Courier of Love

by Della Kensington

  “Just a minute gentlemen, just a minute…thank you. I came to Tortola with my father’s theories and a lot of self-doubt. Here, I have found in each of you a different and special friendship and received from you wisdom that will affect me forever. We don’t know, of course, if the ring really exists but we do know the cannon does.” Her voice felt confident, “Whatever we find shall be credited not only to my father and me but also to Clay and Arthur. Arthur and I filed, at my insistence, for the shipwreck site in our four names: H. Trent Weldon, Arthur Vaughn, Clay Corbett, and Christina Weldon.” She said the names ceremoniously.

  “So let me toast you gentlemen and our worthy crew.” She pridefully raised the glass to her lips, the breeze now sheltering her expression with her honey-colored hair as it tangled across her eyes.

  Clay was surprised at her announcement, she could see that, and he returned a puzzled stare before lifting his own glass.

  “To all of us,” Arthur joined as he increased the pressure of his friendly hold around her shoulders and kissed her on the temple.

  “Thank you Christina,” Arthur added. “This is a very happy day for all of us.”

  Christina turned self-consciously toward Arthur and said quietly in a manner that only he could have heard, “Yes it is isn’t it Arthur and having you as a friend has become very special to me.” She was sincere about the friendship. She doubted however, her real happiness.

  “…and to me also Christina,” Arthur returned and he raised his glass again toward the space between them.

  She could see that Clay’s eyes had left them and that he was heading for the makeshift darkroom, probably to develop the photographs. She raised her glass in the direction of the place he had occupied and thought to herself, “…and to you Clay. May your misguided sense of honor not always affect your ability to see the truth.”

  Chapter 17

  Early the following morning, anticipation over the raising of the cannon stirred Christina from a disquieted sleep. Stealing quietly from the closeness of her quarters, she tiptoed through the galley and grabbed a thermos of last night’s coffee that was still warm within the stainless steel container. Pre-dawn stars greeted her as she opened the door of the galley and the cool stillness of early morning was broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the boat. Barely being able to see the deck in the dim light she decided against going to her favorite place of solitude on the bow. Instead, she moved cautiously left toward a pile of cushions she remembered being tossed near the cabin door.

  The freshness of the morning breeze combined with a degree of anxiety to create a chill that jarred the edges of her teeth and sent a shiver through her restless body. Bending forward near the ship’s rail, Christina’s hand explored for the pillows in the even darker shadow of the corner. Alarmingly, her fingertips touched the cool, smooth skin of another person and a frightened gasp rose in her throat. At the same moment her wrist was being seized in the painful grip of a man’s hand.

  “Growing tired of your own bed,” Clay’s unmistakably inviting voice queried?

  Her heart pounded loudly and her treasonous legs threatened to give way as the powerful grip held her forward toward the rising figure in the shadows.

  “Oh…Clay…it’s you...I’m sorry…I couldn’t sleep and…I thought I’d get up…I thought everyone was below.” Her voice betrayed her fading sense of fright and her growing feeling of discomfort.

  “What do you have there?” he asked, having caught a glimmer of light off of the thermos.

  “Oh…” she paused, unaware of the source of his question for a moment and then with realization she replied “…oh this.” She held the thermos up into greater light. “It’s coffee. It’s left from last night.”

  His hand relaxed its commanding grip on her wrist and his voice softened. “Do you feel like sharing it?” His tone caressed her need to make contact with him. Sitting up entirely, Clay’s hand patted the cushion he had been laying on “Sit down,” he commanded.

  “I don’t want to disturb you,” Christina apologized.

  “You’ve disturbed me ever since I first met you, Christina,” he said pulling invitingly on her arm. “Come on, sit down here. I won’t do anything but drink your coffee if you’ll promise not to hit me again.” The quality of his voice was humorous. He was forgiving her, reassuring her and she felt her body lowering helplessly onto the cushion beside him. The warmth of his body had been captured in the cushion’s softness and the sensation radiated through her thighs.

  Another shiver had run through Christina’s body and Clay sensed it in the contact of their shoulders. “It’s chilly out here this morning,” he comforted in darkness beside her.

  “Here…” he pulled a blanket from the area of his waist up and over her chest and shoulders his arm brushing across her breasts. The warmth of his blanket was now surrounding her, the blanket and the cushions still holding the heat of the man whose muscular arm was making uncompromising contact with hers. Christina found her breathing restricted as she fumbled with the thermos under the blanket. Silently he took the thermos out of her hands the warm cover falling partially away from his legs.

  “Apparently someone didn’t want this coffee to escape last night.” He easily loosened the cup-like lid and removed the stopper. He poured coffee into the cup and raised it to his lips. The aroma of the blend drifted up and over their senses. “It’s still good,” he evaluated, passing the cup to her.

  She reached for the cup from below the cover. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dawn light and she could make out the features on Clay’s face. His eyes were appraising her. The aromatic blend of the coffee refreshed her taste and she passed the cup back across the silence, her shaking hands spilling it on Clay’s chest. He winced slightly as the hot coffee spread across his shirt and he quickly pulled it up and over his head. His body’s primitive heat was no longer contained.

  With a gesture of humorous, self-recrimination she fanned the air. “The headlines will sometime read, ‘Famous Woman Archeologist Leaves Trail of Burned and Broken Men Behind her.’ ’’

  He ignored her with a more serious observation, “You didn’t have to do it you know”

  “I know…” she signed. “…but I have a problem with spilling things and flailing my arms about.”

  “I mean…register my name as a salvor on the wreck site.” His voice was serious, his intent guided by her surprise announcement the previous afternoon.

  “Clay, without your training, I’d still be sunbathing on the beach. No one could have made me feel as confident in the water as you. There was no question of including you.”

  He paused and offered her the cup, “More?”

  She declined and watched through the darkness as he thrust his head backward finishing the coffee.

  “I couldn’t sleep inside,” he said changing the subject. “Too little air or something…” The sound of his lungs filling with air and the increased pressure of his arm against her bolted through Christina, carrying her hesitation with it.

  “Clay…” she paused

  “What?” he whispered into the darkness neither of them looking at the other.

  “Clay…I want to tell you something and I don’t want you to talk or get up or anything until I’m finished or I’ll never be able to say it again.” He was silent. Fear ran through her veins and her pulse quickened.

  “Clay…there is nothing between Arthur and me.” She had said it and a dark curtain felt swept away. “We’re good friends. That’s all.” She swallowed deeply. “I came here believing differently myself but we both realized in the first few days that our relationship was…well could be nothing more than that of friends. That’s what I wanted to tell you on the beach…that what happened between us wouldn’t bother Arthur. He’d probably be happy, if anything….” Her voice trailed off and emotion flushed her face, veiled in the first stirrings of the lazy, morning light.

  Clay was silent but she heard his cheeks expel a collected breath.
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  She continued, “I wouldn’t blame you if you never forgave me for those stupid things I said.” Her head tilted back; her eyes shut in regret. She breathed in and opened her eyes to a screen of vanishing stars. He remained silent. The strain of his non-response panicked her. She started to stand, “Well…I guess I’ll go back inside. It was important that I tell you.”

  “Don’t go Christina,” Clay’s voice was soft, husky, pleading.

  She stood there frozen before him, the blanket still clinging to her shoulders. Her body was trembling when he rose and began to touch her, his hand tracing her soft forearm as he stood up.

  His tall virile torso was now touching the length of Christina’s back and his warm, coffee scented breath played through her hair. Clay’s body arched lightly against her and his calloused, gentle hands encircled Christina’s upper arms. The blanket fell away from her modest cotton wrap and the cooling darkness danced over her, through her.

  “Stay,” he whispered and she shut her eyes momentarily languishing in the touch of the man holding her commandingly, restraining her impulse to flee.

  Clay’s fingers moved up to her shoulders, their soft contours diminished by the directive power that was holding her steadfast now, against the warmth of his chest. Christina flashed a glance toward the darkness of the cabin but knew that the others were asleep. Their presence however, produced a dangerous sense of excitement that was beyond her understanding.

  Clay’s mouth began to caress her neck and his lips ignited her skin with a long denied flame. She stood still, afraid to move, afraid to hope, afraid to allow her this moment.

  “Clay…I….”

  He turned her, slowly, powerfully and she could see, reflected in his smoldering eyes, the waning moon’s pale light. His eyes were softly possessing her face embracing the permission she had bequeathed him. Her revelation had given his needs permission and Clay’s allegiance to Arthur’s friendship could now become a symbol of fidelity rather than a barrier between them.

  “Clay…”

  “You talk too much,” his lips murmured as they met hers.

  Layer upon layer of Christina’s doubt was being shredded away in the hungry union of their kiss and the shadows of Clay’s relationship to Penny were being erased. He was seeking Christina’s love, choosing her, in this their pre-dawn destiny.

  Her fingers explored the muscles and cords of Clay’s forceful neck and the roughness of his unshaven jaw combined with the hard coolness of his skin to cause her fingertips to electrify against the satin texture of his hair. Her lips began to trace the path of her left hand and she caressed the wide distance of his throat and shoulder to the hardened texture of his healing injury.

  Lingering there she murmured, “I’m sorry, so sorry for this.” Her right hand moved to the rough contour of his chest.

  “Do you put notches on all of your conquests,” Clay softly chided, his head lowering to her neck, his mouth once more warming and seeking the smooth surface just below her ear.

  “There have been no conquests, Clay,” Christina whispered as she held her face to the wide expanse of his shoulder and shut her eyes. Her thoughts and words were being swept away in the liquidity of her feelings. Clay was pulling her down into the sanctuary of the shadows and his right hand guided her head and neck onto the cushions as his other hand gently brushed across her cheek and began to compose a symphony of sensation down her throat, across her shoulder and onto her breasts. Lying beside her Christina could feel Clay’s chest rising and falling with the ever increasing thunder of his passion’s melody and their legs softly entwined and parted as their entire bodies became the instruments of their exploration.

  “I’ve wanted you Christina from the first moment that I looked into your eyes the day you arrived. You have haunted me.” His hand was slowly releasing the sash of her wrap and she could feel the searing warmth of his lips lowering reverently to her breasts. His hand teased over the cool outer surface of her thigh as she began to lift her knees in response to his movements. He was folding her, cradling her within his powerful arms. His lips began to burn across the smoothness of her abdomen and her breasts and thighs were joined in the current that passed through the electrifying arch of his hands, his arms and shoulders. He was enveloping her within his hold as she imagined he had once held a treasured Christmas gift. His movements paused for a moment and as he held her like this his tawny hair brushed over the surface of her breasts. His forehead was pressing hard across her softness, his mouth moving downward across moonlit contours of her abdomen.

  Christina was hanging on a thin thread of passion and she felt herself beginning to fall into a long denied realm of need and pleasure and being expertly carried under Clay’s strong wings, his skill and gentleness lifting away her fawn-like hesitancy.

  “Oh yes…yes….” She murmured her words sounding to her as would the beginning of some long hidden enchantment.

  Clay’s arms released her legs and she smoothed them out slowly along his hard body, his own demanding needs still being restrained in consideration of her. His hands moved to the sides of the cushion and Clay moved up and across her breasts his lips finding the recesses of hers once again. His chest was enveloping her upper body in its vast, velvety musculature.

  Christina’s arms encircled him and her fingers began to traverse the length of Clay’s spine until she reached the smoothly defined cleft beneath the soft fabric of his loose swimsuit. Moving out across his muscular flanks her hands traveled forward to the lean hardness of his hips before turning and cautiously exploring his lower abdomen. His passion now burning against the hesitancy of her fingertips, the low muffled sounds of his need reverberated over her cheek as his mouth played hungrily over face, her ear and through her hair.

  Christina’s years of waiting, of wondering, of fearing, were being given over in movements of mutual response and need that echoed through Christina’s body like an unfinished verse about to be composed within a wondrous poem.

  In the shadowy glow of morning and with one, exquisitely slow movement she was joined in a precious intimacy with Clay feeling both the tenderness and desire that was driving him forward and his own lack of denying either his physical power or urgent needs. She was being possessed, loved and made complete. She had entered a oneness with a man but remained, through his physical skill and demonstrative respect, an individual of great worth to him and of unashamed value to herself.

  “Christina, Christina…” In a final movement that welded his body into hers and only momentarily preceded her own arched plunge into oblivion he was caressing her very soul with the whispering of her own name. They were creatures in this moment, breathing the same air, sharing the same pulse.

  Clay raised his head, his thumbs now pressing lovingly against her cheeks as he blew gently back and forth across her eyes, her face the only part of her body that was not still locked in fluid union with his.

  He was bringing her back from an enchanted land of mercurial feeling filled with sparkling lights and sounds and sensations. Clay had led her powerfully, confidently, through this magical realm and now they were returning to the slow undulating movement of the boat, their bodies still embraced securely against the coolness of the morning’s breeze, against any end to this moment.

  His lips brushing through Christina’s silken hair as it flowed out across the canvas cushions said, “It will be light soon.”

  “I know. Make it go away so we can stay here forever.” Her arms tightened around him as he pressed his hips forward in gesture that sought to preserve a moment that was being lost.

  “Ah…, would that I could do that Christina…, but holding back the morning would be to deny myself seeing you with the sun dancing through your hair again.” His words were warm, sincere, and appreciative.

  “Come on…we’ve got a crew to raise, a cannon to bring aboard for you and a whole day to blow secret bubble messages at each other, if you want.” The moment had to end for now…, she knew that, but she felt a
lmost too weak to stand, much less face the rigors of the day ahead.

  Sensing her reluctance he kissed her again and stood, lifting her to her feet and helping her with her wrap, his own nakedness making him look to her like a bronzed statue of a god brought to the deck of the ship from the depths below.

  “Christina…” he paused holding her small robe together at its tie, “You’re very special…this was very special. I will never forget this moment with you.” His words had a disturbing sense of closure to them but a sound from below deck rocked both of them with alarm and back into the realities and necessities of the moment. Clay reached for Christina and holding her face one last moment repeated, “…very, very special.” He leaned and kissed her on the forehead.

  A light went on in the galley below. The Captain was up and preparing to make coffee. His cough and metallic pans announced the morning.

  “It will be okay,” Clay assured. “Brice never looks for subtleties in life, much less would he judge people if he did.” He playfully patted Christina on the upper thigh and grabbing quickly for and putting on his bathing suit he hopped momentarily on one leg and said, “Let’s get this day started.”

  “We already have,” she chided while tugging at the hem of his suit just near his inner thigh.

  As she straightened her clothes, joy, regret and an odd sense of some unidentified anxiety filled Christina simultaneously and she turned with Clay toward the cabin and breakfast and the adventure of the morning that lay before them.

  Chapter 18

  The tasks of the morning combined with Christina’s state of happiness, much like a French watercolor whose images of reality flow together into a soft blur of sensory delight. She found herself in one moment, helping to carefully rig the cannon and in another caught breathless at the sight of Clay swimming silently through the dim, blue depths that surrounded her. The discovery of the cannon and the anticipation of what they might discover in its bore organized her imagination around her fantasies about Clay. She pictured him as a young Spanish adventurer about to retrieve and deliver a long awaited pledge of love. With another glimpse of his moving body she imagined the two of them, in some upcoming year, braced against a winter’s storm and sorting through pictures of the discovery.