She dressed quickly, not forgetting her veil, then opened her door very carefully. The passageway was empty. She hurried out and up the ladder to the quiet deck. Never had she seen such a sight. Miles and miles of serene ocean in every direction. The sound of the wind pushing the sails and the lap of the waves seemed to have lulled the whole world into a calm euphoria.
She moved to the railing and gripped it gently. She stared out over the water, thinking back to the many hours she had spent atop the house on Gay Street, dreaming of this moment, pretending that the widow’s walk was her own private quarterdeck.
She never heard a sound until he was standing beside her and said quietly, almost reverently, “A beautiful night, isn’t it, Mrs. Blackwell?”
Every nerve in her body came alive. She was burning, freezing, tingling, aching… for him.
“Magnificent, Captain,” she whispered back.
“I hope, for your sake, that the whole trip will be this way.”
Unsure if he was serious or only testing her, she turned toward him and said, “You needn’t worry about me, sir. I’m quite seaworthy!”
He laughed—that deep, rumbling, caressing laugh she remembered so well.
“I’m sure you are, madam. Heaven help the storm that crosses your path.”
She looked down, stroking her trembling fingers across the smooth oak of the rail. “Forgive me, Captain. I didn’t mean to sound testy or harsh.”
“I thought neither of you. I approve, Mrs. Blackwell. The voyage to India isn’t easy. I’m glad to hear a certain amount of grit in your voice. You’ll need it.” He paused, and Persia thought he must be gazing intently at her, trying to measure her through her veil. “Is this your first voyage to Bombay?”
“Yes. I’m to meet my husband there.”
Zack’s voice sounded slightly disapproving when he asked, “Why didn’t he take you with him? I certainly wouldn’t let my wife travel so far all alone.”
Persia wanted desperately not to discuss her husband. She cast about for another topic of conversation. “You’re married, then, Captain?”
“I should be, but no. I’m not.”
“You should be? I don’t understand.” Was he saying that he’d left behind a woman carrying his child? Her heart raged at the thought.
“What I mean is that I had my chance, long ago. I was in love with a very beautiful woman, but I let her get away from me. As I’m sure you know, Mrs. Blackwell, once you’ve loved totally, you never fall again. At least, I never have.”
Persia was dying to ask his lover’s name—her own, she was sure. It would be so wonderful to hear it spoken from his lips once more. But she dared not go too far.
Then his next statement took away her joy. “I don’t think I was ever meant to marry, though. It probably turned out for the best this way.”
So he had left her, thinking it for the best. Her pain grew until she thought it would consume her, right there before his eyes.
Suddenly his hand gripped her elbow. He might as well have taken her naked heart in his grasp.
“Why don’t I see you back to your cabin, Mrs. Blackwell? It’s getting cold up here. Perhaps we could share a glass of wine.”
She pulled her arm away. “No, please, Captain. I don’t want to take you from your duties. And I am very tired. I only needed a breath of air.”
She hurried below so quickly that he never had a chance to bid her a good evening. But she still couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed until dawn, listening to the steady pacing of boots in the next cabin.
Captain Zachariah Hazzard wasn’t sleeping either.
Chapter Eighteen
The Madagascar took the course charted by her captain—southeast into the mid-Atlantic until she was halfway between Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, and the Canary Islands. At that point, she hove sharply southward to pick up favorable trade winds. For a time, she would parallel the Brazilian coast before heading southeasterly again to pass the Cape of Good Hope at the tip of Africa. Turning north and east on reaching the Indian Ocean, she would then pass the island whose name she bore and sail on to her first port, Bombay.
Once the ship was at sea and the course plotted, time weighed heavily on Zachariah Hazzard’s hands. The captain, above all men, was the least useful on board his own ship as long as everything was going smoothly. His first and second mates kept the rest of the crew in hand and busy at all times. Meanwhile, the cook cooked; the sailmaker mended sail; the steward served; and the captain waited.
And during these long, quiet hours, while he trod the deck or holed up in his cabin—glad that all was well, but alert to any impending disaster—Zack thought and thought. He turned over in his mind every word the woman on board his ship had said. He summoned up the image of her bare white shoulders. He tried to imagine her face without the veil. He recalled to mind the warmth of her flesh through the sleeve of her dress when he had touched her. And that remembered warmth brought a searing to his blood. Even now, as he lay on his bunk in his darkened cabin, he was conscious of his growing arousal.
“Goddammit, man! Have you lost your wits?” He launched himself off the bed and swept the charts from his table in a moment of frustration and anger. “She’s married!”
He sank down into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at it as if that might yank the craziness out of his brain. He’d never let a woman get to him like this before. No woman except Persia, but of course that was a far different case.
Here they were only three days out of port and he was driving himself to distraction over another man’s wife—a woman whose face he had yet to lay eyes on. In fact, since the night of their sailing, he hadn’t seen her at all. It was almost as if she were some ghost who had haunted him for a while and then deserted him just as abruptly.
And that manservant of hers was definitely some kind of spirit. Zack had heard the others talking about the odd fellow, but he had yet to see even his shadow. Seemed he was spending most of his time in the galley. There was some talk among the crew, so Mr. Barry had told Zack, that Mrs. Blackwell’s servant and the cook were related.
It was late—far into the dog watch—past midnight. But he knew she wasn’t sleeping. He had heard her moving about the stateroom next to his a while earlier. Now another sound from the far side of the bulkhead drew his attention and provoked his discomfort.
“She’s crying again, dammit!” He spoke the words softly as if fearing he might disturb her misery.
He’d heard her sobbing in the night before, and it tore at his heart. Why was she so unhappy? Maybe that’s why she stayed to herself and always wore her heavy veil. She must be in mourning for someone. But who? A child? A parent? A lover?
“Idiot,” he told himself. She didn’t have a lover; she had a husband.
Still, if she had lost someone recently, that could be why she was traveling all alone, why she always hid behind her veil. And why she had trouble sleeping at night.
He glanced up at the scarred leather medicine bag that had made many voyages with him. It contained nothing that could take away her sorrow, but there was something inside that could help her rest. He reached for the satchel, then changed his mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t intrude on her grief. He would just wait. She would send for him if she needed his aid.
He grabbed his coat and shrugged into it. A brisk turn on deck. That’s what he needed to clear his head and his senses. He lurched out his door, running full tilt into a strange man in the passageway.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said the stranger. “I should learn to look where I am going.”
Zack squinted hard at the dark face before him. The man was dressed in black. His hair was black. His eyes were black. But the tattooing on his face was bright blue. From one of the cannibal tribes of the South Pacific, he would guess.
“Who are you?” Zack demanded.
“I am nobody, sir,” Fletcher answered.
“A stowaway, you mean?�
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“No, no! I am but a servant to Mrs. Blackwell.”
Zack backed away to get a better look at the man. “So you really do exist.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“If you’re the lady’s servant, why haven’t you been looking after her needs? Do you know that she’s in her cabin crying at this very moment? She could be ill—dying! And where have you been all this time?”
“Oh, please, sir! I had no idea. I must go to her at once!”
Zack let the man pass and went up the ladder. Not until the cold wind on deck blew over him, wiping the cobwebs from his brain, did he realize he had seen the blue-faced servant before. He turned, his jaw dropping open, as he rememebered suddenly where he had seen the man before. This tattooed savage was part of his own past—his past with Persia Whiddington!
At that very moment, Persia was learning from Fletcher that he and the captain had had their first confrontation on board.
Fletcher had pounded on her door a moment earlier, crying, “Open up! Please, let me in, Miss Persia!”
She ran to the door to find her servant wild-eyed and anxious.
“Are you dying, Miss Persia?” were the first words out of his mouth.
“Dying? Of course not! Whatever gave you such a notion, Fletcher?”
“The captain, he reprimanded me outside. He said you were crying, that you could be very ill and I was neglecting my duty.”
“You talked to the captain?” Persia’s tears of self-pity and unrequited love dried in the startled blink of an eye. She had known this moment would come. And she had dreaded it. There was no way to hide Fletcher from Zack. And certainly there could not be two such blue-patterned faces on earth. Zack was sure to recognize him and start adding things up.
“What did he say to you, Fletcher?” she asked, sounding almost desperate.
“Only that I should be more mindful of my mistress, and he is correct!”
“He didn’t recognize you?”
Fletcher stared hard at her, wondering if the sea voyage really had made her ill. “Of course not, Miss Persia. We have never met before.”
A nervous little laugh escaped her. She turned to her sewing box and drew out a gold coin. “Remember this, Fletcher? You gave it to me a long time ago. The night I ran away with the captain of this ship.”
Fletcher’s eyes grew wide. He mouthed the word “no” but uttered not a sound. The silence stretched on for some minutes until he found his voice once more. “You mean, this Captain Hazzard is the same as…”
“Not in appearance, but he is the same man.”
“What are you going to do, Miss Persia?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Fletcher. I just don’t know.”
“That is why you have been staying in your cabin… why you were crying?”
“I’m afraid so. I simply haven’t been able to face the truth yet, or should I say, to face him with the truth.”
The captain made his usual rounds on deck. But his mind was hardly on this routine task. Instead, his brain was whirling, trying to puzzle out the mystery of the woman below in her cabin.
How could it be Persia? Surely she would have told him right away, if that were the case. But perhaps not. After all, she hadn’t come to the Tail of the Devil that long-ago night. Maybe she thought she could keep up her veiled charade all the way to Bombay so that he’d never know who she was, other than “the missionary’s wife.” But that was another odd thing. Of all the women he’d ever met, Persia Whiddington seemed the least likely to sail half the world around to join a man of the cloth. She had too much spunk… too much adventure in her soul… too much earthy love to give, and too much need in her.
But who else could it be? He knew the servant’s history. The man… Fletcher, his name was… had been like a member of the Whiddington family since he was a little more than a suckling. He wouldn’t have left their service. So whoever was under that veil had to be a Whiddington.
“Europa?” he asked himself aloud. Then he added quickly, “No!” She was far too vain to hide that lovely face of hers.
Perhaps Mrs. Whiddington, he thought, widowed and now remarried. He shook his head. That couldn’t be right, either. The woman he had seen—fresh from her bath—was vibrant, supple, glowing with youth.
“Persia!” He whispered the name as reverently as if it were a prayer. Then, turning on his heel, he made a dash for the ladder.
As soon as he reached the passageway, he could hear low voices coming from her cabin. It didn’t matter; there was no stopping him now.
He paused outside and brought his fist up to knock. But he quickly changed his mind. He didn’t intend to give her the time she was sure to request so that she might cover the face he loved with that damned veil.
Persia was still trying to explain the situation to Fletcher when her door flew open, banging back against the wall. Zack filled the opening, his broad shoulders touching the frame on either side. His hands were clenched into fists on his hips. And his face was a mask of unreadable, dueling emotions.
“You may go now, Fletcher.” His voice held stony command in that husky timbre that seemed to vibrate to Persia’s very core. His eyes imprisoned her, devouring the first sight of her naked face and making her feel as if her dressing gown had suddenly been stripped away. “Your mistress won’t be calling on you the rest of the night. I plan to see to her needs… personally!”
A small gasp escaped Persia. She backed away from him, until her legs hit the edge of the bed, almost causing her to lose her balance.
“Miss Persia?” Fletcher said, begging with his tone to be told what he should do.
“Do as the captain says,” she answered, but only after waiting so long that Zack started toward her with a menacing gleam in his dark eyes.
“If you’re sure…”
“She’s sure!” Zack snapped, never taking his eyes from hers.
Silence hung like a heavy fog in the room until the door closed softly after Fletcher. Even then, for long minutes, she and Zack held their places, saying things to each other with their eyes that no spoken words could have conveyed.
He was coming toward her, and she had no place to go. She could only stand, and wait, and… and what?
Suddenly he was there before her, his changed but well-loved face filling the whole of her vision—her world. His lips were parting. His breath was caressing her blush-warmed flesh. His hands were sliding about her waist—drawing her closer, closer, closer…
“No, Zack!” Did she say the words aloud or only think them? She had no idea. It didn’t matter, anyway. He never heard.
She felt the loving, needing, bruising grip of his strong fingers about her waist. Before their lips ever met, he drew her hard against his heat and held here there, letting the sparks, the fire, the ache of longing arc from his loins to hers. This slow, sweet torture forced a moan from her lips. Her arms hung limp at her sides, her head lolled back, her breasts lifted toward his chest—not quite touching him, but close enough so that her nipples distended from his nearness, his heat. And all the while, from the waist down, they kissed—bellies, thighs, and knees.
“Persia, my dearest, my love.” His words touched her lips the moment before his mouth covered hers. Now their kiss was total.
His tongue found no barrier to impede its passionate progress. She welcomed his hard, velvet assault. She languished in his search for the hidden places that sent liquid rainbows flowing through her blood. She matched his need with her own, doubling and redoubling it.
Gone was the present, the past, and the future. Only at this very instant in eternity was she real and alive and in love—while his lips possessed her, his hands claimed her, and his body melded itself to hers.
His hands moved with urgency now—caressing their way up her sides. He drew her closer still, cradling her throbbing, peaked breasts against his hard chest. He gave up his pleasure with her mouth to kiss her cheeks, her e
yelids, her forehead, her chin.
She stood, trembling, in his embrace—wanting it all, wanting it never to end. She felt like crying, screaming, laughing, dying. He was her here, her now, her forevermore. All the years, gone! All the hurt, suffered! All the pain, past!
“Zack, Zack,” she murmured over and over. “Oh, please, my darling…”
“There’s no hurry,” he whispered back between kisses. “We’ll love our way across three oceans. I’ll show you pleasures and joys you’ve never dared dream of. Oh, Persia, it’s been so long… so cold without you.”
His hungry hands found her breasts and kneaded gently through her gown and robe. His lips trailed down her neck, then lingered there to taste her flesh. Each place his mouth touched burned with a portion of the need that was threatening to consume her totally—body, mind, and heart.
“Persia, Persia darling,” he moaned. “I can’t wait any longer!”
Suddenly, he was stripping the robe from her shoulders, the gown from her body. He pressed her down, onto the captain’s bunk, and feverishly began removing his own clothes.
Through eyes half-closed in longing, she gazed at his strong chest and torso. His face might have changed, but that wonderful, powerful body was the same as she remembered it from so long ago—from before he went away, from before she married.
Suddenly, a hateful trick of her mind and conscience brought reality rushing back. She gripped her robe tightly over her breasts as if it were some antique coat of mail that would protect her against her foe. Her body still ached for him. Her heart still cried out for his love. But she belonged to another man.
“Zack, no! We can’t. I’m married now.” Her words in their force came like a cold wave from the sea, breaking over both of them, dousing the fire of passion to a stuttering flicker in the dark night.
He turned on her, his eyes almost black with rage. “What do you mean, no?”
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