by Maddie James
Didn't want to.
Slowly, he moved closer. The ocean pounded in her ears, but the galloping of her heart overpowered any other sound. She breathed deeply. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm of anticipation and desire. He stepped forward and every sensory ending on her body stood alert. As she waited, he moved silently until he stood directly in front of her.
His chest rose and fell in sync with hers. She sensed the fear in his eyes, the anticipation, and the exhilaration of being so close. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight and played over each feature of her face as if memorizing every freckle or laugh line, or the high jut of her cheekbones. She swallowed. An intense energy force enveloped them until she felt that, somehow, they were no longer two people, but one. There had been no physical touch, no words spoken, no contact whatsoever, but the power of their silent communion was deafening.
Who are you?
She opened her mouth to speak but he quickly raised his hand and placed a finger to her open lips. A rippling sensation radiated from that one touch throughout her body, down to her toes. She shook off the chill that followed. With his finger still resting on her lips, he took one last step forward until their bodies were as close as they could possibly be and not touch. Hooking one finger under her chin, he tilted her mouth to his. Their gazes locked as his lips descended on hers, and then she closed her eyes.
The kiss was sweet and powerful and passionate. His soft lips nibbled and tasted and rubbed across hers. She felt lost—lost in a swirl of ocean currents and shifting sands and night mist. His tongue mingled with hers and she thought she might just die. Her breathing quickened even more than before, and then, as his lips departed from hers, she looked into his face—and panicked.
What am I doing?
She took several faltering steps backward, her eyes stinging with tears. She stared at him, frightened, for only a few seconds more, and then she turned and raced up the beach. Never stopping, never looking back, she ran, her pulse drumming in her ears, the surf pounding into the sand. But the feelings and emotions he had stirred within her were not abandoned on the beach, they were deep inside of her, always would be.
And at that moment, she knew instinctively that it didn't matter how far away she ran, or how fast, she would never escape what she had just experienced. It would be with her always.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Two
After fleeing to her dreams and the safety of her bed, Claire had slept fitfully the remainder of the night. The kiss, the entire dream, had aroused her to an extent she was almost ashamed to admit. She had not allowed her imagination to run so wild since adolescence—nor had she experienced a night so full of sweet release.
Now she sat inside her island cottage, terrified and debating her next move.
She had been alone too many days. Her fantasies were too real.
The dreams, the kiss, the illusions, it all was over the top. She needed something to bring things back to normal ... to make her sane again.
Home. She'd call home.
No. Mama is too ill to worry her. She'll recognize the panic in my voice as soon as she hears me say hello.
Vicki? No, not her either. Her best friend would also sense something was off and Claire would have to confess all. There was too much to explain. It was all too ... involved right now.
Rick? Perhaps.
They'd not spoken all week, and since they'd argued right before she'd left, it was probably a good idea to touch base. Rick had been her friend long before he became her lover. She was comfortable with him, or at least she used to be, but his behavior lately was so strange and intimidating, so ... obsessive.
But as much as she hated to admit it, it was her own unsettled emotions at the moment that startled her, and not Rick's behavior. She'd take full blame for whatever happened in their relationship. Perhaps it was her moody and atypical behavior that had provoked the changes in him. Lately, her head was so full of thoughts, and she had no earthly idea from where they came or what they meant.
It was like hearing someone else's thoughts, but they were hers at the same time.
Uncanny.
Maybe she should just call Rick. Maybe she needed a touch of reality, a jolt perhaps, in this fantasy world she'd fabricated around her.
She picked up the phone and stared at it. Her mind raced. The numbers wouldn't come. The sequence she'd dialed so often eluded her. They were lost. She'd been away six days and she'd already forgotten something as simple as his phone number.
Could she dismiss him so easily?
She replaced the receiver in its cradle. It was time to get Rick out of her life.
Glancing about the cottage, she decided to drive to the village, get that lunch Mr. Waters had suggested, and maybe check out the shops. Seeing and being around real live people might help to get her bearings straight, and her emotions back on track. Then this afternoon, she'd eat, shop, beach comb and work on her tan.
Later, she'd think about the mystery man and his powerful kiss. This was her last night on the island. She was leaving early in the morning. She'd wait for him at midnight. She'd face him and ask him who he was, why he was here, and what he wanted from her. She'd find out tonight if he was a figment of her imagination, a ghostly image, or a living, breathing person.
One way or the other, she would know for sure.
Tonight, she would find out the truth. She couldn't face the thought of leaving this place in the morning without it.
But first, lunch. And some much-needed interaction with people to ground her firmly back in reality.
* * * *
The Pony Island Restaurant sat off the main road to the right as she traveled into the town of Ocracoke. Upon entering the fishing village she wondered why she'd waited so long to drive down here. Her light keeper's cottage sat on a very secluded section along the northern part of the island, a small patch of private beach that wasn't National Seashore land. She'd known the village was further south, had perused a few Internet sites before she'd arrived, but once she'd landed at her beach cottage, she'd lost her desire to venture out.
Until today.
The quaint, laid-back village cried of yesteryear. It was a no stop-light town and the living was easy. The atmosphere was little Bohemian as well, a fact that drew her into the mood of the town. As she parked her vehicle and walked toward the restaurant, she noticed that the “No shirt, no shoes, no service” rule apparently didn't apply here. The town was very much its own place and it obviously wanted to remain that way. Small, lazy, and time-warped.
She ordered a crab cake sandwich, coleslaw, and a glass of sweet tea. The server who took her order guaranteed her with a wink and a smooth southern drawl that it would be the best crab cake sandwich she'd ever eaten. And she was right. The crab was fresh and chunky, while the creamy roumelade served on the side was laced with just the right amount of hot sauce. The sweet tea was a welcome balance to the roumelade's spicy flavor.
The ambiance of the place intrigued her the most. There was a different cadence to the local's dialect that easily pulled her in as a listening voyeur to their conversations. She'd heard that the island's long time residents still clung to a hint of Elizabethan lilt, left over from the English who first settled in the area in the late 1500s.
"That storm'll be comin’ soon, I tell ya. The waves off the shore are churnin'."
"A nor'easter?"
"Naw. Tropical storm in the Atlantic, movin’ fast. We'll be battening down t'night, ready for t'morrow."
The storm.
Mr. Waters had predicted it too. Perhaps she should figure out how to unhinge those shutters on the house. But she was leaving in the morning so perhaps she'd be long gone before the storm hit.
The sadness of that thought gave her pause. She didn't want to think about leaving.
She passed on desert, paid her check and drove a bit further into town to Silver Lake Harbor, where the smell of the sea hit her full-force again. The fishing vessels, the wharf,
and the harbor, lined by charming shops and more restaurants, called to her. She parked there and for the rest of the afternoon, immersed herself in local color, village lore and culture.
The uncanny longing settled over her again.
Near the end of an early afternoon of browsing, she wandered onto a smaller road off the harbor and stumbled into a shop called Blackbeard's Treasure Chest. Obviously set up as a draw for tourists, she was immediately met with a shop chock-full of all things pirate, with a heavy dose of Blackbeard.
The door slapped freely behind her and a small bell tickled the glass as she entered. The room was dark and it took her eyes a moment to adjust, but within a few seconds her vision improved and began meandering through the aisles.
A young girl rounded the corner. She wore a short denim skirt, tie-dyed tank, flip-flops, and close-cropped black hair with a shock of hot pink. “May I help you?"
"No thanks, just looking around.” She smiled at the girl.
"Let me know if I can help you find anything."
"Sure."
She set out on a slow amble around the shop. She fingered shells, poked at hermit crabs clinging to their cage walls, and browsed through a section of local books written about the area—many of them on the subject of the infamous pirate, Blackbeard. She saw pirate eye-patches and Jolly Roger flags and toy swords and the like. Finally, she settled in a corner near the back of the shop where she met with an assortment of interesting artifacts.
A skull sitting atop a black velvet pedestal instantly gave her the creeps.
"It's not real but it looks good, don't it?” The deep voice came from her left. Out of the shadows walked a man who looked closer to being an actual pirate that anyone she'd ever seen in real life. Scruffy around the edges, timeworn face with weathered wrinkles, and a voice as gruff as sandpaper. He also happened to be a very large man. He reached to touch the skull with hands that had seen more than their share of sun and sea.
She edged back. “Yes. It does look real."
He moved nearer, cautiously it seemed, and eyed her closely as he did so. “Blackbeard lost his head, you know, in a battle at sea. They never found it. Or so they say."
The skull did look surprisingly real. “Um ... I didn't know that. Interesting."
He nodded, caressing the skull's smooth top. “Some say it is still out there somewhere.” Claire looked up and took in the man's far away stare and the upturned smirk of one corner of his mouth. Then he looked back at her. “What brings ya to the sea, lass?"
That Elizabethan inflection was deeply pronounced in this man. A local. Generations old, she was certain. And the ‘lass’ reference disturbed her for some reason. She wasn't quite sure why.
Her gaze met his. “Just vacationing. Staying up the island a bit."
He raked his fingers over the stubble of his chin and cocked his head to the left. “You're at the old light keeper's cottage?"
She nearly lied, finding no reason to tell this man where she was staying, but then she relaxed. Why lie? She would be gone tomorrow. And this peaceful little town, she couldn't imagine anything dangerous happening.
"Yes, that's where I'm staying. I rather like it there."
He chuckled. “Haven't seen the likes of ol’ Jack, have you now?"
Who? Jack?
Claire froze, not sure she could find her voice. Could that be ... is his name...? “Um ... No.” She shook her head. “I haven't seen much of anyone."
A deep belly laughed escaped him them. “Lass, so you have seen him. I can tell by the look on your face. I thought he'd be about. It's the moon, you know. It's a blue one coming up. Second full moon this month. Seems to bring poor Jack's spirit out looking for his Hannah about that time."
Hannah?
He leaned closer. “Don't worry. He won't hurt you. He's just looking for his dead wife. Been stalking that beach for a few hundred years now mourning her. All he wants is his Hannah back. Too bad your name ain't Hannah, ‘cause you're a comely lass and I bet he'd like you."
She swallowed and bit her lower lip. She was momentarily lost in their depths of the man's gaze. What did he know? Who was he?
She shook her head. “No. No, my name is Claire."
He pulled back and squinted at her. “You're sure, lass?"
Hastily, she nodded. “And I haven't seen him. Really.” She backed away, suddenly very eager to get the hell out of that dark corner. “I need to be going now. Thank you for..."
For what? For scaring the shit out of her?
"Be safe, lass. Helluva storm coming in. Be safe."
Storm. Everyone kept talking about the storm.
"Sure."
She had other, more important, things to worry about than a stupid storm. Like the fact that she just might have kissed a ghost last night.
A ghost looking for his dead wife.
* * * *
The waves roared in her ears as they crested and crashed to the shore, somewhat more intense than on previous nights—more untamed than she'd ever experienced. They pounded the shore with enormous strength. This, evidently, was the storm brewing at sea that they'd been waiting for.
The ocean is a wild animal.
Claire recalled Mr. Waters’ words when she'd arrived at the cottage. You never know what to expect from her, he'd said. This night, she was inclined to agree, uncertain of the gift the sea had brought the past few nights.
A ghost? A man named Jack who was looking for his dead wife?
She looked up to see the moon sitting behind the darkening clouds. She felt it an omen. A sign. He was not coming. No man would be out on a night like this, she reasoned. No ghost, either. Well, she could be wrong about that. But he had not yet shown himself. And she was a fool for standing alone in her nightgown, on the porch, in the middle of a brewing storm. Thankful there was no rain yet, she sank deep into the porch swing, drew her legs beneath her, and leaned back.
Swinging slowly in the night wind, she waited. The hour hand of her watch passed midnight, one o'clock, and then two. She waited. He didn't come.
With eyelids growing heavy from the lack of a good night's sleep all week, her head lolled to one side. Her body fell into the swinging motion made by the strong wind currents and she felt drawn into a state of uncontrollable drowsiness.
Her eyes closed.
She rode the wind as it lifted her body up and then let her glide safely back down in perfect rhythm. The night wind whistled in her ears, lulling her deep into a chasm of wistful sleep. The soft salt air caressed her skin and massaged her tired muscles until she fell completely into a state of relaxation.
The sea-spray tickled her nose as she breathed deeper, drawing her further and further into the abyss of unconsciousness. And with one long and thorough sigh, her body slid into the cradle of the swing, gently rocking her back and forth until she slept.
Within her subconscious, she was an extension of the sea. Within her dreams, she rode the ocean winds, lifting her body with warm fingers and strong arms and the essence of salt, buoyant and free, lifting her upward. The clouds swept away from the moon and she felt wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and security. A feeling she could only describe as joy filled her as she elevated still higher and higher into the night air.
The pounding of the waves echoed the beating of her heart. The slap of the surf kept time with the rhythm of her pulse. The fierce night wind roared in her ears but then suddenly, it stopped—everything stopped—to be replaced with a light breath of a whisper against her cheek, and a soft featherweight touch of warmth against her ear.
The pungent bite of the ocean permeated her nostrils. Salt saturated her lips. The warmth wrapped around her tighter and tighter until she felt enclosed within a cocoon and bathed with the veil of light from the moon.
A soft cushion cradled her back. Radiant heat encircled her body, teased and tempted her, created an urgency, a desire, an eruption of passion that she felt was quickly surging out of control. The center of her body longed to explode. And then, an
incredible, wonderful heaviness lay across her.
A heaviness like that of a lover's body pressed against her in the act of making love.
A lover. In the act of making love. To you. Now.
Claire's eyes flashed open. Above her, his gaze connected with hers and held for mere seconds.
Who are you?
I am your lifeblood.
Claire breathed hard and deep. Her chest rose and fell quickly. Breaking his gaze, she glanced past him. She was in her room at the cottage. She was upstairs in her room, and he was here.
Did you carry me up here?
She looked at him. He didn't answer. His elbows rested on either side of her shoulders. His hands cradled her head and his thumbs made soft caressing circles at her temples.
She closed her eyes and breathed even more deeply. When her chest expanded, she could feel her breasts rise against his bare chest, and then she knew that they both were naked.
Oh, God. We're going to make love.
No. We are making love.
Her eyes snapped open and connected with his.
Is this a dream?
No. ‘Tisn't a dream. ‘Tis very, very real.
She drew another deep, cleansing breath. As she slowly let the air glide out of her lungs she sighed long and deep. Then on impulse, her gaze still united with his, she reached up and touched his face. His skin was firm and pliant beneath her fingertips.
You are real.
Brushing back a few wisps of hair that had escaped the leather tie in back, she caressed the tender area along his hairline, and then tucked the silky strands behind his ear. Her gaze followed her fingers. She explored the jut of his cheek and the cleft of his chin; perhaps a day's growth of beard, she decided as she brushed her fingers over his cheek and around his lips. He seemed content to let her explore, and held their gaze for a second more.
When her fingers dipped inside his mouth, his lips captured them and sucked, drawing them further into the wet recesses. His tongue curled around them and her breathing suddenly came in short, shallow bursts. Her lower body arched forward against him.
