As she fell asleep, she breathed in the smell of lemon oil, the smell of rain, the smell of pipe tobacco.
• • •
When Sean brought the coffee to the cabin, she was sleeping peacefully. He studied her for a long time, then placed the cup on the table beside the bed and left the cabin. He didn’t trust himself not to touch her.
And he vividly remembered the last time he had.
It was late afternoon when Sean Rogan followed the gangplank down into the water until he found the dock and walked to shore. He plunged through the palmetto palms at a rapid pace toward the remains of the old house. He didn’t know why he was so angry, but he wanted to break things. Using a fallen limb, he swept the brush aside with a violence that would have served him well in a sword fight.
For the two years since he’d walked away from the Rogan empire, he’d lived on this land. At first he’d planned to restore the house. It was because of another storm and the accidental capsizing of his own small boat that he’d discovered the Butterfly in the lake. From the moment he’d realized what he’d found, he’d been obsessed with the thought of raising and restoring it. After months of research he’d brought in men who knew how to pump out mud and pump in air. And finally, they’d brought her to the surface.
The men had warned him that the ship wouldn’t be intact, that warm water and worms would have rendered it unsalvageable. They’d been wrong. The Butterfly had survived for two reasons: It had been built from cypress, and some long-ago flood had encased it in protective mud. It wasn’t totally without damage, but it was in much better shape than anybody had expected.
His plans to live in the house were quickly shelved in favor of living on the boat. Storage quarters became his cabin, with a small toilet just off the bedroom. The original galley built on deck had been refurbished and served as his kitchen. There were no sails yet. The masts needed replacing, as did one section of the deck that had been destroyed by some unknown object or person.
At the house, Sean climbed the steps and entered the foyer. Mold and spiderwebs draped the remaining walls. Large holes in the roof let in the rain, and some intruder had built a fire in the middle of what was once the parlor floor.
None of the present Rogans knew much about the house, only that early ancestors had built the house on the river they had used to move their goods to market. Years later they’d planted the pecan orchards and moved to Savannah, leaving the house to fall into ruins. Sean’s brothers and sisters were only too happy to let him claim the swampy acreage as his part of the family real estate. None of them wanted it. There was no money to be made in the marsh, and rice farming was a thing of the past.
Sean had felt as if he’d come home. There was something peaceful about the ruins. If he had been into spiritualism, he could have seen himself meditating in this place. Holding seances even, opening himself to the spirits of the people who’d once lived there. The original deeds for the house and land probably carried the first Rogan’s name. But courthouse records with dates and names had burned long ago.
He looked around. The once-proud walls were broken, like the woman on his boat. Both needed new life. They’d both come under his care. But the house was a thing, and things could be picked up and discarded. The woman was different.
The rain stopped, leaving only the constant sound of water dripping from the tree limbs through the holes in the ceiling. The air was heavy, humid. Now tiny biting insects began to swarm, and Sean regretted not having grabbed a shirt.
A shirt.
His shirt.
The woman wearing his shirt.
Four
Carolina had hoped she was through needing so much sleep; instead, it seemed that she needed more. Once sleep had been a welcome escape from pain, from boredom, from the sameness of her illness. But this sleep was different. It came in gentle contentment. It was late afternoon when she opened her eyes and saw him standing just out of range in the doorway.
“You’re always in the shadows,” she said quietly. “Where you don’t look quite real.”
“I am not real, lass. I fear none of this is. I should not be able to converse with you.”
“You’re not Rogan, are you?”
“No. I’m—I’m not quite sure who I am.”
“Does Rogan see you?”
“No. I think not—not yet.”
“Well, you’re very real to me.”
“I know, and I don’t like it, lass. This is all wrong—your presence here—alone—now. You’re part of a future to which I do not belong. And I will not watch you suffer again. Go back where you belong.”
“Do you really want me to go?”
“Do I want? I want—no, in truth I don’t wish you to go, but it’s best. There can be no purpose served by any of this. It was all settled long ago. Raising the schooner was a mistake. Trust me, Carolina. This isn’t right.”
“But you love the Scarlet Butterfly.”
“Yes—that, and more.”
And then he was gone, and she couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t dreamed him. Was the man Rogan? Something about him was different—his speech pattern, the way he kept his distance. He moved so softly. The stairs hadn’t even creaked as he’d left.
Trust him, he’d asked. He didn’t have to ask. For she knew that she already did. But he wanted her to go, and that was something she couldn’t do—not yet.
His shirt was still damp from the rain, so when she dressed she donned her own clothes. The tailored skirt and blouse hung loose on her body. She looked at them and frowned, trying to imagine why she’d ever bought anything so tacky. The answer was that she hadn’t. Her father had bought all her clothes, or he’d had someone else do it.
It hadn’t always been that way. There’d been a time, once, when she’d been able to do her own choosing—her last two years of college. She’d reveled in the freedom. After two years of attending a small nearby college while she’d lived at home, she’d transferred to a university in Dallas. For two years she’d lived in the dorm like an ordinary student, taking art classes from a renowned instructor. She’d even met someone, someone who had seemed content with her.
But that was as long as the dream lasted. Just before graduation she’d come down with a headache that wouldn’t go away. She’d thought it was the flu, or that maybe she was simply overworked, but it had intensified, until one day she had a seizure and awoke in the hospital. The rest was a blur of pain and disappointment.
After she’d been released from the hospital, Carolina had continued to live at home so that her doctors could monitor her condition on an outpatient basis. Void of energy and inspiration, she’d given up her art. She hadn’t picked up a sketch pad in over a year. She’d been sick and so very tired for so long. Who wanted to sketch hospitals and sick people?
But suddenly, on the Butterfly, she could feel a spark of creative yearning come to life again. The huge live oak trees with their branches curtsying to the ground, the cypress knees, the river, the birds. She knew there’d be birds when the rain stopped, for she’d heard them calling to one another. Yes, her fingers itched for a piece of charcoal and a sketch pad.
The weather had cleared while she’d slept. But clear weather was a mixed blessing. It meant she had to leave.
Bully was squawking loudly when she entered the empty galley. A pot of something that smelled wonderful was simmering on the gas stove. The sun was shining brightly, and the air smelled fresh and clean. Carolina stepped out on the deck and looked around. The setting sun cast pink and purple shadows across the marsh as the huge orange ball slid out of sight behind the trees. As if on command, a white egret rose from the marsh and swept regally across the river to the other side, disappearing into the tall grass.
Yes, there was something peaceful about this place, something welcoming. She wished she didn’t have to go.
Then she saw him, at the back of the boat, squatting down as he studied something intently. His body, caught by the sun’s rays, glowed in a golden hue.
He was so sleek and strong, with the graceful moves of some jungle savage. The sight of him brought an odd quiver to her body, and she caught her breath. The tendons in her knees weakened and her blood seemed to stop, refusing to move through her veins. If she hadn’t leaned against the galley, she would have swayed.
She must have made a sound, because suddenly he looked up. Their gazes met, and she felt that same powerful feeling arc between them.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I guess I’m not as strong as I look.”
“You don’t look very strong.”
“I know. I look dreadful.”
He decided she was wrong. She didn’t look dreadful. She looked ethereal, delicate. Even in the stiff little skirt and simple blouse, she seemed wrapped in a dreamlike quality that prickled his nerve endings.
She returned his stare for a moment, then said, “It’s stopped raining.”
“Yes. The water has already started to recede.”
“I’ll be able to leave tomorrow.”
“Perhaps, but not in your car.”
“Why?”
“You won’t be able to drive it out of the mire. It was too light to withstand the current and it got washed off the road. The same thing might have happened to my truck, if you hadn’t forced me to leave it so far back.”
Sean knew he probably could have hooked a rope to the car and pulled it back on the road with his truck. But the wet ground might not provide enough traction, and for some reason he was reluctant to try.
“There’s more bad news,” he went on.
“Oh?” She didn’t tell him, but the news that she probably couldn’t leave yet didn’t dismay her.
“You left your windows open. The flood swept right through the car and took your suitcase with it.”
“And probably my purse as well. I must have left it behind.” Carolina looked down at her skirt and blouse and frowned. “I suppose it could have been worse. At least I still have this suit.”
“I think I liked you better in my shirt.”
Sean hadn’t meant to say it, but it was true. The skirt made her a real person, not his private dream. Now there was an awkward moment of silence, of awareness, of confusion.
“So did I,” she said softly, then added more hurriedly, “What are you doing?”
“I’m preparing my bed for tonight.” He lifted the end of a heavy white corded object that looked like some giant crocheted doily. “It’s a hammock.”
“You’re going to sleep out here? Won’t the mosquitoes eat you alive?”
“Nope, I have a mosquito net.” He attached the hammock to the far mast and walked it forward to hang it on a nail on the back wall of the galley. Next he took a fine, gauzy net and set it up. Suddenly the hammock was covered by a waterfall-like tent of webbing.
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Carolina said. “May I try it?”
“Sure, come inside.” He lifted the net and made room for her as she slipped inside. “You pull the edge of the hammock out and sit in the middle.”
But Carolina was too light and the hemp was too strong. Every time she tried to lie down, the edges simply closed over her as if she were a fish caught inside a net.
“Here, let me sit beside you and hold it open.”
Sean sat. That was a mistake. He so outweighed her that she tumbled into his waiting arms as if it had all been planned.
“Whoa!”
They were both snarled in the swinging net.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to separate herself by twisting in Sean’s arms. But the more they struggled, the more entangled they became. Sean’s fingers inadvertently found Carolina’s ticklish spot. She jerked and began to laugh. It was as if her earlier dream of swinging in a hammock with a lover had come true. Sean was silent for a moment; then, as she began tickling him back, his laughter joined hers.
“All right, already,” she heard him say. “You’ve got me at your mercy. What is this, death by tickling?”
“You started it.”
Hands touched, legs grazed. The hammock turned, finally dumping them unceremoniously to the deck, his strong body landing first, cushioning the blow as she landed on top.
“Are you all right?” he asked from his position beneath her, his smile quickly replaced by a scowl.
“I think so. You don’t have to be ashamed of having fun. You have a nice laugh, Sean Rogan. I don’t think you laugh much.”
There was a breathlessness in her voice.
“I don’t have much to laugh about.”
“But of course you do. You have this wonderful boat, and the freedom to live any way you choose, to be—to be here. You can’t know what that means.”
Freedom was important to her. He didn’t yet know why, but he could understand. And she was right—the boat was important, not because it was his, but because it had been wounded and he’d given it life again. There was something wounded about Carolina Evans too.
“You’re here too,” he said, his eyes searching for something that he couldn’t name.
“Yes, I am. What happened to your face?” She couldn’t stop her fingertips from tracing the scar that ran from his hairline to his eyebrow and to the corner of his frowning eyes.
“I slipped through a hole on deck and caught a splinter as I fell.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Like hell.”
“You curse a lot, don’t you?”
“I guess you’re not used to hearing such language from the men you know.”
“No, the men I know are more … refined, they’d say. I’d call it more controlled. They don’t allow their emotions to show quite so strongly as you do.”
“What makes you think I let my emotions show?”
She allowed a playful smile to part her lips. He could see her small pink tongue and white teeth.
“Don’t you?” she asked, and gave a wiggle to her body, the body that was pressing against the part of his anatomy that continued to defy his control. “I’d say your emotions are very strong, and very obvious.”
With a growl, he came to his feet, bringing her with him. “Stop it, witch, or you’re liable to find out how strong I really am.”
“I think, Captain Rogan, that I might like discovering the extent of your strength.”
He held her arms, pushing her away as he took a deep, calming breath. “No, Carolina. And you’d do well not to tempt me. You don’t even know me. I’m not what you think. I“m not some safe haven in the storm. I hurt people; that’s why I prefer inanimate objects that don’t resist my control.”
“ ‘Hurt people’? I think you’re the one who’s been hurt. Now you’re a recluse, Rogan, a rough, quiet man who avoids people. But you’re not violent. Ida, the woman at the inn, told me how kind you are, how you contribute money to the town, how much they depend on you.”
“I’m just buying my privacy. That’s self-defense, not kindness. I can’t imagine why Ida told you anything. She knows better.” His moment of lightness was gone. “Let’s eat, before the stew burns.” He deftly turned her around and pushed her toward the galley.
Carolina didn’t think she was hungry, but after she tasted the first sip she realized how wrong she was. For the first time in a long time, she relished the food she was eating.
“You know I can’t take your bed,” she said.
“Well, I suppose you could share it with me.”
She studied him carefully. “I think I would, but I don’t believe you really mean that.”
“You’re right, Carolina Evans. So I’m going to sleep on deck. But meanwhile we’re going to talk. You know that I’m an honorable hermit with money. I think it’s time I knew about you. Tell me your story.”
He was right. She owed him the truth. If, after hearing it, he dumped her in the river, it was probably what she deserved. Lord knew she’d thought about jumping in enough times herself.
“All right. As you already know, I’ve been ill. I was always small, frail, but th
ey never found anything wrong. If I had a cold, it turned into pneumonia. If I skinned my knee, it got infected. I missed a lot of school as a child.”
“So, you weren’t strong. That happens. Your mother must have worried about you.”
“My mother died when I was six. Afterward my father kept me pretty close. If I didn’t come in contact with sick children, I might stay healthy, was his philosophy. There were nurses, housekeepers, tutors. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I began to seriously question my isolation.”
“What was wrong with you?”
“There was nothing wrong. I finally figured it out and forced my father to agree. At last he relented and said that I could attend college, so long as it was the local one and I lived at home. And I did, for over two years. Then I turned rebel. I ran away.”
“I can understand that. Nobody wants to be totally controlled. But even I can tell that you aren’t very strong.”
“No, you don’t understand. I rebelled because I didn’t believe that I was really sick when I was growing up, no more than any other child. He’d lied to me—out of fear, I think. My mother was a weak woman with many problems, and after she died he thought I should be protected.”
“So you grew up and ran away. Why?”
“I wanted to find my own way, make a life for myself. He refused to let me go. But I had my own money, the interest on a trust fund from my mother. I applied to Southern Methodist University, and when I was accepted, I simply packed my bags, wrote a note for my father, and left. The next day he was in Dallas trying to take me home.”
“What is your father, a tyrant?”
“No, not really. He’s just convinced that he’s right, like most attorneys who always win.”
“An attorney? Damn! I’m convinced that the worst people on the face of the earth are lawyers.”
“Oh? Do you have someone in your family who’s an attorney?”
“Yes, me.”
It was Carolina’s turn to groan. Of all the professions in the world, her sea captain would have to be an attorney, like her father. But that was where the similarities ended. Her father would never be caught dead in a pair of worn shorts on a boat moored in the middle of a marsh. No, their professions might be the same, but that was all.
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