She walked east, the sand sucking at her bare feet. Grunting in exertion, she didn’t hear the sound at first… She stopped, tilting her head to the west, where most of the debris had collected. She usually shied away from digging through the smashed timbers and such, because she couldn’t stand the sight of the bloated bodies that usually littered the wreckage. But, this time, she heard something she hadn’t heard before…a low moaning, like the groanings of a forlorn spirit.
Wary and not a little bit frightened of what it could be, Glynnis took a step forward, her breath stuck somewhere between her chest and her head. When the sound did not repeat, she took another step and another, now overwhelmed with curiosity.
Mother would have my liver for this… But her mother wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere. But Glynnis was… She was just a few feet from the splintered wreckage of a large hull, which looked as though it had been sawn in half by a giant. Large, twisted wooden beams rose into the sky like the ribs of a whale. The bow was missing and the stern was lodged into the sand—though even most of that was gone. All that remained of the ship were a few large pieces of wood, strewn canvas and rope…and five dead men.
Sucking in a breath, she nearly retched. The sight of the men, pale and unmoving, made her insides wriggle and leap.
“Lord grant me peace for the passing—”
That deep, agonized groaning returned, and she peered through the ship’s exposed ribs to see a large man attempting to roll over. He was wet, his long black hair was matted with seawater and sand, and his clothes were nearly shredded. Before Glynnis could react, the man lurched, coughed, then lay still.
Alarmed, Glynnis dropped the net she’d been holding and squeezed between the upright beams to scrambled over the detritus—ignoring the other sightless men—to kneel beside the man who seemed to have survived the storm.
With effort, she flipped him from his belly to his back and looked down at his face. Her air left her body on a sharp gasp.
He was beautiful.
And he was still breathing.
Chapter Three
His head ached like Bruce had sat on it, and his body felt like the fires of hell were scorching him from the inside out. But…he wasn’t dead. At least he could assume that the softness on which he was laying wasn’t a form of torture for the damned sinner.
Unwilling to move his aching limbs, Robbie held his breath and tried to remember what happened.
He’d been aboard the Saint Anne, and there was a storm. Then…nothing.
Letting out his suspended breath he slowly pried one eye open. His vision was blurry, his eye burning, but he forced himself to focus on the figure across the room. Where was he, and who was that?
Determined if a little battered, Robbie slowly opened his other eye. He peered into the ceiling overhead. Thick beams beneath a thatched roof. He was in a cottage then. He was warm, and he could hear the fire crackling in the hearth. The air was scented with cooked fish, and his stomach practically tore itself from his body in want to consume it. He wasn’t dead but he was hungry…and more than likely growing a dozen bruises.
A shadow cast over the ceiling and he waited for the owner to appear. Moments passed as he waited, his breath lodged in his chest. His naked chest. He was naked beneath the thick blanket.
Usually, he wouldn’t mind, but now wasn’t a usual circumstance. He continued waiting for something to happen, for someone to notice that he was awake. He heard and saw nothing but the fire crackling and the shadow dancing. Curiosity had always been his bane, something his own mother had said was his curse; he always wanted to know the why even when the what was none of his damned business. Slowly, quietly letting out the breath, he turned his head again to try and make out the figure he’d seen upon wakening.
Short, flat, cloaked in shadows cast by the fire, the person was pacing…and mumbling. How had he not heard the mumbling before.
Because, you survived a shipwreck; your head is pealing like a bell in a church steeple.
He grunted, which made the person in front of the hearth stop and turn toward him. They stiffened, and he waited for the exclamation he thought would come. Perhaps a sigh of relief that he had survived.
The figured started toward him, and as his eyes adjusted, he noticed the long, dark, frayed skirt, the bare feet, and the long dark hair the hung in thick, loosely curled strands over a strikingly unimpressive chest.
It was a woman…and she was scowling down at him.
“Damn and blast,” the woman hissed, and he flinched. That wasn’t the usual exclamation when a woman gazed down at him naked in her bed.
Again…all of this is unusual…
“I take it you expected me to die…” Robbie murmured, his voice coming out in a deep, rumbling that sounded like the thunder rolling along the coast. He coughed, trying to wet his scratchy throat. “I am sorry to disappoint you.” He attempted a smirk, but it turned into a grimace when he tried to raise his hand to his head.
She planted her hands on her ample hips and snapped, “Nay, tis not your surviving that surprised me—though you slept for three days—it’s the look of you!”
This time, his smirk was all Ravishing Robbie. She recoiled as if he’d reached out and slapped her.
“Oh, aye, you are just like the rest of them—barging into my life and trying to soften the blow by smiling and flashing your dimples,” she shrilled, throwing her hands up in frustration. A frustration he couldn’t understand.
“I do not know what you are rambling on about, woman, but I can guarantee you have never met me before—I would remember someone like you.”
The woman glared down at him with striking violet eyes, the irises burning with flickers of anger interwoven with defiance. Damn but she had lovely eyes…for a flat-chested harridan.
Tired of being berated while naked and prone on her bed, Robbie tried to sit up—the muscles in his arms buckled beneath the burst of pain that slammed through him. Every inch of his body protested. With a grunt, he collapsed back into the bed. It was obvious he’d been asleep for three days, he was nearly as weak as a babe.
The woman snickered. “Feeling a bit weak and impotent?”
Even as the heat of humiliation rose into his face, he was hiding his embarrassment behind a practiced smile.
“Trust me, love, I have never known a moment of impotence…especially in a woman’s bed,” he drawled, using the deep raspiness of his voice to wring every last ounce of sensuality from his statement. Certainly, the woman was a termagant, but she was a woman. Surely, he wasn’t losing his touch.
Perhaps you were a little more damaged in the wreck than you first thought. Perhaps with a more charming approach— Nay! He just needed to get out of the bed, find his clothes, and leave. There was nothing this woman could say that would make him remain in her rather stiff and disapproving presence.
“You are just like the rest of them…you Rees never could look at a woman without wanting to plow her like a fertile field.”
You are just like the rest of them… It was the second time she’d said that but this time, something rooted itself in his thoughts. Her words sank in and his heart jerked, stumbling in his chest.
“What do you mean…you Rees?” he asked, confused as to why he was suddenly terrified.
She sneered, her penetrating gaze raking over him in a fashion he was unaccustomed to; her gaze was anything but appreciative.
“Black hair, eyes as green as the sea foam… You are a Rees.”
He was staring at her as if she’d lopped off her own head and threw it into the fire. His flickering green eyes—eyes that shouldn’t belong on any human man—bored into her.
“I am a Bowlin,” he said, once again struggling to rise.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she arched an eyebrow.
“Not the first time a Rees lied to me,” she intoned, her voice dry. Husky. Not at all in response to the deliriously attractive man, naked in her bed.
“Why would I lie?” he asked
, finally succeeding in propping himself up on the mattress she’d made and remade over the last five years. She refused to sleep in the bed she’d once shared with William, and so she’d fashioned the mattress from pieces of flax linen ticking, and stuffed it with down and dried rushes she’d found while foraging. So, to think that another Rees was now soiling her bed—it took all her will to keep from pulling the man onto the floor. He was wounded, after all. And she was a god-fearing woman.
Pushing her nose into the air, she stuck out her chin. “That’s one of the two things Rees men do well.”
He arched an ink black eyebrow and she had to fight down the urge to moan at the sight. Damn but the man was beautiful. And he knew it.
And there you are…falling for another black-hearted Rees.
She shook her head, nearly missing what he asked.
“What is the second thing?” That voice! He was using his voice like a weapon, he had to be! There was no earthly reason for his voice to be that deep…that alluring.
She sucked in a breath and answered, “Seducing women.”
A mirthful smirk brightened his features, and she growled.
A boom of laughter filled her cabin, and the beat of her heart galloped ahead.
He’d thrown back his head to chuckle into the ceiling, exposing his thick neck, which only drew her gaze to his broad shoulders, and then to the planes of his chest smattered with wisps of dark hair.
He lifted his head and she snapped her gaze back to his face. It was a mistake. The gorgeousness of his grin was only matched by the flashing green of his eyes, which had darkened from sea foam to sea storm in a blink.
“Seducing women is a favorite of mine…”
She swallowed, her sharp retort lost in her trembling frame—trembling with rage and not desire. At least that’s what she was telling herself.
He sat up, which made the blanket slip down his belly. His taut, trim belly with ridges of muscle that bunched and smoothed as he twisted to get comfortable. Once again, she had to tear her gaze away from him.
Damn her for caring enough to undress him to look for hidden injuries. Thankfully, she’d done most of it in the dark, with only a tallow candle with which to see. She’d been careful to not inspect any of his more…obvious parts, but she had tarried a little over the thick ropes of muscles in his thighs…and the muscular definition of his upper body…and the striking lines and hollows of his face. Even in unconsciousness, the man had been much too handsome.
There must have been something telling in her expression because he chuckled again, then coughed. The cough was rough, hoarse, shaking the whole of him.
“Water,” he croaked. Startled and disgusted with her own lack of thought and consideration for the battered man, she spun on her heel and sped across the room to the water pot beside the wash basin. She poured cool, clean water into a wooden cup and then turned back to make her way to him. He was still coughing—though less pronounced—but he was also staring at her, a curious look on his face.
Of course, there is! He’s probably wondering where your mind has gone; pestering him like a harpy when he’s just awoken and is still recovering from his injuries.
Shame pummeled her—just as surely as the waves pummeled the man before her as he struggled to survive the storm. Sighing, she forced a smile and walked toward him. As she handed him the cup, his fingers slid against hers…slowly. Purposefully. She snatched her hand back which made the cup spill its contents all over the man’s chest. The water sluiced down his belly, through the muscled ridges like a river through a rocky gully, and then disappeared beneath the blanket. Her gaze followed the flow of water…and she noticed that the blanket did nothing to keep her mind from wondering…what’s beneath it?
He said nothing as she stared at him, her eyes wide. Then…that damn smile appeared, lopsided and hellishly sensual.
“I think I need more water,” he drawled, humor lacing his words.
Glynnis narrowed her gaze and pursed her lips. Without a word, she turned and retrieved more water, this time handing it to him while carefully avoiding his touch.
Wanton! You want his touch! You want to wipe the memory of William from your body… And this beautiful rogue is the perfect man to do it.
Nay! Not another Rees! He may have denied who he was, but he looked too much like William—all of them, for that matter—to hold on to that lie for long.
She watched him drink, and he watched her watching him, and the silence in her little cottage became a living thing, grasping at her with long, calloused fingers.
Like his fingers…
The sound of the man’s stomach growling broke the silence and she flushed. She should have seen to his needs the moment he’d awoken, but his eyes had turned her mind into porridge. She hadn’t expected them to be green…though, she had wondered. His black hair and the fact that he was shipwrecked off the coast near Port Enyon, the smuggling operation port for the Rees family, should have been warning enough about his identity.
They will be looking for him… A thrill akin to terror surged along her limbs. Get him well, and get him out. She wanted nothing to do with the bloody Reeses.
Chapter Four
It was another two agonizing days later, when she finally decided it was time for him to get out of the bed. She’d been sleeping in the chair by the fire, which only made her bones ache during the day when she would make herself busy so she wouldn’t have to see or speak to the Rees in her bed. She fed him, emptied the pot beside the bed, and even gave him some of the herbs she’d grown that were meant for pain. He’d tried to speak with her but she always replied with clipped responses, nothing too personal.
“I suppose you might need to see to your…needs.” Glynnis said as she entered the cottage after spending the morning in the pig pen and then trying to find where Arlene had been laying her eggs. Over the last two days, she’d tried and failed to not think about the man she’d saved from the beach. The more time she spent in the cottage with him—even in silence—the more she was drawn to him, which made her more determined than ever to get the stranger out of her bed. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “There is a bucket there, beside the bed, you may use…unless you need my aid.” The thought of touching him sent waves of slow burning want through her. Why did she even ask that? He’d been fine on his own before then…
You don’t want him. Any man would do. Nay! She didn’t need any man, for any need, least of all to pleasure her. She had no need for pleasure. She just wanted to survive from one day to the next.
“Nay…I think I can manage, I have been,” he replied, and she nodded, turning away to get him something to eat. The stew would be ready now, and she needed to stay busy or else find herself studying the stranger again.
“Once you are finished with that, you can use that blade there”—she pointed to a leather shaving kit she’d bought for William as a wedding present. He’d never even seen it before he’d died—“to shave…if you care to.”
He said nothing as he peered at the leather sack then back at her, a slight smile curling his lips.
“Would the lady like me to shave?” his deep, rumbling voice made her belly flop onto its head.
She forced a blank expression and shrugged. “I care not. Your face is just as homely either way.” Liar!
He chuckled. “Homely? I have never been called homely before.”
She sniffed. “There’s a first time for everything, I assure you.”
Silence fell after that, and she refused to look at him to see what he’d chosen to do.
Feed him and flee, just like you do every day.
“I hope you like fish stew,” she called over her shoulder, wondering at her inability to think clearly.
He cleared his throat then answered, “I do.”
She nodded and filled a wooden bowl with the steaming concoction of fish, parsnips, and a few mussels she’d pried off a sea rock the day before. She placed the bowl on the table to give it time to cool, and to give the man tim
e to finish with his…needs. Again, she blushed. “I will be just outside if you need anything. There is water for shaving in the basin on the table,” she muttered as she pulled her shawl from the hook beside the door, and left the cottage for what felt like the twentieth time that day. Soon, she’d be sleeping in the pen with Bard.
Damn! I have let a Rees push me from my own home! But…best to let him finish his private needs before I return… The last thing she needed was to walk in on him naked.
Waiting until her stomach cried out for the fish stew she’d left in the pot, she rapped her knuckles against the door.
“Are you finished?” she called through the wood.
“Aye,” he replied. Taking a breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside to find him standing before the bed, arms stretched over his head, reaching toward the low beams overhead. Every inch of his honed flesh was on display.
She gasped then turned away, anger blasting through her.
“What do you think you are doing?” she spluttered, her mind filled with images of him, gloriously naked, and well endowed.
“Stretching,” he said simply, as if he hadn’t just twisted her into a knot.
She scoffed. “You know what I meant! Get back under the blanket or—better yet, get dressed so that you can leave.”
“Because I am a Rees?” Why did that sound like a question and not a statement?
“Exactly,” she snapped. “A despicable, thieving, whoring Rees.”
“Again, I am a Bowlin. I have never met a Rees.”
Rage spilled over into her throat, mingling with the bile already there.
“Then why do you look like the very image of Ioan Rees?” Ioan Rees, the man who’d created a legacy of smuggling and piracy in Wales. The man who’d fathered her late husband.
The Ravishing Rees (Pirates of Britannia Book 10) Page 3
