When he returned his top hat to his head, she bit back a reprimand about his scruffy appearance. Why, he’d allowed his face to become sunburned, and he hadn’t even shaved! Truly, she’d never seen him more unkempt nor so happy.
Curious, indeed!
“Do you know what else we saw?” he went on enthusiastically.
“What?” Did he finally plan to include her in his secretive affairs?
“Rief took me to see a salt farm. There are these large ponds of shallow water with crusty white salt all around the edges. Some of the men raking the salt were even singing as they worked.”
“Interesting.”
Nearly bouncing out of his skin, he continued to chatter away. “While I was watching, I realized how lucrative a salt farm could be. Rief said a proper farm can produce a full crop every thirty days or so. He also said the setup for such an operation and the workers can be had quite cheaply. With an ocean in your backyard, it’s virtually a never-ending resource. Rief told me that suitable land for salt ponds abounds here in Key West, and I’m thinking it would be a wise investment for some of my money. Once the Lucky Clipper is repaired, I’ll even have a means to transport it. Rief offered to set me up with the right men to begin such a venture.”
“How kind that your new friend has offered to help you,” she said with a frown. What did Matty know of salt other than to put it on his eggs?
“Indeed,” he agreed, apparently not hearing her sarcasm. He gave her another smile, less exuberant but carrying a hint of something she couldn’t quite identify. “Yes. He has become a very important friend... very quickly.”
Maggie was unsure of how to respond to his unquestioning acceptance of everything this stranger told him. Had he forgotten they were on opposite sides of a pending court case? Yes, the man had saved his life, but why should that suddenly make him a pool of great knowledge, let alone a “very important friend?” And what about those unsettling rumors? Surely Matty had not dismissed all of that as well?
He clapped his hands together, making her jump. “Listen to me going on when I have yet to inquire about you. How was your day, dearest?”
“Not as interesting as yours, it would seem.” Nor as interesting as his unseemly use of this wrecker’s Christian name. Granted, Matty used her given name all the time, but they were the dearest of friends.
“I’m sorry I’ve been neglectful of you, Mags,” he said with quiet sincerity. “Tomorrow I will rent a carriage, and you and I will go down and see the salt farms. Perhaps we can even sneak away before Ms. Cohen notices. It will be just the two of us. Would you like that?”
She raised her brows in surprise. “That would be lovely.”
His face softened. “Have I told you recently that I love you?”
“I-I don’t know,” she managed, startled once more by his continued shift in conversations.
Without warning, he swept her into a fierce embrace that stole her breath. She cringed, trying to mask her displeasure at his damp coat and the unpleasant aroma of fish and sweat. Squeezing her tight, he whispered in her ear, “I do love you. Please never forget that. We will sort out all of this marriage nonsense together. Don’t worry. Your happiness is foremost in my thoughts.”
Then he released her and issued another kiss to her forehead, which felt more fatherly than expected after such a passionate declaration. Flustered, she smoothed a wayward curl out of her eye and brushed at her skirt, hoping he hadn’t transferred his fishy smell to the fabric. “I do not know what has gotten into you, but it is nice to see you so happy.”
He grinned and patted her on the shoulder. “I am happy, dearest.”
Shaking her head, she gaped at him, but he was already headed to the door. How did such a tender endearment roll off his tongue without a stitch of ardor? He sounded no more affectionate than when he called her “Mags” or “old gal.” She could almost hear him speaking to a college chum in the same manner.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I feel as grimy and salty as those men working in the salt ponds. I must take a bath or I’ll scare everyone away.”
Once alone, Maggie hugged herself tight, unsure why his behavior left her so unsettled. She had not heard him laugh with such delight in years, but she deeply regretted she had not been the one to bring him that joy. Of course, she hadn’t completely ruled out whether or not he was in the cups. Once, during a summer picnic, he’d partaken of more wine than he should’ve, turning into the veritable life of the party. Pansy had said she’d never seen him so flamboyant, but Maggie had later caught him emptying his stomach in the bushes.
Oh pishposh, she scolded herself.
Matty had always been happy-go-lucky, and it had just been a while since she’d witnessed it. If this island had rekindled his exuberance for life, she should not question it. Rather, she should be grateful part of the boy she loved still lived within the body of the man.
Chapter Fourteen
“But if ye will not do so, behold. Ye have sinned against the Lord and be sure your sin will find you out.”
—Numbers 32:23; Holy Bible, King James Version
Cole left the pub, all interest in feigning laughter over pints with Dennis lost. While good drink with friends usually cleared his head, today it only made things fuzzier. He’d been excited to prove himself as wreck master and improve their salvage operation’s respectability throughout the Keys. The money Cole was supposed to make even had him entertaining the possibility of finding a wife and starting a family.
His success had been tarnished, however, and all happiness eclipsed, the moment he returned to the island. A by-the-book salvage was being questioned, and now he faced a battle they might not win. Those damn Englishmen had sold their case to Bunden, and that chubby bastard had Judge Marvin’s ear. There was no guarantee truth would prevail.
Yet neither of his business partners seemed to care about the future of Lawson Salvage.
His uncle was too busy worrying about political affairs and some old pirate’s journal. Nonsense and tall tales, that’s what Cole had read on those pages! As if gypsy magic ran through his brother’s veins. His uncle was a fool!
And so was Rief.
His brother had been behaving stranger than usual, going on patrol with Cole and then painting God-only-knew what. Worse still, he’d been fraternizing with their enemy. Regardless of what Uncle Richard wanted to believe, there was no supernatural explanation for that sort of behavior.
Rief was selfish, plain and simple.
Cole tried to be a good brother, but the damn boy had never wanted any part of it. He chose his demented artwork over his family, time after time, not caring if he hurt anyone with the wicked things he created. He had a darkness in him that neither Cole nor Dad had ever been able to curb.
Unbidden, that horrible painting of Mother assaulted his mind.
It had been terrifying how a mere thirteen-year-old could paint something so detailed, so perfect in its morbidity. Rief had never been given art lessons, yet he could draw or paint anything.
When he’d shown them the painting the day her body was recovered, all hell had broken loose in their house. Dad had tried to destroy it, but Uncle Richard stopped him, the two men getting into a terrible fight. Too stunned by Rief’s hatefulness, Cole had just sat there, watching them fight and listening to Rief cry. He could still hear it, see it all as if it were a dream he’d just awakened from. Dad cursing at Richard, saying he wouldn’t let this happen in his house anymore. Richard demanding reason and shouting things about Mother’s visions.
The breath was torn from Cole’s lungs as if he’d been punched in the gut.
Richard had mentioned visions, even back then.
Suddenly another memory from that night hit him, startling him with its clarity.
Rief turned his terrified, tear-stained face toward Cole. In a wavering voice, barely above a whisper, he said, “Cole, I’m sorry I didn’t stop her, but I didn’t understand what I saw. It’s all my fault, but I ju
st didn’t understand!”
How could Cole have forgotten that?
In his childish mind, Rief had blamed himself for Mother’s suicide. Why did he think he could’ve prevented it? They all knew she was sick and nothing and no one could’ve stopped her. Though he’d never understood why Rief painted it, he’d always dismissed it as more evidence of Rief’s twisted ways. Yet now that he allowed the memory reign, Rief had shown them the painting the day her body was recovered. How could he have made an entire oil painting so fast? Cole was no artist, but he did remember his brother telling him once that oil painting was a slow process because each layer of paint needed time to dry.
That meant Rief had painted it before she died. Had he actually had a vision of Mother ending her life? Could what his uncle said be true?
He clenched and unclenched his fists, steadying his heartbeat.
No. He wouldn’t, couldn’t believe that.
All that gypsy talk was nonsense.
Cole shook his head, sick to death of questions that had no answers. He might not be able to make sense of the past, but this court case was something he could wrap his head around. And right now it was more important to stop his brother from sullying their case by befriending the enemy than worrying if any of that rubbish in the journal might be true.
What the hell was his brother thinking, chumming around like old pals with Lord Pembroke’s son? What was his name again?
Oh yeah, Mathew Weston.
Cole had been stunned when he saw them standing on the pier, soaking wet and laughing like a couple of ridiculous schoolboys. And the nerve of that entitled bastard, dismissing Cole and Dennis as if they were his servants. He wished he’d been given a chance to pop the little duded-up dandy right in the jaw.
Everything about that Weston fellow left Cole with a bad feeling, which if he were being honest, started the night Rief had saved his life.
One moment his brother was rowing with the crew, the next he’d dove into the water, shocking everyone in the quarter boat. For a flash, Cole had panicked, thinking Rief might be trying to kill himself, until he saw Rief swimming toward them, a survivor in his arms. Then the strangest thing happened after they revived Weston. Rief had sat on the floor of the boat, holding him in his arms and looking as if he’d seen a ghost. With so much else to worry about at the time, Cole had dismissed it as just another one of Rief’s peculiarities. Now that the two men were socializing, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something more was afoot.
Well, whatever it was, Cole intended to put a stop to it.
Pounding down the street, he headed for their warehouse where Rief lived. If he ruins this case for me.... He bunched his fists again, blood pumping with righteous indignation. He didn’t know what he would do, but it wouldn’t be pretty.
He climbed the steps to his brother’s door and knocked. “Rief! Open up, it’s me. We need to have a talk.”
No answer came from within.
Could he still be with Weston? It was nearly the dinner hour. What could they possibly be doing?
He beat harder on the door, and it came ajar.
“Rief?” Pushing it open, he popped his head inside. An oil lamp burned low on the kitchen table, casting golden shadows through the dim interior. “You here?”
When he received no answer, he irritably stepped inside. Having not been in the loft since Rief moved in, Cole felt like an intruder, but he needed to extinguish the lamp. Did the careless fool want to burn down the whole warehouse?
A violent hiss startled Cole, and he jumped back in shock. “Shit!”
Heart in his throat, he saw the black cat he’d disturbed, back arched and claws out. With another hiss, it jumped from the counter, leaving behind a bowl of uneaten food.
“Stupid animal,” he grumbled.
Once his heart rate calmed, Cole took in the colossal mess his brother called home. A stale musk of sweat permeated the air, mingled with the pungent scent of paint and other chemicals. He waved a hand under his nose.
When was the last time he’d aired out the place?
Obviously Rief never intended to heed Dad’s deathbed request to stop painting, for he had amassed quite a collection. Every surface was covered in rolled canvases and sketchbooks, while stacks of paintings leaned against the walls. Cole had never seen so many in one place. Drawings on sheets of wasted paper lay heaped in the middle of the floor, as if he’d carelessly emptied drawers into a pile.
At one time, Cole had admired his brother’s talent, but he’d also been jealous. Jealous that his skills made Mother dote on him. Love him more. Refusing to become melancholy, he pushed aside those memories, needing his attention on the here and now, not on a past he could not change.
Wanting to leave posthaste, he gave the room one last disapproving glance. The sight of an easel by the large windows halted him from extinguishing the lamp.
What could Rief be painting now?
Undeniable curiosity overcame him. Holding his breath, he crept forward, glancing over his shoulder guiltily. There was no one there, save for the cantankerous cat lurking in the shadows, tail swishing and eyes glowing in the lamplight like the spawn of Satan.
Much to his disappointment, the canvas was nothing more than a wash of brown, unfinished lines and shapes Cole couldn’t decipher.
What had he expected to see anyway? Something to prove Uncle Richard’s story true?
He glanced at the charcoal sketches sitting among the brushes and paints, wondering if Rief was painting something off one of them. But they were just drawings of feet and hands. He pushed a few aside with his finger and almost dismissed them as well.
Until one of the images registered.
He blinked a few times, unsure if he was seeing things correctly. Was that... Weston?
Shocked, he snatched up the whole stack and shifted through them. Had the man actually sat for Rief?
His blood ran cold, and he froze when a naked image passed through his hands.
“Agh!” He dropped the papers like a snake in his hand.
He gaped at the sketches littering the floor, a detailed image of a man’s genitals staring up at him. “What...?”
A sudden panic, a need to flee, consumed him. He never should’ve snooped through his brother’s things. He didn’t understand what he was looking at and—no! He didn’t want to see any more! He knelt to pick up the sketches, put them back where he’d found them. Hopefully Rief would not be the wiser.
That’s when he saw it.
A finished painting of Weston leaning innocently against the wall.
Cole’s eyes shifted below the water’s surface, and he gasped in horror. “Dear God!”
His brother had painted the man naked and fully erect!
Recoiling, Cole dropped the pages again. He stumbled backward, bumping into the easel and nearly unsettling it. The nude image of Weston seemed to stare right at him, crooking his finger with illicit invitation. His legs wavered, like a sailor stepping on land after months at sea, as a strange shimmer of arousal and disgust went through him.
How could Rief paint something so... so immoral?
His cheeks heated, and he felt dirty and embarrassed, as if he’d walked in on someone in the throes of intimacy.
Could Rief have a sexual fixation with another man?
“No, no!” He shook his head, trying to make sense of what his eyes could not deny.
Then, like links of a chain fitting together, everything he’d seen fell into place.
The way Rief had held Weston in the quarter boat....
Carried him aboard the Mirabella like a damsel in distress....
Then today....
More than standing on the docks laughing, they had been gazing into each other’s eyes and holding hands.
Cole had dismissed that detail as trivial at the time, but now, in light of this painting, he could not deny the possibility there was more than a friendship between the two men. Every sailor knew of men who did sexual things together at sea.
And Rief was strange, a loner even. Were he and that Englishman actually...?
His stomach churned at the thought of his brother being intimate with a man, touching and kissing. Doing unnatural, grotesque things together. It didn’t surprise him the fancy-dressed Weston might be a pillow-biter, but his own brother? He closed his eyes, willing it all to go away.
But why else would Rief have painted him this way, naked and aroused?
Frustration burned throughout his body, and he began to pace. He wanted to escape, but he couldn’t ignore the depraved painting. He scratched the back of his head, trying to decide what he should do.
How long had Rief had such unnatural proclivities?
And why had the fool painted them? Rief hadn’t even bothered to lock his door! Anyone could just come inside and see it!
How badly would the family’s reputation suffer if this latest abomination were exposed?
No, Cole could never allow that to happen.
Uncle Richard may have prevented Dad from destroying the painting of Mother, but Cole wouldn’t make the same mistake.
Taking a deep nasal breath, confident in his rightness, he knew he had to end this blight on their family once and for all.
Nothing made a man feel better than a good bath and fresh, clean clothing. Well, as Rief had so eloquently phrased it, getting his sugar stick sucked could do that too.
Amused, Mathew descended the stairs with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips. He intended to speak with Maggie before dinner and hoped to find her reading in the main parlor. After giving a lot of thought to their predicament, he had a feeling she would be most agreeable to his proposal.
When Mathew entered the parlor, however, his good mood diminished immediately.
Father stood by the window, swirling a glass of brandy. He turned at Mathew’s arrival, a slow smile creeping across his face.
Wrecked Page 24
