Heart Of The Storm

The lighthouse beacon blinked steady and bright as the seas caught the dory and dragged her further out to sea. The riptide would make getting back to shore more difficult than he’d first thought. But there was no worrying about that when there will was a ship to board and search.

Ben had served as lightkeeper for six months. He’d been hired late last fall as the Winter Man, a temporary replacement to fill the shoes of the old keeper who had died suddenly. After twelve years in the Navy and an unexpected discharge, he’d come home to visit his aunt and cousin.

Ben had been at loose ends. He’d had offers from several shipping companies, but he had lost his taste for sailing the seas.

The short-term job as winter man had suited him for the time being. Two weeks ago, he’d received a letter from the Life Saving Service. The board had offered him the position full-time. He’d yet to give his answer.

The service had hired Timothy less than a month ago in the hope that the extra help would entice Ben to stay. Timothy had been raised in a family of fisherman who worked the waters off the outer banks. Though Ben thought the boy talked too much, he understood the ocean and the dangers of the Graveyard’s waters. Whether Ben stayed or left, Timothy would serve well.

“Why didn’t the ship’s captain heed the flare you fired?” Timothy asked, shouting over the wind.

“Who’s to say?” Ben dug his oars deeper into the water. He’d fired flares from his Costen gun several times when he’d first spied the ship, but the captain had not altered his course. Ego, pride or most likely the captain had already abandoned the ship. He’d find out soon enough.

The two lapsed into silence as Ben dug the boat oars into the water and drove them toward the freighter.

Within minutes the dory skimmed the side of the boat just below a burnished sign that read Anna St. Claire. “Take the oars, Timothy. Hold her steady while I go aboard to see if there’s anyone left to save.”

Relief washed over Timothy’s face as he scooted forward and took the oars. “I don’t mind coming with you, sir.”

Ben had enough trouble on his hands without the worry of a green lad traipsing about a dying vessel. “Stay put and keep the dory steady.”

Waves crashed into the side of the rowboat. Cold rain drizzled. Timothy didn’t offer an argument.

Ben wiped the rain from his face. He grabbed a rope dangling from the side of the ship. He tugged on it to make sure it was secure.

“Ben, do you really have to board her? The ship looks abandoned. It’s like the ghost tales I’ve heard the seamen tell.”

Superstition was as much a part of this region and the wind and sea, but Ben had little patience for talk of ghosts and curses. It had been his experience that trouble was caused by the living not the dead. “There’re no ghosts aboard this vessel.”

Timothy stared up at the shadowy vessel. “Yeah, but what if there are ghosts and they are watching us now? Sends a shiver down my spine.”

A slight smile tipped the edge of Ben’s mouth. “That’s the icy waters, lad, not ghosts.”

Ben gripped the rope and, using it as balance, scaled up the side of the ship. He swung his leg over the ship’s railing and landed on the deck. It listed beneath his weight.

The center mast had cracked two thirds of the way up and fallen into the ocean. The other sails were torn and flapping wildly in the storm. Wind scattered the ropes and crates over the deck.

“Can you see anything?” Timothy shouted.

The rain blew sideways, stinging Ben’s face as he started his search. “No. Not yet. Hand me up the lantern.”

Timothy moved to the edge of the dory and on wobbly legs handed the lantern up to Ben.

Ben cursed the wind that made the light flicker and spit. Protecting the flame with his body, he turned up the wick.

The lantern light cast an eerie glow on the ship. A quick survey revealed that Timothy had been right. All the lifeboats were gone. A closer inspection of the top deck confirmed there wasn’t a sign of any soul. Likely, the men had fled the vessel when the main mast had started to go.

No doubt the sailors would turn up somewhere along the outer banks, either dead or alive. The chances of finding any survivors on the Anna St. Claire looked slim.

But Ben was thorough.

He’d learned that perception and fact didn’t always agree. So he would search this vessel, and only when he’d confirmed with his own two eyes that she had been abandoned, would he leave.

He moved to the ship’s railing and called down to Timothy. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, leave.”

“Where are you going?” Timothy shouted over the wind. He huddled in the boat, his hands wrapped around his body.

“Belowdecks.”

“The lifeboats are gone, Ben. The sailors have all abandoned ship. Give up the search.”

“I’ll make a quick check belowdecks before I write this ship off.” His tenacity served him well. It had also led to his court-martial. What made you great was your undoing, the admiral had said to him. “Remember, if I’m not back in ten, leave.”

Timothy wiped water from his face. “I won’t leave without you.”

“You just celebrated your twentieth birthday and you and Callie are to wed in less than a week. Ten minutes, Tim, and I expect you to start rowing.”

Just then the freighter shifted, pitching Ben forward. He nearly dropped the lantern. Wood splintered and cracked somewhere on the vessel. He gripped the railing, his muscles bunching under his thick cable-knit sweater and dark jacket. His iron grip kept him from falling headfirst into the ocean. The lantern light nearly went out.

Timothy’s face was pale and panicked in the lantern light. “Please, sir, give it up. The ship is going to break up.”

Water dripped from his nose as Ben glared down at his assistant. “Ten minutes.”

Without another word, he strode across the badly sloping deck. By the time he reached the hatchway that led below, rainwater had drenched his black pea coat. Turning the knob, he shoved open the hatch.

He held up the light. Three feet of black ocean water lapped against the third rung of the ladder. Outside the wind howled.

“Hello down there!” he called. Silence.

Debris floated past three doorways that fed into the hallway. Two on the left and one on the right.

Seconds passed as he strained to hear. “Hello!” he shouted again. Nothing.

Perhaps Timothy was right.

Everyone was gone or dead.

Ben turned on the ladder ready to climb above deck when he heard the muffled scream. At first he thought it was a trick of the wind.

But he stopped and listened. The wail returned, sounding more human—and more feminine—than before. But a woman aboard a freighter didn’t make sense.

“Hello down there,” he shouted.

The screaming stopped and for a moment there was only silence. Then he heard, “Is someone out there?”

The woman’s voice was unmistakable.

“Yes! I’m here,” he shouted.

“Thank God! Please help me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the cabin on the right.” Her voice sounded broken, as if she’d been sobbing. “They locked me in.”

Ben raised the lantern and looked around for something he could use to break the door. He spotted an ax hanging on a wall by the stairs.

Ben grabbed the ax off its peg, hung the lantern in its place and climbed down the ladder. Raising the ax high over his head, he started to wade into the hallway. The eerie creaks and sways of the dying ship echoed around him. “I’m coming for you.”

The woman began to pound her door harder. “Hurry, the cabin is filling with water.”

Ben pushed past the floating debris. His limbs tingled from the cold. He tried the knob on the door. It was indeed locked.

“Please don’t leave me.” The woman’s desperation punctuated every syllable.

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Step back,” Ben shouted. “I’ll have to cut my way through the door.

He heard the splash of water. “I’m away from the door.”

Ben’s shoulders ached and the weight of his damp clothes made it nearly impossible for him to raise his arms over his head in the narrow hallway. It was only a matter of minutes before he’d lose feeling in his feet in the cold waters.

The lantern swayed and flickered in the wind behind him. Gritting his teeth, he jerked the ax back an extra inch then drove it with every bit of force left in his body. The blade sliced through the door as if it were butter. Ben yanked the ax free and drove it again into the door. Soon the door snapped in two.

Immediately water from the hallway rushed into the cabin. He heard the woman scream. Dropping the ax, he bolted into the darkened cabin.

The river of seawater knocked Rachel off balance.

She tumbled backward. Salt water filled her mouth and nose as her arms flayed around. She didn’t know what was up or down as she groped wildly for something to grab onto.

For all her desperate plans of escape, she feared she was going to die. Peter would have smiled at the irony. He’d always said he’d kill her if she tried to leave.

Strong hands banded around her arms and hauled her forward above the surface of the water. She sucked in a breath.

Her eyes burning, she stared at the silhouette of a very large man. Hints of lantern light from the hallway flickered on chiseled features and black eyes.

The cold had seeped through her dress and sapped her strength. Her teeth chattered. Her hair, in a long thick plait down her back, draped over her shoulder like a wet rope.

“Is there anyone else?” His voice was deep, rusty and full of authority.

“I don’t think so. I heard them lower the lifeboats hours ago. I screamed but no one came.”

The man muttered a savage oath. The boat shifted then, knocking her off balance and into his chest. Warmth and energy radiated from him. And for just the faintest moment she felt safe.

His strong fingers gripped her arm and he pushed her toward the door. “Let’s go,” he ordered. “We don’t have much time before she’s completely flooded.”

Wading across the tiny room in waist-deep water and then down the hallway took every ounce of strength left in Rachel’s body. The weight of her skirts added to the burden of every step.

When they reached the ladder leading to the deck above, the boat tilted and groaned again. Water rushed down the ladder. She fell back into the stranger.

He wrapped strong fingers around her shoulders. “Move, or we both will die here,” he growled in her ear.

He placed his hands around her narrow waist and propelled her forward through the icy waterfall. The thick wool of her dress was completely soaked and it clung to her body like a second skin.

Rachel coughed as she stumbled forward to the upper deck. She sucked in a deep breath.

The rain had slowed. In the distance she saw the lighthouse beacon. There, she’d be safe. But it was so far away.

The deck above was sloping badly now, and each time she tried to stand, her foot caught in her drenched hem. The stranger grabbed her elbow and jerked her up.

“I can’t walk. My skirts are so heavy.” Lord, but she sounded weak. The cold night air pricked her skin.

“We’re almost there.” Urgency laced each word. “Just a few more yards.”

She forced herself to remain standing. “I am not going to die now. I’ve come too far. I’ve come too far.” She hadn’t realized she’d chanted the words out loud until he spoke.

“Aye, we’ve both come too far to die now.” He pushed his shoulder into her midsection and lifted her up off the ground. His shoulder dug into her belly and she could barely breathe.

He dashed across the deck until he reached the railing.

She caught a glimpse of the ocean below. A small boat bobbed in the water. The black seas churned.

She gripped his wet coat with her frozen fingers. “I can’t swim!” she shouted.

“I can.”

He tossed her over the side of the railing into the churning waters.

Chapter Three

Rachel’s sense of weightlessness lasted only an instant. Before she could scream, she landed in the water.

The icy ocean engulfed her mouth and nose as she plowed downward through the water. Her blood thrummed with fear.

For one heart-stopping moment she thought she’d never reach air again. She tasted salt. Her lungs ached and burned.

She clawed her way through the water, wondering what she’d do if she reached the surface. Even if she hadn’t had the heavy skirts weighing her down, she couldn’t swim.

A strong hand grabbed her forearm and hauled her upward. She clung to her rescuer, knowing without him she’d die. She broke through the water’s edge and sucked in a huge breath, coughing. Her bare shoulder bumped against something hard and she realized she’d been pushed beside a rowboat.

“Steady the oars, Timothy,” her rescuer said. “I’ve got a woman.” The confidence in his voice relaxed her. Somehow she knew she was safe.

He wrapped his hands around her waist, holding her body close to his. “Hold on to the boat’s edge. I’m going to climb in and pull you aboard.”

She panicked. “Don’t leave me.”

He moved so close that his lips were right next to her ear. “Be brave. I’ll have you in the boat in a second.”

Her skin burned in the ice-cold water. She could barely hold on to the slick lip of the boat as it was. But when she looked into his warm, steady gaze she knew he wouldn’t leave her. “Hurry.”

Her rescuer easily swung his long legs over the side of the boat. The boat dipped and swayed but he steadied himself as if he were on dry land.

He leaned over the edge and, grabbing her arms, pulled her up into the boat and eased her to the bottom. A bone-deep cold had settled into her body. Her teeth chattered.

“Where’d you find her?” the young man said, handing a blanket to her rescuer.

“Belowdecks.” He wrapped the blanket around her. The coarse fabric offered some warmth, but she couldn’t shake the chill.

The boy looked at her as if she were a specter. “In a million years, I never would have guessed there’d be a woman aboard that freighter.”

The man sat behind her, bracing his feet on either side of her. Powerful thighs rubbed her shoulders. “That’s the key, lad. Never guess.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Timothy, get another blanket for the woman.” He took hold of the oars and started to row. The boat started toward the shore.

“Anything you say, Mr. Mitchell.” The younger man took his place, reached behind him and produced a thick wool blanket from under a tarp.

Timothy handed Rachel the blanket and she wasted no time wrapping it around her shoulders.

Mr. Mitchell. Her savior had an ordinary name, she thought absently as she managed to sit up on the boat bottom. The heroes in the books she read always seemed to have such exotic, memorable names.

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.”

“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?”