Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “This isn’t right,” she said in a tiny, unconvincing voice.

  “Not right? By God, woman, you intend to turn me away now?” His voice boomed, echoing off the bulkheads and hammering at her heart.

  “I’m not turning you away, Zack. I love you. I always have. But it’s different now. I’m not the same person, neither are you. Can’t we just be friends?”

  He stared at her, his face as blank as the surface of the sea on a calm day. Then his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “Friends, Persia?” His voice was so quiet and controlled that it frightened her. “You can lie there with your own body—admit it, damn you!—quivering to have me take you, and suggest that we be friends?” He threw back his head and laughed long and hard, laughed until his humorless mirth turned into a wail of pain. “Oh, Persia! Oh, my dearest, you have so much to learn. But don’t worry. I’m here now, and I intend to teach you well!”

  Before she could reply, Zack lunged for the bunk. He straddled her legs and pinned her arms above her head. “Now, my darling, your time has come!”

  “Zack, no,” she begged, but there was nothing she could do to stop him—nor did she really want to.

  He ripped away the layers of clothing he found until her pale, bare flesh gleamed before him. His eyes drank her in. His lips murmured of her wonders and spoke his desires.

  She lay helpless—quivering, begging, sobbing. But he was deaf to her pleas.

  Still, belying the anger in his voice, his hand was gentle on her flesh. He stroked her breasts, fondled her aching nipples, massaged her neck, kissed her tenderly. When he bent low to suckle her, she went almost faint with desire. He couldn’t have planned her punishment better. She writhed beneath him—longing, burning, dying for his body. But he made no move to enter her and take away her pain.

  Instead, his knowing hand stripped her of her last defenses. It killed her conscience with desire. It made a wanton of her, twisting and begging beneath his touch. That wicked, loving, tormenting hand—five fingers bent on her destruction—scaled down her naked body. They teased her ribs, taunted her belly, and finally found their destination. When she felt the pull of her hair, she gasped. Her lips rose to meet… nothing. Empty air filled her. Then, his fingers were on her once more. Searching, testing, torturing. When they found that which they sought, she cried out. He laughed.

  “Please, Zack!” Her thrusting hips begged him even more than her words.

  He gave her no answer, either verbally or physically. Instead, he leaned down and took her lips, kissing her with a slow, maddening thoroughness that left her breathless.

  She was on the very brink of ecstasy. Another stroke of his skilled fingers, a single plunge, and she would be there. But neither came. He drew away. She lay before his eyes, her pale skin sweaty with lust, her blue eyes glazed with passion.

  He rose and offered his hand. “Friends, Mrs. Blackwell?” he said with a sardonic smile.

  “You go to the devil!” she spat at him.

  He threw back his head and laughed before he began pulling on his clothes. When he was fully dressed and she still naked, he turned back to her. He reached out with the same hand that had taunted her so mercilessly and drew a line with one finger from the hollow at the base of her neck to the apex of her womanhood. She quivered convulsively, but clamped her lips together, refusing to utter the moan that fought to escape her throat.

  “All well and good, isn’t it, for a woman to lead a man on? But the reverse isn’t so pleasurable, is it, Mrs. Blackwell? I’ll leave you now.”

  And he will, too, the bastard! Persia thought, very aware that her body was still burning for him.

  At the door he turned, smiled, and bowed. “By the way, Mrs. Blackwell, I assume you’re aware that it is ship’s etiquette for the captain and the supercargo to dine in company. You may expect me here tomorrow evening promptly at eight bells. Until then…” He swept her a deep, courtly bow and blew her a kiss, then frowned. “Oh, and one more thing, Mrs. Blackwell. Put some clothes on, won’t you, before you catch your death!”

  When the door closed behind him, Persia grabbed up a shoe and aimed it squarely before she let it fly.

  “Bastard!” she yelled. Then she fell into her pillow sobbing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I trust you slept well last night, Mrs. Blackwell.”

  Zachariah Hazzard—his beard trimmed, his wild thatch of silvery hair tamed, and his best suit on—sat across a well-laid table from the most bewitching woman he had ever laid eyes on.

  “And why should you think otherwise, Captain?” Persia replied, her voice as smooth and exotic as watered silk, one flame-tinged eyebrow arching provocatively.

  He never bothered to answer. They both knew. She hadn’t slept at all. Neither had he.

  But the captain was far too busy drinking her in to waste time on words. Since last night, there had been an amazing transformation in Persia Whiddington… Blackwell, he corrected in his mind, though he still refused to accept the idea of her marriage. She had discarded her drab garments and heavy veil for the most tantalizing costume he had ever seen draped over female flesh.

  Her tissue silk gown was not quite the color of a sapphire, nor was it exactly the shade of the sea on a clear day, nor even the brilliant china blue of Persia’s eyes. It was almost the startling hue of Saint Elmo’s fire—alive, electric, shocking. It made a man hesitate to touch for fear of being stunned senseless.

  Perhaps, he mused, that was its purpose, but never mind.

  Gone, too, was the demure buttoned neckline. Even as he sat across from her—not leaning forward at all—he could savor the rise of creamy flesh that immediately surmounted the darker rosettes he knew lay just hidden from his line of vision. Her arms were bare, and her skin held the luster of deepwater pearls from cold, clear Oriental waters. And only in a sunset at sea had he ever before beheld such a riot of bronzed golds as he saw in her gleaming tresses—piled high on her head and adorned with a blue-pearl tiara.

  Her voice was as soft as her skin. Her eyes invited—promised. What was she up to?

  Persia felt cold, in spite of the fact that they were nearing the equator and would soon be sailing into the Tropic of Capricorn. Her chill was heart deep. Last night with Zack had done something to her. Maybe it was no longer possible for the two of them even to be friends. He was at this very moment dining in her compartment, not by invitation, but by virtue of the fact that he was captain and had commanded it so.

  Still, she refused to cower behind her veils and black bombazine any longer. If she must deal with his wrath, she would do it on her own ground—gowned in the costumes of her supercargo’s office. Let him stare and ogle and sweat. He deserved no less after what he had done to her last night. Or hadn’t done, she added morosely.

  “Some wine?” he offered, poising the thin-necked bottle over her glass.

  “Please.”

  The ruby-red liquid caressed the crystal sides of her goblet almost erotically as he filled it three-quarters full. He watched, mesmerized, as her elegantly tapered fingers wrapped the stem. She raised the glass slowly, peering at him over its rim. She let him see her mouth open to receive the sweet red liquid—teeth of pearl to match her tiara, tongue as smooth and cool as the silk of her gown, throat deep and dark and inviting, swallowing the wine he offered into her body in such a way that his blood would rush, longing to be welcomed into her in a like manner.

  “Excellent wine,” she offered.

  “Only the most desirable for the most desirable.”

  “I’m married.” The statement was blunt, to the point, as cold as the ice below in the hold.

  He nodded once toward her, saying with his expression that he knew, but it didn’t matter.

  She translated his unspoken reply and added, “I went to the Tail of the Devil. You were gone.”

  Her words sent an unexpected jolt through him. All these years, he had never known. He had assumed their argu
ment in the room had finished it for her. But he couldn’t let her see the pleasure her accusing statement brought him. “You shouldn’t have taken so long making up your mind,” he answered.

  He could almost see a chill passing over her flesh before his very eyes.

  “Marriage is a lifelong proposition,” she replied. “An hour isn’t long to decide in.”

  Zack couldn’t help himself. His gaze traveled to the gold band encircling her finger, and the words tumbled pell-mell out of his mouth. “How long did it take you to decide to marry the Reverend Blackwell?”

  “From the time you left me?” He could hear the hurt and the anger in her voice. “Almost ten years!”

  One shaggy eyebrow shot upward. “Then you’re newly married. But how can that be? Did your husband go out on a ship just ahead of ours?”

  “No.” She looked down at her untouched plate and whispered the words. “He’s been in India for many years.”

  “Then how… ?”

  “He sent back for a wife. It was a proxy marriage.”

  He was on his feet now, towering over her. “You mean you don’t even know this man you married? Persia, have you gone mad?”

  She glared up at him, her eyes a hard, determined blue. “If I have, it’s your fault!”

  “My fault?”

  “Yes! I loved you, Zack Hazzard, as I will never love another man! I wanted to marry you. Oh, you could never begin to understand how much I wanted that!”

  She was out of her chair now, pacing about the room. “But you were a man of the world. An experienced man. An impatient man. ‘An hour is too long to wait!’” she mocked. “‘She was a fine diversion for one night, but who wants to spend a lifetime with a woman who can’t make up her mind?’”

  “Persia,” he began, meaning to tell her the whole truth of what happened that night. But she refused to allow the interruption. She hurried on, releasing all the pent-up frustration and rage of ten long, lonely winters and as many sad springs, dreary falls, and fruitless summers.

  “Well, I waited, Captain Zachariah Hazzard! I watched the marine news—the ships arriving and those spoke at sea. Always searching for your name. Always hoping and praying that you were safe. You’ll never know how terrified I was every time I sat down to scan the black-bordered column of disasters in the Marine Journal. I have never been a bride, yet I know how a grieving widow feels.”

  Her words struck home. He hung his head and said softly, “You might have married anytime you liked. I was sure you would.”

  The shock of her bitter laughter brought his head up sharply. “The scarlet woman of York County, marry? Surely you jest! My one night with you in Boston cost me my reputation and all hopes for a normal, happy life. I couldn’t go to the village market without having to endure the whispers of the other townspeople, the jeers of naughty little boys. Why, even the mongrel dogs about town seemed to know of my evildoing! They yapped at my heels, trying to bite me.”

  “Persia, you’re dramatizing all this just a bit, aren’t you?”

  She tossed her head and gave him a haughty look. “Perhaps I am. But then, perhaps I have a right to.”

  “I won’t argue that.” He moved closer, trying to take her in his arms, but she turned from him. “All I can say is that I never meant for it to turn out that way.”

  His words and his gesture did soften her slightly. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “Zack, for years I’ve thought about how things would be between us if we ever met again. I swore to myself that if you were alive, I would never say one harsh word to you. I would just be happy. I would ask no questions; I would only love you.”

  “Then why did you refuse me last night?” He was totally mystified by the sudden change in her. “Surely you know how much I needed you… how much I still need you!”

  Persia thrust her hand out so that the candlelight gleamed in the gold on her finger. “Do I have to say it again? I’m married!”

  He caught her hand and tugged the ring from her finger. “There! Now you’re not! This is all you have of a marriage. You don’t have love. You don’t even have a husband yet. The only things standing between us are this sentimental token and your own stubborn pride. I’m about to dispose of one. It’s up to you, Persia, to put an end to the other.”

  He started toward the porthole as if he meant to toss the ring into the sea.

  “Zack, don’t!”

  “Why not? This means nothing. You can’t tell me that you care for the man. You’ve never even met him.”

  “No,” she whispered. “But the ring, Zack…-No!” She ran to him and caught his arm as he drew back to throw it through the opening. “It was my mother’s! Please!” she sobbed.

  “Persia, Persia, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He era- died her in his arms, trying to soothe her, sorry that he had almost done such a stupid thing and had upset her so. “Here, take it.”

  He seized her hand tenderly in his, and when she realized what he was about to do her breath caught, choking off a sob. She stared at his strong brown fingers gently slipping the gold band onto her hand. She could feel the slight pressure even in her heart. How many years had she dreamed of this moment? Now it was happening. He was placing a wedding band on her hand. But it meant nothing! It was another man’s ring… she was another man’s wife.

  She was limp against him, wrung out from all the warring emotions within her. He placed one finger under her chin and raised her face to his.

  “Usually this solemn act is followed by another.”

  Through her tear-starred lashes, Persia watched his lips coming down to hers as if it were all happening in slow motion. Her heart was racing. Her face was flaming hot. Somewhere deep inside her, the word “no” was fighting to get out. But it seemed she had lost all control over her mind and body. She could only cling to his arm and wait for the wine-sweet taste of his mouth. She closed her eyes, parted her lips—waiting, longing, aching for his passion to overthrow her reason.

  But the hungry assault she had expected never came. For the briefest moment, his warm mouth covered hers. And then he released her.

  When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. His face wore an expression of pain like none she had ever seen before.

  “Zack?” she said softly.

  “I won’t try to force you again, Persia. I was wrong last night. I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

  The disappointment she felt stunned her. He was agreeing to play by her rules. So why should his words leave her feeling so empty?

  “Let me make one last statement and we’ll leave it at that. I loved you ten years ago, Persia. I love you even more now. When we ran away together, I was little more than a brash youth. You were a mere child. We’re both adults now, with the awareness of life that it takes to love deeply and forever.”

  She felt her panic rising, and tears flooded into her eyes once more. He need not lay a finger on her to make her tremble. He was standing there, five feet away, ravaging her with his eyes, his words.

  “Zack, please don’t!”

  “Don’t what, darling? I’m only telling you the truth—perhaps the only truth in this whole insane world. You and I were meant to be together. We’ve put in our years of heartache. Now is the time for love.”

  She sank onto her chair and put her face down in her upraised palms. “Oh, if only I’d waited a little longer.”

  He came to her and stroked her arm. “Don’t blame yourself, darling. Fate seems to be playing especially cruel tricks on us. I was in Quoddy Cove earlier this month. Had I gone to your house or spoken to the woman at the pond, I might have found you before you went through with this arranged marriage.”

  She faced him, her eyes wide suddenly. “The woman at the pond?”

  “Yes, something drew me back to the place we met. I stopped awhile to watch the ice harvest while I was thinking. And across the pond there was a lady in a black veil, and she…” His words trailed off as realizat
ion struck. “You, Persia?”

  She nodded. “I was married an hour later.”

  “In black?”

  “White hardly seemed appropriate.”

  “Oh, God!” he groaned. “I came so close to speaking to you. I was going to ask you if you knew Persia Whiddington.”

  “Zack,” she whispered, “I almost did the same. I even asked one of the workmen who you were. He didn’t know.”

  “Damn!” He struck the table with his fist. “How could we have let this happen?”

  She touched his cheek. “How could life have let this happen?”

  The thought of what might have been left them both subdued. They ate their cold meal almost in silence. Since the previous sleepless night had taken its toll on both of them, Zack said good night early.

  At the door, he paused and asked, “Persia, will you at least think about it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “About us, about what life could be if we were together. You aren’t bound to this proxy husband. There’s been nothing between the two of you. Nothing like what we’ve shared.”

  “Zack, I gave him my promise.”

  His eyes went almost black suddenly, and the scar down his face twitched with anger. ‘‘You gave me your promise, too. Long before you spoke any vows to him!”

  Then he left her cabin and closed the door behind him.

  Normally at this time of night, the captain went on deck to make his rounds. But at the moment, Zack didn’t want to see or speak to anyone. He needed a drink—a stiff one.

  He went to his cabin and jerked open the door to his spirits chest, grabbing a bottle of one-hundred-fifty-proof rum by the neck as if he might strangle it. Slamming it down on the table, he flopped into a chair.

  “It’s just you and me now, mate,” he said to the brown bottle. “I’ll be the end of you or you the end of me. We’ll just see which comes first.”

  He grasped the bottle, flipped the cork out with his thumb, and turned it up to his lips. For long minutes, he let the fiery liquor scorch its way down his throat. It lit a fire in his gut and sent hot clouds to his head. Then he put the bottle back down, recorked it, and sat there staring at nothing. He shook his head slowly.