by Téa Cooper
‘I think I know.’ She smiled again, gentle and soothing with the tiniest tinkle of laughter. What made her laugh that way? As though she couldn’t contain her joy, her pleasure bloomed and warmed him, washing away his confusion.
‘I believe you are Jamie. My childhood friend, Jamie.’
He rolled her words around on his tongue, around the name. Jamie.
The name didn’t seem so strange; the sound of it echoed in his mind, hinting at events long forgotten. Or were they merely dreams, half-dreamt?
Had Charlotte been talking to Henk? Henk maintained he was a murderer. Who he was supposed to have murdered Henk had never been able to tell him. Henk also refused to accept his lack of memory saying it was nothing more than a means of covering up his foul deeds. Henk’s version of the truth wouldn’t make her smile at him this way. It would expose him for the low-life he was. ‘Tell me. Who is Jamie and why do you think I am he?’
‘Jamie and I were sentenced in London to transportation at the same time.’ She paused for a moment to let her words sink in, her head tipped to one side waiting for his reaction.
What did she know? Her explanation triggered his deepest fears. ‘What else?’ he asked, regretting the defensive tone in his voice.
‘Jamie was my friend, my soul mate. He protected my sister and me. We were children, alone on the streets, pickpockets, working for a fence to survive.’
Either Charlotte hadn’t heard his concern or she chose to ignore it because her small hand returned to his, her thumb moving backwards and forwards in a movement he could almost interpret as a caress.
‘Elizabeth, my sister, was murdered. Jamie and I were accused, sentenced and separated. We made a promise to each other we would meet again in Van Diemen’s Land once our sentences ended and begin a new life together.’ Her hand lifted the chain around her neck and she grasped the tiny bottle. ‘But Jamie never arrived in Van Diemen’s Land.’
‘You believe I was accused of murdering your sister?’
‘Yes.’
Then Henk had been right all along. ‘I am a murderer.’ Christian wiped his hands over his eyes. The thudding in his head made it difficult to concentrate. I am a murderer. He had to see Henk. Ask questions. Seek answers.
‘I’ve lain abed long enough. Could you find me some clothes in the chest over there, and then leave me. It is time I went up on deck.’
Her mouth fell. ‘You can’t go up on deck. When Henk sees you he will flog you. We have almost reached Port Albert, stay here and recover. Wait until we are back at sea.’
‘This is my chance to report these mutineers to the authorities. They will come aboard to disembark the convicts. I have to sign papers. Henk can’t do it. Pass me my clothes.’
Christian threw back the covers and peered down at his legs, scratched and bruised, the chafe marks from the ropes purple around his ankles. He gritted his teeth as he eased himself upright and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk.
Charlotte hung his shirt around his shoulders and gently eased his arm into the first sleeve. Pain tore through him as the cotton touched the raw spots on his arms and back and he reached for her to steady himself. Her skin soft beneath his touch held such promise and the very closeness of her hinted at untold pleasures.
With a crash the door flew open. Marcus hurtled into the cabin. Charlotte leapt away from the bed, her eyes wide with fear and her face as white as chalk.
‘You are at your filthy business again I see, strumpet!’
Like a wraith or a demon from the deep Marcus hovered over them. His hair stood up on end, his eyes wide and bulging and a heavy, coiled grape of a vein pounded in his temple. Christian could barely comprehend the change in the man.
‘You are mine! I rescued you. I nurtured you. Offered you shelter in your time of need and you repay me this way.’ Marcus’ hands shook with rage at the end of his stiffened arms. He raised his hands and lunged towards Charlotte.
Convinced he intended to strangle her, Christian launched across the room. Hampered by his dangling shirt and his wounds he could do little more than shoulder-butt Marcus against the wall. It enabled him to offer her some protection from the pop-eyed raging beast masquerading as a philanthropist.
‘She is mine!’ Marcus screamed in Christian’s face. Knowing there was little he could do in his debilitated state Christian sought some way to pacify the man and break the tension.
‘I have nurtured her,’ Marcus screamed. ‘I have tried to show her the ways of God but the foul harridans aboard the convict ship had tainted her. She was so young I thought to cleanse her. Her sentence almost served and she has fallen by the wayside. She is no better than the strumpets in the hold with their silken skin and lascivious eyes.’
The man was mad, there was no doubt about it.
‘She belongs in The Whaleman’s Rest. She must not escape. She must serve her sentence with the other whores.’
The man’s ranting and raving made no sense. His train of thought was impossible to decipher. At least Marcus’ tirade distracted him from Charlotte. Christian glanced over his shoulder. Charlotte stood, back pressed against the wall of the cabin, eyes wide and her hands clasped to her neck clutching the little glass bottle.
The London mist, cool and dank, swirled and cleared and parted. He slipped his hand into the gentleman’s pocket and withdrew a silk handkerchief, a silver matchbox and a little blue bottle. He cut off around the back into the alley and under the streetlight examined his find. He slipped the bottle into his inside pocket and kept the silver matchbox and the silken handkerchief in the big pocket of his greatcoat. When the fence demanded the night’s takings he’d all but forgotten the little blue bottle and later that night he had given it to Lottie. Lottie! Charlotte!
He’d vowed to keep her safe and now while he stood by and dreamed of a long-forgotten past, this God-bothering idiot threatened her.
‘Charlotte has been a gift. Without her attention I doubt I would be standing here before you.’ Christian swayed slightly hoping his platitudes would have a calming effect on the enraged man.
‘She must be punished for her sins,’ Marcus reiterated, his voice a little calmer.
‘She will be punished for her sins,’ Christian agreed, attempting to appease Marcus.
Charlotte’s eyes snapped a warning at Christian. He gave an imperceptible shake of his head and she lowered her eyes once more, a picture of contrition and submission.
‘As Captain of this ship I shall ensure she is punished.’
‘Ah ha!’ Marcus turned his back on Charlotte, his finger waggling ominously close to Christian’s face. ‘But you are not captain of this ship. You have been supplanted. Punished for your sins. The murderer and the whore.’
Step by step Marcus edged to the doorway, then produced a large key from his pocket and flourished it in the air. ‘You are confined to your quarters until we leave port. Captain’s orders.’
With a toss of his head Marcus slammed the door. The latch slotted into place. Christian collapsed onto the bunk and rubbed his hand against the stubble on his chin. One part of him wanted to laugh. The man was an idiot and a pompous one at that. Marcus had no qualms about siding with Henk and the crew and with his assurances the constabulary would not query the disembarkation of the convicts. Henk would drum up some imaginative reason as to why the captain remained confined to his quarters and the authorities at Port Albert wouldn’t query it as long as the convicts were all present and accounted for.
Charlotte sank down next to him and dropped her head into her hands. ‘I feel as though I am trapped in the middle of an endless nightmare.’
Her words tore at him. A nightmare of his making into which she had unwittingly become entwined. He slipped his arm across her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry, Lottie. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.’
She lurched upright. ‘You called me Lottie again. What do you remember?’
‘Bits and pieces. I remember this.’ He ran his fingers across the
soft smooth skin at the nape of her neck then slipped his index finger under the chain and eased the necklace from the valley of her beasts where it nestled.
She turned to face him, her eyes on his fingers as they traced the embossed pattern on the perfume bottle then as he ran his fingertip over the gold stopper. ‘I remember this.’ He smiled down at her. ‘I know how I acquired it and when I gave it to you.’
Her lips tilted in a smile and his blood quickened. Gently he tugged on the chain and pulled her closer, pressing his lips to the pulse point on her long neck. Her responsive quiver sent tantalising sensations through his body. In one move he pulled her against him. She came willingly until their lips touched with the lightest of contact and her eyes fluttered shut.
A rush of longing more painful than the deepest of the wounds on his back winged through him as he pulled away, her look of disappointment a knife twist in his belly. Until he resolved the secrets of his past he couldn’t endanger Charlotte any more than he already had.
At last Christian slept and although still white-faced he rested peacefully. Charlotte peered through the cabin window watching the poor convicts shuffle off the ship and along the wharf dragging their chains, their faces desolate and despondent as they faced an unknown future. The emotions she knew only too well…and she had been one of the lucky ones. These men would be set to work building wharves and hacking out roads, subject to the whim of some sadistic convict overseer. Placed in the same position she would rather run and take her chances.
Henk handed over the paperwork, the authorities not appearing to question his role. As if to validate her decision two of the convicts tried to break free but, hampered by their shackles, soon fell and were on the receiving end of a bullet. Disgusted by the brutality she turned from the scene in time to see Marcus returning to the ship. His demeanour changed as quickly as an offshore breeze. Gone was the violent, frenzied man who had flung himself into the cabin and accused her of all manner of misdeeds. Instead, the Marcus she knew from Hobart Town, the man of conviction, the businessman, strutted up the gangway with the tails of his black frock coat blowing in the wind and a look of satisfaction on his face.
Once Marcus stepped aboard the Zephyrus Henk wasted no time in getting underway. The rattle of the anchor chain echoed through the ship and within moments the schooner’s bow cut through the calm waters of the bay, gathered speed and headed back into Bass Strait.
‘Since we are thrown in here together, now might be the time to tell me more about my past.’
Charlotte frowned at Christian, the underlying tension in his voice making her chest tighten. She stepped over to the bed and offered him some water. He shook his head. His tone confused her. Should she tell him all she knew or would she impede his recovery if he relived the past before he had a chance to recover his strength? ‘I’m not sure I should. Wouldn’t it be better for you to remember yourself? I feel sure you will be more comfortable with your own memories.’
‘But if our memories are shared why can’t you tell me about them?’
‘I’m not certain.’ She shrugged. ‘I feel it is not the right thing.’
‘Very well.’ His voice carried a hint of despair.
Unable to control her body’s impulse she swayed towards him. His lips tilted upward into the heartbreaking impish smile of the boy she’d known and a twinkle of mischief danced in his fathomless eyes. All thoughts of the future flew from her mind.
‘I feel our connection too, Charlotte, but until I understand the secrets of the past we must curb this attraction.’
Embarrassed by her body’s reaction Charlotte sat up straighter, pulled the chain over her head and offered it to Christian. He took it, wrapping it around his strong fingers.
‘So we know the story of the bottle.’ He brought it to his nose and inhaled. ‘It carries your scent. I think I recognised it the moment you came aboard. I didn’t know then what made you appear so familiar.’
Charlotte’s heart clenched as she recalled the way he had appeared behind her as she stood at the deck rail when they sailed down the Derwent, almost like a guardian.
‘And what of this?’ Christian ran the pad of his thumb over the small gold coin.
‘Do you know what it is?’ She wanted to test him, wanted proof, tangible evidence her greatest wish had come true.
‘It’s a coin, a very old, gold coin.’ His shoulder grazed hers as he shrugged and turned the coin over in his hand. ‘It has a date but it is hard to read.’
‘Close your eyes, Christian, and try to remember. You know the date.’
He did as she bid, a look of total disbelief on his face, and then his nutmeg eyes flashed opened and he winked. ‘I can’t remember the date.’
She sighed long and deep. Nothing was as simple as she hoped. Maybe it would be better to sit him down and tell him the entire story of their shared past. Somehow it seemed irresponsible, as though she were tampering with his mind.
‘But I do remember you.’ Christian turned her face to him, his palm warm and rough against her cheek. ‘My angel,’ he whispered, dropping a feather-light kiss on her lips. ‘We found the Angel coin on the banks of the Thames. I hung it around your neck as our talisman, a touch piece.’ He closed his eyes as he rubbed the coin between his thumb and his forefinger. ‘On one side there is the Archangel Gabriel slaying the dragon and on the other a ship, a rose and the rising sun.’
Charlotte’s heart turned to molten gold. Could he truly remember or was he simply reading the worn pattern with his fingers?
‘Legend says anyone who owns an Angel is promised love, money, and happiness.’
Charlotte’s swallow echoed in her ears and her thudding heart threatened to leap right out of her chest.
‘And the date on it is 1642.’
‘You do remember!’
‘Secret’s only a secret ‘tween two.’ The timbre of his voice changed, a hint of the old Jamie, the London Jamie, a cockney accent creeping over the flat vowels he’d adopted. ‘Remember, Lottie, share it and it’s common knowledge.’
He tested the weight of the coin in his palm then brought it to his lips and bit down on it. ‘It’s an Angel.’ He gazed deep into her eyes as if seeking confirmation. ‘I remember you, my angel. You have always been with me even when I didn’t recall the past. You visited me in my dreams. Your face is the only thing I saw in the darkness when I fell overboard all those years ago and your image kept me alive as I scraped and scrambled under the hull of the Zephyrus.’
Charlotte’s breath caught as she looked into his face. Not Jamie, not the boy she had known, but the man he was now. A man who made her heart sing and her body tremble with desire. The musky masculinity of him teased her senses and when he trailed a finger down her cheek every coherent thought fled from her mind.
‘I would willingly toss aside all these memories for one moment with you.’ He laced his fingers through her hair and cupped her head, bringing her close. A whisper of warmth from his breath caressed her making her skin tingle as she leant in to meet him.
She swayed closer, raising her hands to his bare chest, unfurling a flurry of awareness as skin touched skin. His tongue traced the contours of her mouth and with a shuddering groan his hard hot lips took her mouth.
Just a moment’s madness she would never regret. This was all she craved. Holding back nothing, she drank him in, all her longing and loneliness healed by his touch. Igniting a blaze that curled and flamed within the deepest recesses of her body, licking up through her stomach, heating her skin and sending her heart pounding. He kissed her as if he might consume her. The plunge of his tongue as he explored her mouth made her insides clench and her limbs tremble.
Sliding from the stool she knelt on the floor beside the bunk.
He lifted her palms and placed them on the taut, golden-skinned muscles of his chest. ‘Touch me. Touch me as you did before.’
Her cheeks heated to an uncomfortable burn. ‘As before?’
‘When you washed me.’
‘You were awake?’
‘Aware of your touch, loving your gentle hands as they roamed my body.’
A flush of shameful heat scored her body. He’d known. Known what she had done. Known what she had seen. He truly knew her deepest secrets. He had always known. Their minds intertwined and melded like two sides of a coin. The Angel coin. All she asked for, all she craved.
With infinite care she lowered herself next to him on the bunk, stretching until their torsos touched and she moulded her body to his length, glorying in the contoured strength of him. A delicious languor spread through her bones as her gaze travelled the length of him, her fingers trailing in its wake, thrilling at his response. The smooth, taut skin of his belly rippled at her touch and she pushed aside the thin cover over his hips, in awe of her power.
‘Charlotte,’ he murmured, ‘come closer.’
His soft eyes melted her very bones as his hands reached out and bared her shoulders, then his fingers played across her skin sinking lower into the soft valley between her breasts. ‘You’ve kept me close to your heart.’ Tight and heavy her breasts strained to his touch, his lips hovering a mere breath away from her nipple. A spasm of thrills coursed down her body making her shudder in places she rarely cared for — the pit of her belly, between her legs and her nipples, an exquisite sensitivity.
Her body became a quivering mass of need, yearning for his touch, and by the time his lips settled on her nipple, sucking, teasing, his tongue flicking backwards and forwards she almost screamed aloud. A soft whimpering sound erupted from her throat and he lifted his head replacing his lips with his warm hand, stroking and squeezing, rolling his thumb over its aching peak. She latched her fingers through his thick hair and pulled his head closer.
‘Charlotte, you are the most important thing in the world to me,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘I want you to be happy above all else but you belong to Marcus.’
