Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  “What about your father?”

  “He’s always too busy, and I...”

  “Yes?”

  She picked at the hard fibers of the wooden bench. “I want him to think I’m competent. Plus, well, I’ve been living in his house again for only a year.”

  “Where had you been living before?”

  “With my aunt and uncle outside of town. Ever since my mother died five years ago. I think...” She blew a ragged breath. “I think he couldn’t handle me. He sent only me away, not my brother.”

  Her throat grew tight, and she swallowed hard, pushing it down so she could float on the surface of the moment.

  At his silence, she looked up and caught his gaze.

  “That had to be difficult, especially at so vulnerable an age. What happened to your mother?”

  “It was only a few months after the submarine accident. Yellow Fever hit Mobile and my father stayed, of course. Mother refused to leave him, so she sent Rex and me with Great-Aunt Linette to New Orleans.” She took a fortifying breath. “When we returned, she’d already been dead and buried for several weeks. I never got to say goodbye.” The last came out in a whisper.

  Rawley moved off the seat and knelt before her, and she trembled at his show of sympathy. He took her hands and softly squeezed them, and she squeezed back.

  “So,” she said, her voice pitched with false cheer. “What about your parents? What are they like?”

  Rawley eyed her, and his expression told her he knew she was diverting the conversation on purpose. He knelt a few minutes more, eying her, nodded, and returned to his seat.

  She was curious, true, but it also felt like she needed parity.

  Phillip would not push her to reveal more. It was obvious the little she’d said was more than she was used to sharing. That she’d shared this much with him filled him with hope. Hope that she saw something worthwhile in him.

  Hope?

  That gave him pause. He’d come to the unfortunate conclusion following their intimate encounter, that his emotions were too volatile when around her, and his nature too prosaic to win her. Her confession, however... Perhaps he could win her by slow siege?

  He owed a comparable story, then, but had no tale of a lost loved one. He desperately searched the memories of his uneventful life.

  “I had a baby squirrel once. Named him Edgar.” Hell’s teeth. What a stupid memory to relate following her admission about her mother. He felt ten times a fool.

  “What happened to Edgar?”

  He had no choice but to continue. “Well, see, I’d found him abandoned by his mama. I was around eight, I guess. And since I was forbidden to have a pet, I kept him hidden in the barn and nursed him with a rag I soaked in goat’s milk. Unfortunately, I was bursting to share my triumph with someone. I’d helped it survive after all. It would have died if I’d not aided it. I confided in my sister Louise.”

  He fiddled with a length of rope.

  “And?” she prompted.

  He shrugged. “And she went straight to our mother who flew into hysterics. She forced me to turn it out. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do at that point in my life. I have no idea if it lived. It had come to depend on me, you see.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  He looked down. “It was. But that was my parents for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m one of seven children, and everything, and I mean everything, that made an appearance in our lives was blown into something traumatic and over the top by my mother. Truly, she could have tread the boards and made a successful living.”

  “I could see how that would be frustrating.”

  “I coped. I stayed in my own area of the house and poured myself into my studies and my hobbies.”

  So much so that eventually his family left him out of their drama most of the time. He vividly remembered the day his mother had declared at a gathering of her intimates over tea that her only son was a hopeless bore.

  At least how Miss de la Pointe persisted in seeing him was more amusing. Wrong, but amusing. He was hopelessly ensnared by her, his lustful thoughts a constant companion he struggled and failed to dampen. Marrying her, regardless of Charlotte’s needs, made sense.

  A new fear seeped into him. What if she discovered his deal with her father?

  He unlooped the rope securing them to the dock. “I suppose we better start.” Her color had returned; she looked ready to tackle the water. A fierce pride in her courage swirled through him. No matter what, he had to find some way to go on the voyage with her. Sure, it was a great opportunity to spend more time with her, but ultimately he had to ensure her safety. Tomorrow was the deadline imposed by her father, but his decision was made—he meant to win her.

  Adele watched as Rawley dispensed with his coat, picked up the oars, and slowly rowed into the river, each stroke showing off the strength of his arms and shoulders. Mercifully, he stayed close to shore, skirting around the other docks and large ships and wharfs as he piloted them upriver.

  A strange warm feeling settled over her at his sharing the story of his Edgar. Her heart went out to the little boy he’d been. She could see the younger version, a dark lock across his forehead, his face serious and earnest as he nursed the baby squirrel. Clearly, it had been more traumatic than he let on. She also appreciated how he’d distracted her once they were in the boat, but also knew how much, or little, to push.

  A slight breeze teased a black curl over his eye. “I think this will be easier if we move to the opposite shore, where there’s not as much industrial activity.”

  She nodded and concentrated on watching his strong muscles flex under the linen of his fine lawn shirt as he continued sweeping powerful strokes into the water. She didn’t look around, but kept watching him. She didn’t dare to yet. And besides, this view wasn’t a hardship. She settled against the wooden seat.

  Shortly, he pulled up next to a much smaller dock, the shoreline devoid of commercial activity. He tied a rope around the post and sat back down.

  “How are you?”

  She took a deep breath. “Fine. So far.”

  “I thought next we should help you overcome your fear of being in the water itself.”

  Her body went rigid, and her blood roared through her, chanting criminy-criminy-criminy. She clamped her lips. Rawley believed she could do this, and she wasn’t keen on proving him wrong.

  When she knew her voice would sound calm, she asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  He looked to the water and back to her. “I thought we could slip over the edge here and float while we hold onto the boat.”

  That didn’t sound so bad. She nodded.

  “I’ll go first. You join me when you’re ready.” He rolled up his shirt sleeves, removed his gloves, shoes, socks, and hat, and slid silently into the murky river.

  She also removed her hat, gloves, and shoes and stared at the water.

  Don’t think about what you’re doing, just do it. Mindful that the longer she delayed, the more she’d allow her mind a chance to panic, she scurried over the side and plopped in next to him, grabbing onto him instead. Small waves splashed against the rocking boat, and the water—so cold!—embraced her. Oh, God, her feet didn’t touch bottom.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around his torso and buried her face against his chest. His familiar scent—now mixed with wet linen—comforted, as did the steady da-dump of his heart against her ear. His body’s heat bled into her and helped her adjust to the water’s temperature.

  “I have you.” One arm snaked around her waist, enveloping her.

  Her now-wet skirts weighed her down, and another trickle of panic hit her. She trembled, clasping tightly to him.

  “Shhh. Shhh,” he soothed.

  When her heart slowed to its normal rate, a picture of how she must look, cowering, formed in her mind. She raised her head and turned away from him, grabbing the boat’s side, her skirts sloshing against her ankles.
She pulled herself against the hull until she had both hands on it.

  Rawley moved to her side, holding on as well. He’d tied the line tight, so the boat tipped only slightly toward them with their movements.

  She stared straight ahead. Panic clawed at her again, threatening to reenter. She fixed her gaze on the hull. Observe. A jagged scratch across the marine green paint revealed a powder blue underneath. Smaller ones wrote the story of this boat’s adventures and coats of paint. A rivulet of water trailed down from her hands and bisected the cuts, magnifying them. Bright dapples of reflected light shifted back and forth, back and forth, from the water’s motion. In the small space between her upper body and the boat, the sound of her breath amplified. Water lapped in a soothing rhythm, and overhead a seagull cawed.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out. She turned her head a fraction and looked into Rawley’s handsome face. A grin lit his face so wide, so cheerful, so from-the-soul, it made her heart give an extra thump.

  She grinned. And she loved that he was giving her this space.

  His hand released from the side and cupped her face, thumb stroking her cheek and sending tingles across her skin. Her heart picked up its pace. “Ready for more?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  He turned his back, treading water. “Climb onto my back.”

  She could do this. One hand she let fall from the side of the boat—thunk—onto his shoulder. She faced him and let her other hand go, and pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “Not so tight.” His voice came out strained.

  “Oh, sorry.” She shifted so she wasn’t putting so much pressure on his windpipe. Confound her skirts. She kicked her legs, floating the material out of the way for a second, and wrapped her legs around him.

  He swam forward along the boat’s edge, its side looming large at the corner of her eye. When he reached the end, he turned toward shore and swam until he could touch bottom.

  The riverbank was an unpopulated stretch, pine and shrub dominating. It must have been a private dock to a house inland.

  “Let go, if you can.”

  She slid down. Her toes touched bottom with her chin safely above water.

  He faced her. “Remember. Much of this is a mental game you need to beat in your head. I think it will help if you were given extra skills to lend you confidence.”

  “I already know how to swim. I was like a fish as a child.”

  “I assumed as much, but I’m referring to additional survival skills. You panicked when the accident happened. Much of it was fear. However, if you owned that fear and knew you had skills to help see you through it, I think a lot of that panic could be manageable.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Come here. Let me see what you have on in the way of clothes.”

  Her heart pounded a little harder. “I beg your pardon? I didn’t know you had that in mind.”

  His neck turned a deep red. Seeing that, knowing she’d caused it, was a heady rush of unexpected power.

  “No. Just come here.”

  She shuffled closer, and he spun her around, feeling along her waist and up her back. Curiosity unfurled within, anxiety forgotten.

  “The trick is to use what you have to help you survive,” his voice rumbled near her ear. “Your dress could be the death of you, its weight pulling you down, or it could be your greatest ally. I will show you.”

  He turned her back and gripped her shoulders. “We’re going to do this in shallow water, so you know deep down, nothing can happen. You’re safe here. You can’t drown. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She did. Her mind had adjusted, and it was not sending any danger signals. She could handle whatever he was going to show her in this space. Safely.

  “All right. I want you to float on your back and take your time unbuttoning the back of your dress. Don’t worry about how much time it takes. In fact, don’t rush at all. Just calmly do one button at a time.”

  She did as instructed. The upper and lower buttons were quickly undone.

  “Very good. You have them all?”

  She shook her head. “Two left I can’t reach.”

  “If you had someone else with you, you could ask them to help, but let’s pretend you’re on your own. What can you do? Your life depends on getting that dress off.”

  “I suppose I could tear it open.”

  “Proceed.”

  She fixed him with a glare. “Rawley, I’m not ruining a perfectly good day dress when you and your able fingers are a foot away. I think it’s safe to assume I can rip them off if needed.”

  His face flushed. “Good point.” His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow.

  She let her feet drift to the bottom and heard him swishing through the water behind her. Awareness prickled up her spine as his fingers touched her back under water, feeling their way until he reached the recalcitrant buttons, his skin’s warmth a stark contrast to the cool water. She was acutely aware of his proximity and their scandalous behavior, but that just added to the thrill, didn’t it? He released the last button, and his breath hitched.

  He cleared his throat and stepped away, his heat receding.

  “Now. Float again, and this time work your arms from your sleeves. Take your time. Your goal is to completely shed your dress, while maintaining your calm.”

  She tugged on her sleeves and found it more difficult than she would have supposed to pull the sodden material down her arms. But she didn’t rush. And she didn’t allow herself to panic. She had all day. She could touch bottom, and Rawley was three feet away.

  Finally, the sleeves were off, and she pushed the bodice down her waist, exposing her chemise and corset. She angled her body to get the heavy skirt clear of her legs.

  “Excellent.” His voice sounded a tad hoarse, but she was intent on her movements. “Don’t let go of the dress. Instead, calmly tie a knot at the end of each sleeve.” He waited while she did so. “Now gather the bottom of your skirt and tie it in a knot. All right. Now rebutton your dress.”

  She did as instructed. What did he have planned?

  “Now, take that ribbon from your hair and gather the neck of your dress into your fist and place it against your mouth. You’re going to take deep breaths and blow into your dress.”

  What the—? She arched an eyebrow at him.

  He sighed. “Just do it.”

  She did. It took a while, but eventually she had a makeshift balloon, with the arms jutting to the side.

  “Very good. Use your hair ribbon to tie the neck tight. Air will leak, of course. It’s not airtight, but it will help.”

  Clever. Even more curious, she worked faster so she could receive the next set of instructions.

  “Now, take the dress and pull it behind you by the arms. That’s good. All right, drape the arms around your neck and knot them together.”

  She did, and she began to feel what he was about as she became more buoyant.

  “Now, tuck your legs so you can float. See how it helps? You can do the same with your pantaloons if you cinched them closed around the...uh...the area of your upper thigh.”

  He turned bright red again.

  “This is brilliant, Rawley!” She kicked her legs out, leaning back. “It’s helping me float.”

  “Exactly. If this were a real situation, I would advise you to go ahead and blow up your pantaloons as well and to shed the dead weight of your petticoats and corset, but I think you get the picture. At home, you can practice tying your pantaloons.”

  She smiled at him. Oh, it was so wonderful knowing she could do something to help herself in the water if that ever became necessary.

  “See, it’s all about being forearmed with knowledge. Panic is simply fear of not knowing what to do in an unfamiliar situation. If you practice, so it becomes familiar, you’ll be able to fall back on that familiarity if, or when, the time comes and your life depends on it. You’ll know what to do, and you can calmly face it.”

  S
he kicked over to him, her dress ballooning from her back, and clasped him in a fierce hug. He’d given back her love of water. “How can I ever thank you? I feel so ashamed now that I’d ever panicked before. You’ve made it all so logical.”

  “Nonsense.” His arms returned the hug, his mouth by her ear. “It was natural for you to feel that way before. You’ve merely learned a new skill today, and you also braved your fear.”

  “No, I didn’t brave it. I conquered it.”

  She smiled against his chest, letting his warmth and strength flow into her. His hands slowly moved up her back in patient strokes, reassuring strokes. She relished the comfort and safety, and the gift he’d given her.

  At some point, however, the air, the energy around them shifted, awareness blooming into the space. His muscles tensed, and the hand stroking her back hesitated, as if he also sensed it. Her breaths quickened, and his kept pace, the sound amplified and skipping over the water. Now, that awareness of their contact zinged up and down her spine, and time slowed, each moment significant. She held her breath and inched, inched, inched her hands up his back, reveling in the feel of strong muscles flexing under his shirt.

  His breath hitched near her ear, sending shivers along her nerves and veins. His head bent, and warm breath feathered across the wet skin of her neck. She trembled.

  Then, a whisper of a kiss on her collarbone, so light, so brief, she wondered if she’d imagined it. Anticipation froze her. Was he...? And did she want him to?

  Another, just firm enough to leave no doubt of his actions, or what she desired. She angled her head, exposing her neck. His lips brushed her skin, and he pressed another, and another, and worked his way up to her chin. By the time he kissed the edge of her mouth, she was shaking with urgency, with a feeling she could not name. Two, she could name: excitement and curiosity—a combination most dangerous.

  His mouth brushed her lips, his breath mingling with hers. Yes. She clung tighter to him, bunching his shirt in her fists. His eyes, hooded and darker, searched hers. Then he claimed her mouth, feathering light kisses, nibbling her lower lip. He skimmed his tongue across the seam, and she gasped at the intimate touch. His tongue dipped inside, boldly exploring. A sharp heat bloomed in her chest and arrowed downward. Oh, the things he made her feel.