by Jane Goodger
He lifted her up and gave her a bruising kiss. “You are so wrong, Sara. I…” His throat closed around the words his heart screamed for him to say. His touch gentled and he brought one hand up to the top of her head to slide the kerchief from her hair, his eyes telling her what he could not utter aloud. “I will be here for four days. Until you sail. They may be the only four days we’ll ever have together.”
“What are you saying?” she whispered.
“I need you Sara.” And he kissed her again, this time so gently, a small whimper escaped Sara’s throat.
Her eyes widened. “But your promise.”
“I will keep my promise to your brother. That isn’t what I meant.” Oh, hell, what did he mean? He wanted to be with her, to sleep with her, to hold her and love her and pretend they had forever. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him, letting out a low sound. “I just need you, Sara.”
Sara wrapped her arms around him, pressed her cheek against his chest, breathed in the sea and wind scent of him. “All right.”
The next three days were like a dream. West acted for all the world like a doting husband in front of the Tillinghasts. Sara couldn’t have been happier. She could almost pretend they were husband and wife in truth, that he loved her as much as she loved him. But at night, when they were alone, it was pure torture—and pleasure. He would not consummate their love, and Sara did not push him to even though she yearned for him in a way she didn’t fully understand.
“I could leave you with child,” he said on the second night they lay together, hands clasped. “There is nothing on this earth I want to do more than make love to you, but I cannot take that chance. Not when you are about to embark on such a journey. Not when I might not come home to New Bedford for years. I wouldn’t even know.” He swallowed and kissed her. “How could I do that to you?”
Sara nodded, understanding completely, even if her body yearned for him.
“Turn around,” he’d said, and wrapped his arm around her, drawing her close against him, close enough so she could feel his arousal pressing against her buttocks. She squirmed and smiled and he drew in his breath. “Vixen,” he said, followed by a rumble of laughter. “You are making this business of being a saint rather difficult.”
“Sorry,” she said, smiling secretly.
He sighed and pulled her close. “Tomorrow night I have a surprise for you.”
“I adore surprises.”
She did—until she found out what it was. He led her to a pool, deep in the jungle, a pristine place where a waterfall tumbled over rocks, glittering beneath a full and uncommonly bright moon. It was lovely and she hugged him when she saw it. “It’s a wonderful surprise,” she said.
“This is not the surprise, though I’m glad you like it. The surprise is we’re going to swim.”
“Swim? I don’t know how to swim.”
West looked at her aghast.
“When would I have had the opportunity to learn how to swim?” she demanded.
“True enough. But it’s not deep everywhere, only directly under the falls.”
Sara frowned. “What if there are crocodiles.”
“There aren’t.”
“Piranha?”
“None.”
She scowled. “I don’t want to get my clothes wet.”
“Then take them off.”
She’d known that was coming and her scowl deepened.
With a look of innocence that amazed her, West said, “I won’t look.”
She actually snorted.
“Come, Sara,” he said, suddenly gentle and seductive at once. “You leave tomorrow.”
“Unfair,” she muttered as he place his warm mouth against hers.
Suddenly, he turned away, pulled off his boots, pants, and underclothes, and splashed into the pool like a little boy. Sara’s eyes were transfixed by his muscled buttocks and she bit her lip in indecision. It would be wicked to swim naked with a man. It would be tempting them beyond what Sara knew they could endure. When they lay together in bed, they were fully clothed, knowing how dangerous it would be. Why was he doing this?
He dove into the water, coming up with a hoot and blowing water from his mouth.
“Come in, Sara. It’s perfectly safe.”
She lifted a skeptical eyebrow.
“Please, Sara.” He lifted up his hand and she relented.
“All right. But no looking and no touching.”
“No looking,” West agreed readily.
“And no touching.”
“Not even a little? Not even a kiss?” He had that boyish innocence written all over his face again and Sara didn’t believe it for a minute. She didn’t even want to believe it.
Turning her back, mumbling to herself that she would regret this for the rest of her life, she began to undress, stopping when she reached her chemise, the last barrier between her and a man she knew would not only look but would certainly touch.
“All of it, Sara.” West’s voice was husky and low, and Sara felt a familiar pooling warmth between her legs. She took off her chemise.
When she turned around, she was almost disappointed to see West had turned his back. She walked tentatively into the water, ready to retreat with a scream if she felt anything brush up against her leg, her eyes trained on West’s broad shoulders. Perhaps he was a man of his word, she thought, frowning. No sooner had that thought entered her head then West spun around. Sara automatically covered her breasts with her hands, and then, slowly, deliberately, lowered her arms to her sides. Her nipples were painfully erect from the cold water, from the excitement of having West look at her with such heat. She heard him let out a shaky breath.
He walked to her, the water receding until his arousal was visible. Sara shot a look down then snapped her eyes back to his face. The thick lashes around his beautiful eyes were spiked, making them even more pronounced. Water dripped from his hair, down his lean, freshly-shaved cheek. He was glorious, Sara thought, her entire body charged, her senses heightened. When he was inches away from her, he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, touching her only with his mouth, his tongue, until she nearly collapsed and he was forced to put his arms to her waist to hold her steady.
“Do you remember on the ship, Sara. How we made love?”
She could only nod.
“I want you to know that I want to be inside of you.” She let out a small sound at the back of her throat. “Here.” He put one hand between her legs, and she was slick with more than just water. “Good God, Sara, you tempt me.”
He kissed her then, stealing her breath, her heart, her soul. He pulled her against him so she could feel the hardness of him, the desire raging through his blood. His hands went to her buttocks, kneading, before he pulled her up so she rode him just above his hips. She wrapped her slim legs around him and crossed her ankles at his back. She could feel his arousal between her legs, knew how close they were to truly making love, and she tried to shift, to put him inside her. He held her steady, letting out a low groan.
He began to move her, causing a delicious friction for them both, as he dipped his head to take one hardened nipple into his mouth. She wanted, wanted, wanted him inside.
“Please, West. I don’t care. I don’t…” Her breath caught as he shifted subtly, as he pressed his length against her core and created a rhythm that was maddeningly wonderful. She moved against him, rubbing, her body slick with desire, searching for the release she knew was so close. “Oh, oh…” She moved her hips, instinctively knowing how, but unknowingly driving West to the brink. It came upon her slowly, building with such intensity, she cried out, pressing hard, her entire body jerking. Seconds later, while she still throbbed, still moved her hips in her release, West stiffened and groaned. He was shaking as he carried her deeper into the pool, until she felt weightless and wonderful.
“Don’t let me go,” she said, realizing just how deep they were.
“Never.” West kissed her long and ha
rd, then pulled back to look at her. “I would never let you go.”
Sara stood on the beach staring at the ship that would take her to San Francisco, away from West. He came up behind her and set a small carpet bag at her feet.
“I wish…” He stopped and drew her against him. “This is for the best,” he said, finally, and Sara closed her eyes against the pain those words brought. They were not what she wanted to hear. She wanted him to tell her he loved her, that he wanted to marry her and only her. She wanted him to tell her to wait for him.
“I have something for you.” She turned in his arms to see what he had brought her. He presented a long, flat object: a busk. It would slip into her corset, a constant reminder of him, kept close to her heart. It was the most intimate of gifts, and Sara smiled past the pain looking at it.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. He had carved daffodils on it, intertwined with intricate vines, one of which formed something that looked very much like a heart. She wondered if it was intentional or happenstance. Her fingers traced the carving and she smiled.
“I will never forget these months with you, Mr. Mitchell.” Then she shook her head, disgusted with herself for her cowardice. She ought to tell him, finally, how she felt. She took a bracing breath, the kind one takes before jumping off a pier. “I love you, West. I’ll wait for you if you wish it.”
Please, please tell me I should. Please.
His eyes shifted away from her and she had her answer.
“Perhaps I should not have said that,” she said, smiling so brightly her cheeks hurt.
West did not smile, could not even look at her. “No. Perhaps you should not have. I am going to be at sea for years, Sara.” It did occur to him that he’d asked Elizabeth to wait for him, asked her with no real care whether she would or not. Perhaps this was why he could not bring himself to ask, for what if something happened to him? What if she returned home and fell in love with someone else? The loss would be too great and he could not bring himself to face it, not with so much uncertain.
“Sir, this is the last boat other than the captain.” As it was, the small boat was filled with provisions and there was hardly room for Sara.
“Good bye, Sara. And God speed.” He pulled her to him for one final embrace, one final kiss, before letting her go. She gave him a tremulous smile and allowed the seaman to carry her and her bag to the boat so her dress would remain dry.
Captain Crowley came up beside him. “Always difficult leavin’ ‘em behind, eh?”
“Yes. It is.”
“How much time you got on your trip, son?” the older man asked.
“Two years. At least.” Two years. God, how could he have let her go? How? He already missed her and he could still see her golden hair swirling around her head as the boat approached the ship. The boat would return for the captain and the last of their provisions, and then she’d be gone forever. He should have asked her to wait for him. He should have begged her to stay. My God, what kind of fool was he?
Without a sound, he ran back to the Tillinghasts and burst into the missionary’s office. “I need pen and paper. Quickly,” he said to the startled man. He wrote quickly, signing his name with a flourish, hastily poured sand on the note, and ran out the door, letting the wind dry the ink the sand had missed. By the time he got back to the captain, the boat was nearly at the beach.
“Captain Crowley,” West said, folding the note and handing it to the captain. “I wonder if you would be so good to give this to my wife.”
“Of course, sir.” The captain tucked the note into his jacket and gave it a small pat. “Don’t worry, my boy, she’ll be safe with me. God speed.”
“And to you, sir.” He watched the captain slosh through the water, joy filling his heart where despair had just been. What he could not say aloud to Sara, he had written.
One day after Sara left him standing on that beach, his heart full, a typhoon of frightening magnitude struck the island. The Tillinghast’s home and school escaped terrible damage, other than a small section of roof that had pulled away. West was frantic with worry about Sara, who found such storms so frightening. The ship she was on appeared a sturdy vessel, but he had no idea if the ship could weather such a storm unscathed. It took days and sometimes weeks to hear news of a ships that were damaged or, God forbid, sunk in such storms. The fastest way was to signal other ships and ask them of news.
Once he was back in Honolulu, West lost no time pulling anchor and setting sail, determined to find out if anyone had heard news of the Bonnie Lassie. The first two ships knew nothing, and by the time West spied a merchant ship on the horizon, he was nearly mad with worry.
“Captain, I’m sure she’s fine,” Oliver said. “It takes a bigger storm than that to sink a ship.” Next to him, Sara’s brother tried for a valiant smile.
But West could not be placated. Until he heard the ship was safe, he would not rest. He signaled the ship, and the two vessels moved closer.
“Ahoy,” West called, as the Julia moved within shouting distance of the ship. It’s captain waved a greeting.
“Have you news of the Bonnie Lassie?”
The vessel’s captain hesitated, and West’s fear grew. “She foundered off Kapaa,” he called. “All lost.”
West raised his hand in acknowledgement. Message received. He watched the other boat tack away, watched dry-eyed until it was only a small speck on the horizon. He was unaware of Zachary’s soft sobs.
“You son of a bitch. This is your bloody fault. She loved you and now she’s dead.” Zachary’s scathing words hardly abraded his consciousness, though a part of him acknowledged the truth of the boy’s words. He was unaffected by his third mate’s hasty retreat to his cabin, for he was unaware of anything except Sara’s soft voice in his head: “I love you, West. I’ll wait for you if you wish it.”
He felt a strong hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry West.”
West turned with confusion to look at Oliver. The old man’s eyes were red-rimmed and watery. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to remember something, something. Something about Sara.
“Sara’s fine,” he said, not recognizing his voice.
“Ah, my boy.” Oliver looked so damned sad.
“Sara’s fine,” he repeated more forcefully, but he could feel panic setting in. Something awful nagged at his brain. He shook his head again, this time violently. Sara was fine. Fine. His nostrils flared, his eyes grew wild. She was fine. She loved him, she would wait for him and they would marry and…
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said politely before heading to his cabin. He grabbed up his charcoal and his pad and began drawing furiously, capturing Sara as she’d looked at him on that beach in Hilo, love for him in her eyes. He blinked away tears he was unaware he was shedding, drawing her image like a man possessed. She wasn’t dead. He wouldn’t allow her to die.
His drawing finished, he stared at her upturned face, black charcoal on white paper.
“Oh God, no.” He couldn’t breathe, his lungs ached, his entire body ached. “No. God, no.” West collapsed onto his table, his head on his arms, and he wept.
Zachary stood in the doorway of the aftercabin, his eyes, filled with rage from misdirected blame, slowly filled with anguish. He’d thought the captain unfeeling, but clearly he’d been wrong. Zachary backed out of the cabin to allow his captain to grieve alone for the woman he loved.
Chapter TWELVE
Six months after nearly dying on the Bonnie Lassie, Sara found herself walking toward the Mitchell mansion on the Hill. The bitter November wind swept in from the river, a cold blast against Sara’s back as she made her way up streets that were achingly familiar. Though she wanted to gaze about, her fear kept her head down and well cloaked, not only against the wind but against any prying eyes.
The notorious Sara Dawes had returned.
It was her imagination, she knew it was, but Sara was certain she could smell the lingering and acrid scent of the fire. She shook off her fear
like an unwanted cloak. After nearly dying in a typhoon, Sara had done away with fear, the kind that paralyzed, the kind that would have prevented her from walking up to the Mitchell mansion like she planned. As if she was certain of her welcome.
Terror was a weak word to describe how she’d felt when the Bonny Lassie was being ripped apart by the typhoon. It was the sort of thing that changed a person forever, and it had changed Sara irrevocably. Before the storm had ended, two crewmembers had been swept off her decks, her masts had snapped with frightening ease, the rudder disabled, and the sails torn to shreds. By the time dawn broke, the schooner was a floating wreck, that blessedly was drifting toward Maui. Blessedly, because the ship was taking on water at an alarming rate. The crew had been almost giddy with relief that, not only had they survived the storm, but the sea had seen fit to shove the vessel within a good swim of a soft, sandy beach. As the twelve-member crew and she sat in the lifeboat, the Bonny Lassie slipped silently into the sea behind them, a gurgling farewell, her entire cargo lost.
That sort of experience aged a person, she realized. After surviving such a tempest, finding another way to San Francisco seemed like child’s play. A woman alone, but for the distracted escort of Captain Crowley, Sara made her way to Maui’s small port, booked a cabin on yet another small merchant ship, and sailed to San Francisco, arriving only two days later than she originally had planned.
She looked back, down the street, down where her home once stood and pulled her wrap tighter. She was no longer Sara Dawes. She was Sara Dawson, orphan daughter of the Hartford Dawsons, taken in by the Tillinghasts and sent home by the good Captain Mitchell who’d promised his mother could care for her closer to home. The entire lie was written on a letter he’d composed. Even though she balked at lying to his mother, she could come up with no alternative. She had no one but Zachary. And as much as she hated lying, the thought of turning herself in to the police paralyzed her.
