as he removed his clothes. The lamplight projected an undistorted image of his powerful shoulders, narrow waist and lean hips upon the weathered boards, faithful even to the bulges of his muscled torso when he removed his shirt. The shadow bent to blow out the lamp, and bedsprings creaked as he climbed into bed. Her pulse quickened at the intimacy of the sound.

She shivered when the rain-laden breeze struck her. Had the cool air or the memory of his body against hers caused the tremor? She hadn’t reacted that way to Darren, who had professed to love her. Why did her rebellious body respond only to a man whose mind was surely disturbed?

At her first chance, she’d light her signal fire, and if that didn’t bring help, she’d steal the sloop and sail to Key West by herself. One thing was certain. She couldn’t remain much longer on this small island with Cameron Alexander, or she might succumb to the growing excitement that quivered in the depths of her whenever she thought of him—a peril worse than shipwreck.

She pulled the rocking chair from her room onto the veranda and, hugging her knees to her chest, she rocked herself to sleep.

DAYLIGHT WAS GATHERING, and the rising sun tinged the gulf’s soft swells an iridescent pink and gold, like the inside of a conch shell she’d found on the beach the day before. Seabirds searched for their breakfast, and their shrill cries and the gentle beat of their wings filled the cool morning air.

She stood and stretched, easing muscles cramped from a night spent curled in the rocker in the open air. The doors to Cameron’s room remained open, but no sound came from inside. As she turned toward her own room, a flash of movement on the beach drew her attention.

Bathed in the delicate glow of the sun’s first rays, Cameron, his muscles etched like Italian marble against the blue of the morning sky, strode naked across the beach toward the breakers. He moved with grace and power, and once he reached the combers crashing onto the shore, dived like a gilded arrow into the waves, slicing through them with powerful strokes of his well-muscled arms. His tawny hair fanned around him like seaweed as he swam toward the distant horizon.

Fascinated by the work of art in the flesh before her, she stood awestruck, hypnotized, watching him cut his way through the water, farther and farther from shore.

A glimpse of white on the horizon beyond him caught her eye. Moving slowly northward, so far away it looked like a child’s toy, sailed a cruise ship.

Rescuers!

She didn’t understand her strong reactions to her mysterious host and felt the need to get away from him as strongly as she wanted to go home.

She darted back into her room and rummaged under the mattress for the stolen matches. With the precious sticks clutched in her fist, she dashed headlong down the stairs, through the wide front doors, and out toward the beach.

She raced between the dunes and headed north along the shoreline. She had to ignite the signal fire before the ship passed from view, but deep sand sucked at her feet, slowing her progress.

When she reached the stack of debris, she cast about for a hard surface on which to strike a match. Shaking with excitement until she could barely grasp the matchstick, she grabbed a large shell with a corrugated surface and dragged the match across it.

Nothing happened.

In a panic, she drew the match again and again across the shell’s rough surface, but it didn’t flare.

Dear God, make it burn, so I can go home.

She threw the match down in disgust and tried another. The second flared instantly, and she touched it to the dried palm fronds stacked with the flotsam and jetsam. Still slightly damp from the earlier rain, they smoldered slowly, producing little heat or smoke. She pulled one of the fronds from the pile and fanned, coaxing the smoldering leaves into flames.

With an explosive burst, the dry palm branches on the bottom of the pile caught fire, and flames licked along the driftwood and other debris. She peered toward the horizon, tracking the cruise liner, and fanned harder, encouraging the flames to burn brighter.

Out of nowhere, strong hands tugged her aside. She stumbled and fell to her knees on the beach. Sand flew like dust devils, obscuring her view.

She scrambled to her feet and wiped sand from her eyes. Cameron, barefoot and clad only in jeans unbuttoned at the waist, stood where she had been, using a board as a shovel to douse the last embers of the fire with sand.