“Be still, Carrie. I’ll take care of you.”
There was something stiff about his voice, something different, but she didn’t know what. She only knew that Rogan was there, and that he was soothing her with his touch and his words, just as he had the first night when she’d collapsed in his arms.
“I know, Rogan. You always do.”
She felt his fingers falter a moment as they grazed her breast and moved lower. Even in her state of pain she felt a response, a shiver of anticipation for what she expected to come. But he simply ranged across her abdomen and down her thighs, applying the liquid until he’d covered everything but her face.
His fingertips spread coolness across her face, her swollen eyelids, her cheeks, lingering on her lips. “Your hair,” he whispered in a gravelly voice, “your lovely hair. Let it grow again—for me.”
“Of course, Rogan. I’ll do anything you ask.”
When Rogan stepped on board there was no sign of Carolina. He called her name, first lightly, then with a thundering voice that set Bully to squawking wildly.
“Hoist anchor, furl the mast! Looky, looky, looky—”
“Shut your beak, you loudmouth, or I’ll pull your claws out one at a time. Where’s Carrie?”
“Carrie!”
Rogan heard the thundering voice calling her name. It had to be his own, but he couldn’t remember saying it.
“Rogan?”
She was in the cabin. He took the steps in one leap, reaching the bed and coming to a stunned stop. She was one pitiful sight. She was blistered so badly that her eyes were closed. Her face was swollen, and her arms were extended out so that they wouldn’t touch her body.
“Great heavens! You’re cooked!”
“Well, you wanted me to learn how,” she managed weakly.
“But I didn’t intend for you to start with yourself. Does it hurt?”
“Not as much since you put that lotion all over me.”
She was hallucinating. There was an odd-looking bottle of liquid on the table by the bed, a bottle without a label. She must have found it in his chest and used it before she got so feverish. No point in upsetting her by denying her claim. Instead he knelt beside her. “Would you like more lotion?”
“Oh, yes. I like you touching me.”
He quickly remembered that he liked touching her too—too much, so that what started out as a medicinal effort soon became an intense test of willpower. Carolina was in no condition to move, and yet her nipples puckered in response beneath his touch. On the way back home, when he ought to have been trying to find a way to keep his ship, he’d been searching for a way to let Carolina go, starting with a vow that he wouldn’t touch her again. He’d allow her to stay on board until they could find a solution to her future, but nothing more.
He was a strong man. He could control his emotions. He was old enough to refuse to give into base sexual urges and to explain to Carolina why it was better that they refrain from lovemaking. There were hundreds of men out there better suited to her. She owed it to herself to look over the market and make sure she wasn’t mistaking a simple crush, or lust, or even gratitude, for more.
But it wasn’t working. His heart was pounding; he was hard and throbbing. With effort, he pulled air into lungs that felt as if they were as blistered as the skin he was touching.
“Oh, Rogan, I wish I could open my eyes and see you.”
“Why?”
She licked her parched lips. “You’re so beautiful, so gentle, so special. Thank you for caring—”
She would have finished, but his lips brushed hers once, then again. “Your lips were cool before, Rogan. They’re warm now.”
Before? “Just lie here and rest. I’ll fix you something cool to drink.”
“Yes, I’d like that. I’d like crushed ice and peaches, like you brought earlier.”
Rogan started to argue, then he saw the glass with tiny slivers of peach swimming in the melting liquid. This was very strange. Carolina was probably describing what she’d imagined, what she herself had done, what she’d fantasized.
But what about the glass?
And what about the peaches?
Seven
Carolina dreamed again, but she dreamed almost every time she slept now, hazy impressions of Rogan. Sometimes he was dressed in his shorts. Sometimes he took on the persona of Captain Jacob. Jacob was always tantalizingly close, yet just out of her vision.
This dream was different. Whisper-soft hands applied lotion to her hot body, followed later by cream-covered, rough fingers that both tingled and soothed. She squirmed and moaned, and not altogether from the pain of the sunburn.
Rogan wanted to slip back in bed with her, but the dragons that warred inside his mind were too strong. He should have taken her to town before he’d let his sense of responsibility take over. Hell, when would that have been? He’d felt responsible the moment he laid eyes on her, as if they’d bonded immediately in some old-world, mystical alliance.
Rogan sighed and covered his charge with a sheet. He was shocked at her flushed pink skin. The September sun would not have blistered a normal skin, but Carolina’s, protected so long from the elements, was tender. He didn’t think she’d be ill, for the lotion was already making a difference. But he was stunned by his ever-growing protective instincts.
He replaced the cork in the bottle and studied it again. The container was old, but the lotion inside was fresh. There was a citrus scent to the liquid and a creamy texture that he didn’t recognize. When he’d moved from his condo in Savannah to St. Marys he’d spent several days at Ridegeway Inn, storing some of his things in Ida’s root cellar. Perhaps when he’d left he’d inadvertently picked up someone else’s medication without being aware of it.
Carolina was sleeping quietly now, the rise and fall of the sheet evidence of that. He fed Bully and made himself a sandwich, of which he took two bites before discarding it. For the first time, the Scarlet Butterfly withheld its peace. Granted, his talk with the lawyer had been unsettling, but he’d expected that. He’d expected Carolina to be there when he returned too. But finding her sleeping in his bed again, flushed and feverish, had unnerved him.
Moonlight dappled the deck with lacy patches of light, the tree limbs throwing shadows between them. Rogan lay thinking about the other Carolina and Rogan, the hammock swaying gently as the ship undulated in the water. It was just as he was sliding into sleep that he noticed the vague shadow near the galley, a dark silhouette of a man wearing a captain’s hat. Imagination, he scoffed mentally. For a moment he actually thought someone was standing there.
“Carolina?”
There was no answer and the shape seemed to absorb into itself and disappear. But the faint smell of tobacco that always lingered around the ship was stronger. This time Rogan decided to check it out.
Quietly he slipped off the ship and down the gangplank to shore. In the shadows, he stopped and waited. But there were no sounds to indicate an intruder, and the tobacco smell was too faint to follow. As always, it seemed to center on the Butterfly. Rogan had never worried about himself, but Carolina was under his protection now. Nothing, he vowed, was going to happen to her.
He’d bought a cookbook to satisfy that part of their arrangement, and the ship’s restoration was almost finished. As soon as the portrait of the schooner was done, he’d find a place for Carolina in town, perhaps at the inn. That way, if they decided to do so, they could continue to see each other.
Ida could take care of her.
Carolina needed taking care of.
Sean flexed his fingers. The tips still tingled with coolness, a residual effect of the lotion he’d rubbed on Carolina’s body.
Carolina.
It was all he could do to stop himself from going below to check on her again.
As Rogan slept, the ship rocked on the water. Carolina dreamed.
And the curious shadow that was neither man nor spirit glided forth along the deck, like a sentry on watch. Thoughts leaped ou
t of the void and voiced themselves in his mind as he paced the old, familiar deck.
Heaven above, how can I be here? Why am I here? Carolina is falling in love with this man. And I can’t stop her.
Jacob felt a great sense of urgency. He didn’t know why, but he knew that he didn’t have much time.
The next morning Carolina could hardly walk. Though she was still sore, the sunburn had already begun to fade. But clothes? She couldn’t abide the thought. Instead, she slid into another of Rogan’s T-shirts, a dark green one that came to mid-thigh. Climbing the stairs, she felt a slight tingle in her hand, the kind of sensation that once signaled the approach of a dreaded seizure. But it soon stopped and she forgot about it as she heard the sound of hammering.
With a vengeance, Rogan was nailing planks in the hole on deck. He didn’t know she was watching, though she noticed his glancing across at the opposite shore and back. There was something primitive about this man, something elemental that stirred her as deeply as the woman for whom she’d been named must have responded to Jacob.
Suddenly Rogan stood and whirled around. He caught sight of her and snapped, “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“I’m sorry. You were making so much noise that I didn’t think you’d hear me.”
Then he looked concerned. “I’m sorry, did I wake you? I’m so used to being the only one here that I didn’t think. At least I was until last night; now I’m not sure.”
“You mean there’s someone else here?”
“No,… well, maybe. I mean I can’t see him, but I feel him. He’s watching me, the bas—” He cut himself off, caught by the sight of her—hair disheveled, looking like a child who’d just come from her bath, all scrubbed and pink. “How is your sunburn?”
“It’s much better, thanks to your help. You must have used the entire bottle of medicine.”
His head jerked up in surprise. There’d been half the bottle left when he’d gone to bed. “But I didn’t—” He stopped. If there were some kinky bastard slinking around applying lotion to sleeping women, he didn’t need to alarm Carolina. Instead he inspected her, examining her with as medical an expression as he could muster, considering that all he could see was the lovely body his shirt was hugging.
She didn’t flinch. The woman was entirely too trusting. He let out a long breath. “Well, it does seem to have worked. You aren’t nearly so red as I expected you to be. Maybe I’ll put on more lotion. Bring the bottle to the galley.”
“But it wasn’t on the table by my bed when I woke. Didn’t you do something with it?”
“No, I left it there.”
They stared at each other for a puzzled moment. “Well, it’s probably on the floor somewhere. After I make breakfast I’ll look.” She turned toward the galley.
“Ah, Carolina, I bought you a cookbook,” Rogan called out. “It’s on the table.”
“Thanks.” Carolina tried to appreciate his thoughtfulness, but all she could think about was the fact that one condition of her staying was that she learn to cook. He was trying to hasten that. She leafed through the pages of the book, read the complicated gourmet recipes, and smiled. She might learn to cook, but not from this book, and not right away. Rogan was putting out a mixed message. She wondered if he was fooling himself, and decided that it didn’t matter.
Carolina hummed softly as she peeled the peaches on the counter, then located a box of flake cereal and bowls. She tried to copy Rogan’s making of the coffee. Once it finished perking, she sampled the hot liquid and decided that it was a little strong, but close enough.
“Rogan, come and eat.”
At a water barrel outside the galley, Rogan washed his face and hands, slinging the water across the deck as the sun dried his skin. He’d thought about Carolina all the time he was working, chastising himself for making love to her. Even if her overbearing father had convinced her that she was unappealing, Rogan had no right to touch her. Loving her tied her to him more closely, and he knew about women and their nesting instincts.
He’d just about persuaded himself to treat her as a boarder, an employee, a deckhand, when he stepped into the galley and caught sight of her leaning down to take the milk from the refrigerator. Deckhands didn’t borrow his T-shirts, and they certainly didn’t show their bare bottoms to the boss.
“Goldilocks,” he said in a voice that was much too gravelly. “I think we’d better invest in some fashionable long dresses for you.”
“Long dresses?” She closed the refrigerator door and turned, placing the milk on the table.
“Yes, with high necklines and long sleeves.”
“Why, Captain.” She smiled and took two steps that brought her to him. “Why would you want to do that?” She couldn’t let that strained expression remain on his face. The day was too beautiful. He was too beautiful. She put her arms around his neck and reached up to kiss him.
Sean turned his head so that all she found was his cheek. “So I won’t—you won’t—get sunburned.” He unclasped her hands and slid past her. Taking his seat on the bench, he turned enthusiastically to the food.
“More peaches?”
“Yes, they were here on the counter. I thought you must have seen Harry again this morning.”
“Nobody has been here except the two of us. Though last night I did think I might have seen—Never mind. I’m going to have another look along the shore. If somebody is spying on us, he’s probably just curious about a woman on board.”
“Shore?” Her face became even more flushed. “Do you think he was watching yesterday when we—when I was sleeping on deck after we—after you left?”
“You fell asleep? That makes more sense. I was afraid you were one of those foolish women trying to get a tan, until I realized you were blistered on only one side.”
“I haven’t thanked you for putting me to bed and taking care of me. That’s becoming a habit.”
Sean frowned at Carolina. “That’s the second time you’ve said something about me helping you. I didn’t.”
“Of course you did. That first day I was walking down the road and I grew very dizzy. Suddenly there you were, in your captain’s clothes and cap. You carried me back to the Butterfly and put me to bed.”
“Carolina, the first time I laid eyes on you was when I walked into my cabin and found you under my sheet.”
“But that can’t be. You comforted me and told me you’d take care of me. I felt you. I heard you.”
“You were just weak and confused.”
Carolina stood, eyes wide, her breath coming fast and shallow. “Sean Rogan, I’ve been weak and confused for a long time. But not about you, not about being here. I know that I passed out, but I saw you. I felt the rough texture of your coat against my cheek. I smelled your pipe tobacco, so you can quit sneaking around smoking.”
“Rough texture of my coat, in all this heat?”
“Yes, I did—at least I thought I did.”
“And did you see me lift you from the deck and put you to bed yesterday too?”
“Yes … well, no. I think I walked. Then later my eyes were closed. I mean my lids were swollen, and I couldn’t open them. But I felt you and smelled you and heard your voice. It was you, Rogan. And you can stop playing games with me!”
He started to say that she’d been dreaming, but it wouldn’t have satisfied her; that he didn’t smoke, but he’d smelled the tobacco too. Whatever the answer was, she really believed that he’d brought her on board and cared for her. And for a moment, Rogan wished it were so.
Still, she did get on board, which left two possibilities. Either Carolina was the one who was playing games, or there was someone else on board. There were too many unexplained happenings: the tobacco, the lotion, even the peaches that appeared mysteriously.
“Perhaps you’re right, Carolina. I’ll search again.”
Rogan left the galley and made his way down the ramp to the dock and into the trees, where he forced himself to stop and listen. There were no sounds indi
cating that either the woodland creatures or the marsh animals were being disturbed. After letting out a deep breath, he began to look around.
Only his footprints and Carolina’s were visible, but that was to be expected. Undaunted, he crept into the brush, moving quietly, studying, examining, determined to find physical evidence of the presence he’d sensed for several days.
On board the Butterfly, Carolina put away the breakfast things. The sun was trying to climb above the tree line, but it seemed caught in the limbs of the pines so that piercing arrows of gold penetrated their foliage.
Carolina gathered up the painting supplies that Rogan had bought for her and made her way on deck. She found a spot overlooking the lake where she could see the river. She sat in the shadows, with her canvas in the sunlight. First she’d select and paint the site, then she’d move onto the bank and sketch in the ship.
Now and then she heard Rogan—or at least she hoped it was Rogan—moving around the small lake. At one point she watched him swim across the river and pull himself from the water on the other side.
But she soon lost herself in her drawing. And to her surprise she found she didn’t need to move to shore to see the lines of the Butterfly. The sketch was rough, but it was good. A feeling of confidence surged through her as she tried to capture all her feelings for the ship. At first just a phantom, it soon took shape and form.
Finally she leaned back and studied her effort. The Scarlet Butterfly’s canvases were unfurled, caught by the wind as it skimmed along the water. Its graceful bow lifted in flight.
“There’s something wrong.”
Rogan was back. She studied her drawing. What’s wrong?
“It’s the figurehead, lass. The carving of the Scarlet Butterfly is missing from her bow.”
She hadn’t heard him come on board, but her senses recognized him, and his deep voice confirmed it. He wasn’t angry anymore. And he was right. There should have been a figurehead. She turned, her face filled with joy. But no one was there.
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