by Cate Masters
The soft yellow glow of the lamp across her face captured his full attention. An image appeared in his mind of her loosening the ribbon in her hair, shaking it free. Of his fingers loosening the buttons of her dress… No, Miss Collins would never allow such intimacies so quickly. Breaking this filly would require finesse, a gentle touch. Sam would have to rein himself in, take his time with this girl. How many weeks did he have before she sailed away again?
She sat in the chair by the window. “Would you care for something to drink?”
He glanced away to clear his mind. “No thank you. I dined with Liam-Mr. Byrne. You may not remember him.” He flashed a smile. He was talking too fast, saying nothing.
“Yes, of course. From The Florida.”
“Yes.” She remembered. Usually, shipwreck victims were insulated in shock, numb to their surroundings, wanting only to return safely to shore.
Twining her fingers in her lap, she appeared stiff as the portrait on the wall. “Is Mr. Byrne well?”
Sam shifted in his seat. “Very. Thank you.” If only he’d had whiskey instead of ale. Something stronger might have loosened his tongue. He’d imagined this moment so often today, being here now seemed more like a dream. A dream rapidly deteriorating into a nightmare.
She dabbed her handkerchief to her brow. “I don’t know if I could ever get used to this heat.”
“It’s cooler outside now the sun’s setting.” Outdoors, perhaps he wouldn’t feel others lurked out of sight, listening. Florie’s gossip spread faster than a heat wave.
Straightening her back, she appeared less comfortable than he. “I’m afraid Mrs. Locke isn’t up to company.”
“Who?” He’d watched her lips move, let the words flow past him. Her lips looked like pale rosebuds soft with dew, certainly sweet with nectar.
Her mouth twitched, yet no smile appeared. “Martha Locke. You inquired about her this morning?” She met his gaze in mock challenge.
“Mrs. Locke, yes. I’m sorry to hear it.” He tried to make his face a mask of sympathy and concern, rather than elation.
“I’ll tell her so.” Suppressed laughter edged her voice. More serious, she turned, haltingly adding, “I was remiss in not thanking you earlier.”
“For what?”
Her expression blanked. “For saving my life.”
“It’s my job.” A pleasure best described as work, for her sake. Lucky for him, no other wrecker had found her first.
Her eyes narrowed for a moment. Gradually her features smoothed. “In any case. I am grateful.” Rigidness returned to her spine.
He’d upset her. He struggled to discern a reasonable explanation. None came to mind.
Their conversation had run aground. She cast glances about the room. It would only be a matter of minutes before she made some excuse, and he would have to take his leave.
Barking erupted on the porch. She rose and went to the window. “Did you bring Barnaby?”
“Yes, sorry. I’m afraid he’s insisting I keep my promise to play fetch on the beach. Would you care to join us?”
She glanced at him. “To play fetch?”
A silly question, possibly insulting. Most females would rather sew, or sip their tea while complaining of the weather.
“Unless you object to throwing a stick for a dog. He needs his exercise while he’s ashore.”
“I wouldn’t want to deprive Barnaby of his play.”
“So you’ll come?” Surprise heightened the intense pleasure washing over him.
After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped to the hallway. “I’ll tell Mrs. Crowell I’ll be gone a short while.”
A short while. Unless he could take her mind off the passing time.
* * * *
The setting sun sent glimmering rays atop the sea, its waters rolling across the sand, and then falling back. The sand sighed at each wave’s crawling retreat, like a lover exhilarated by its touch. Gulls drifted over their heads like marionettes, worked invisibly by angels. Their cries, mingled with the rush of the waves, instigated an unfamiliar yearning within Livvie. Her heart swelling in her bosom, she had the urge to run, arms flung wide open.
Chasing birds from the sea line, Barnaby barked. She would give anything to join in the chase.
Sam hastened across the sand toward the south.
Livvie couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you in a hurry, Mr. Langhorne?”
“No more than you were this morning, Miss Collins.” He cast a teasing look back. “Actually, there’s something I want to show you.”
She glanced toward the retreating boarding house. Perhaps she’d acted too hastily in accepting his invitation. If his intents turned lecherous, no one would hear her cries for help so far away. No one had questioned her leaving without a chaperone–another heady freedom–yet, who here cared for her welfare?
Halting, his mouth opened, curling in a half smile. “No need to worry. I believe you will enjoy this.”
The playfulness and challenge in his voice made her hike her skirt, scurrying to catch up. No chaperone also meant more freedom to be herself. In Sam’s presence, she never felt the need to be otherwise.
“I’m sure you say that to many a female, Mr. Langhorne.” Lifting her chin, she strode past. “Well, come along then.”
He jogged to her side. “Only a little further. Have your apology at the ready.” Squinting, he looked out to sea. “Ah...there.”
When she followed the direction of his pointing finger, he stood closer than necessary to ensure she missed nothing. Was this part of his job, too, she wondered–entertaining those he’d rescued?
Clouds gathered offshore, a rising fog bank. Thickening, the clouds caught the sun’s rays while it sank below the horizon, gilding its edges a glowing silver-grey.
Her breath caught in her chest at its eerie loveliness. “What is it?”
The sunset alighted upon his tanned face. “The Gulf Stream’s way of saying good night.”
She tilted her head toward his, letting the magic of the moment wash over her. Part of it was his nearness, the warmth of him as strong as the sun. “Rather a romantic notion, Mr. Langhorne. I’m surprised at you.”
His dark eyes caught the spark of the last light of day. “Not at all, Miss Collins. It’s purely scientific. While mists are rare in this area, the Gulf Stream’s current contains warm waters. The fog forms due to the temperature difference after the sun departs. It is, however, one of my favorite times of day.”
“Very interesting. And beautiful.” She inhaled deeply, taking in the salted air. “The sea is so fickle. Making kindling of a magnificent ship one day, now as beautiful and alluring as could be.”
“She’s a harsh mistress sometimes.”
“Mistress?” His echo of Captain Pierce’s notion that sailors were wed to the sea confounded her. Were all sailors daft?
“She’s our first duty. And great love. She tempts us like a siren; we cannot resist her call.”
“The sea speaks to you?” She failed to hold back her sarcasm.
His soft tone held no defensiveness. “In many ways, yes. Speaks to me, sings to me, sends out signals. It’s a hard schooling to learn her signs, yet worth every lesson.” He whistled for Barnaby, far down the beach. The dog bounded back, mouth wide as if in laughter.
She bent to scratch his ears. “Barnaby seems to share your love of the ocean. Does he not grow restless on board ship?”
“He loves sea and shore alike. Wherever we go, he goes.” His pocket yielded the stick he’d taken from the Crowell’s yard. He tossed it hard, and it sailed through the air, Barnaby chasing it.
She strolled along. “A loyal mascot. However, can your lives be fulfilled by a dog and an elusive mistress?”
Sam laughed. “No, not always. We need the company of a female as well.”
Livvie grunted in acknowledgement, wondering the depths of the company to which he referred. A walk on the beach was fine, but Mr. Langhorne would get no more from her.
“
Females appear to be a bit scarce on the island. How do men meet companions?”
“A few brought wives when they moved here–the judge, some of the attorneys. Their daughters have many suitors, and often marry young. Some wreckers meet women in Havana and then bring them to live here. Others are from passing ships.”
“From ships? You mean, wrecked ships?”
He ducked his head shyly. “Yes.”
She gulped back indignation. “Truly? Women who are shipwrecked marry their rescuers?”
He furrowed his brows. “Many do, yes. In fact, several years ago, about twenty women aboard a vessel all married wreckers, including a German woman along with her six daughters. The ship became known as the ‘ship of brides’.”
“How do you know?” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“Know what?”
“Of the newspaper account?”
“I read it, of course.” Though he smiled, his brows twitched together.
“Oh.” She turned her head to hide her embarrassment. She’d assumed he was illiterate because he made his living by his brawn rather than his mind. To cover her gaffe, she hastily added, “That’s terrible.”
“Why is it terrible? They’d lost all their possessions, had nowhere to go. The men provided good homes for their wives.”
“They could hardly have had time to acquaint themselves properly.”
“Rescuing a girl provides for a rather intimate acquaintance, wouldn’t you say?” His low voice meant to tease her, she suspected. He looked at her with expectancy, perhaps suggesting they had been intimate beneath the sea.
Straightening to her full height, she walked on. “Under forced circumstances. And only the briefest of intimacy.” One not likely to be repeated. Not in her case. “What about you, Mr. Langhorne? Are you looking for a bride on one of the unfortunate ships?” She suspected not. Handsome men such as him always seemed inclined to want a wide array of women, rather than just one. They used women up, and then tossed them away like rags. By the time they moved on, the women looked like old rags, worn from overuse–and useless to any other man. Livvie intended to make her own way in the world.
“Not I. Several have tried to reel me into marriage.” He gave an arrogant laugh. “I have no interest in settling down.”
A haughty chuckle escaped her. “A woman would have to be a fool to marry someone who worked such a dangerous job, never knowing whether he’d be home at night. Whether he was out in the company of other women. A woman is a fool to marry at all.” The last she said more to herself than to him. The bonds of marriage equaled those of slavery.
The wreckers’ homes in Conchtown appeared to be shanties, jammed up against one another lining the street, the sound of drunken, raucous laughter providing an evening’s company. She could not imagine herself living there.
Removing the stick Barnaby held in his teeth, he pitched it ahead, sending the dog running. “I suppose you’re telling me you’re not interested in marriage either?”
Had she stayed in New York and married Mr. Foster, she would have had servants, yes, although her wifely duties would extend beyond overseeing the staff to entertaining at endless dinner parties. Even those mindless affairs would have been preferable to what followed in the bedroom. The thought of his yellowish, picket-like teeth above beady eyes leering at her, and those clammy hands on her skin, made her shudder in revulsion.
“Certainly not.” If Wendell didn’t pressure her too quickly, her brother’s home would provide a safe haven in which to stay while she searched for some means of employment. At least until her greatest love, writing, could bring in enough for her to support herself. If other women could make a living penning novels, she would be able to rely on her talent. Until she gained a following, she could take in sewing, or find some other means.
His shoulder bumped hers. “We should spend more time together, then.”
“Why?”
His touch had an unnerving way of agitating her, setting her nerves at attention. Most unsettling was she didn’t know whether she wanted to slap him, or slide her hand across the contour of his chest.
“I like a girl who’s independent. Who knows what she wants.” His gaze lingered on her lips.
For a moment, the warmth of his breath mesmerized her, washing across her face. So invitingly tender, she had an urge to feel the same warmth across all of her, and imagined herself opening to him, wrapping around him. His lips parted, and he drew closer.
Like the whale before it swallowed Jonah. She would be lost if she allowed herself to be so enraptured.
“And what she doesn’t want.” She slipped away before his mouth could touch hers. “Good night, Mr. Langhorne.”
His lips might entice her, but she knew better than to believe he wouldn’t hesitate to entice the next woman he saved from a watery grave.
Oh, no, not for Mr. Langhorne. Even if he were to offer marriage–a proposal she would not encourage–his kiss would be too brief.
According to Mrs. Crowell, wreckers took too much pleasure in drinking and brawling while not at sea, seeking rough recreation as reward for their hard work.
Still, his dark eyes drew her in and invited exploration. As did the rest of him. He awakened unfamiliar feelings, an unfurling of something she’d closed off for too long. Now, she yearned to know.
She glanced back.
Hands on his hips, he stood on the beach and watched her. The sun lowered to the sea behind him, alighting it in liquid flame. His figure stood out in dark relief against it.
Something similar lit within her, too, when he looked at her. For a moment, the strength of his allure made her forget herself, and she paused.
He dropped his arms, poised to run to her.
The realization both thrilled and alarmed her, for the same reason. She turned and ran all the way to the Crowell’s, the sand slowing her footfalls until she reached the street. She’d forgotten how much she loved to run in her younger years.
Florie stepped out of the summer kitchen and down the path. “Goodness, Miss Olivia. Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you, Florie. Simply getting a little exercise.” Her breathlessness exhilarated her.
Florie’s wide-eyed gaze skimmed across her. “You ran like the devil himself chased you.”
She wasn’t far off the mark. Mr. Langhorne presented a definite temptation toward sin. “No, I was out for a walk, and—”
“Where’s your gentleman friend?”
“He had to go.”
Her eager tone hinted at a thirst for gossip. “Was there a shipwreck?”
“No, nothing like that.” The subject became too labored. “Is there any lemonade?”
“I brought a pitcher inside a little while ago. Should be some left. I’ll go see.”
“No, thank you. I don’t want to hold you up.”
“I have to say goodnight to Mrs. Crowell anyway, Miss Olivia. Let me fetch you a glass. You look in sore need of refreshment.” Groaning, Florie stepped onto the back porch. “My lumbago’s acting up today.”
“You should go home and rest.”
Florie waved her off. “Rest? I got my laundry to do. And cooking for Mr. O’Hanlan yet. Sometimes I wish he was still a wrecker, so I could have some time to myself.”
Livvie followed her inside. “I thought he stopped being a wrecker because you asked him to?”
“Sure enough. I wanted to know he’d be alive at the end of the day.”
“How lovely.” Reassuring to find one couple, at least, still living happily together.
“Yes, I shouldn’t complain. He works very hard.” She poured lemonade into a glass and held it out.
Livvie sipped. “You both do. I admire you for keeping your independence.”
She chuckled. “My independence? Child, I work to keep us out of debt.” In a hoarse whisper, she added, “If Mr. O’Hanlan were still a wrecker, I would live as leisurely a life as Mrs. Crowell.” She resumed her normal tone. “Now he’s too
old for such work. I want to keep my husband healthy.”
Florie waddled down the hallway to the parlor.
Livvie drank while the housekeeper said good night to Mrs. Crowell, who grilled her about what she’d completed during the day. Florie answered each question showing the same good nature as always.
Walking back to the kitchen–Florie never used the front door, at Mrs. Crowell’s request–she smiled. “Good night, Miss Olivia.”
“Have a lovely evening.”
Her lilting tone sailed through the air. “I will.”
How could she say that, when more work awaited? Livvie would feel more useful if she could contribute, certainly, although such long hours of mindless cooking and cleaning would exhaust her. Florie met each task with a smile and a song.
And her husband had given up his livelihood for her. Instead of diminishing their love, their sacrifices appeared to enrich it.
Livvie trudged upstairs, imagining what it might be like to keep a house for a man. For instance, Sam Langhorne. A brute, for sure, yet his intelligence surprised her, at least matching her own. His unique way of thinking intrigued her. What would it be like to awaken each day beside him? To cook for him, clean for him? Would he repay her in kindness? The most respected men of society sometimes proved themselves anything but civilized when it came to their husbandly duties. Many deemed marrying for love as foolish, yet how much more foolish to marry for money and be treated as another possession?
Or worse, cast aside like a useless object.
In New York, rumors had spread about her father’s sister, Marjorie. She’d married Judge Walsh, who apparently judged his wife inferior to himself—and lashed out at her using his tongue and the back of his hand. Powerless to help, Livvie and her father despaired each year as Aunt Marjorie withered away more. Livvie had thought she would disappear entirely, perhaps by design, or necessity. Judge Walsh took care of that for her. One day, a black carriage pulled away from their home, a woman shrieking inside. Her aunt was never seen again–except by the caretakers at the lunatic asylum. Judge Walsh remarried a year later, and the new Mrs. Walsh, younger by fifteen years, was with child when Livvie left home. She hoped the asylum would not hold a succession of the judge’s discarded wives.
