by Anna Small
“I believe I have winded myself, Mrs. Quinn. Do not fret. Go along if you wish; I will catch up with you.” He glanced at her hand, which had twisted in the fabric of his sleeve.
“Perhaps we should return to the house.” She snatched her hand away before she could push the hair back from his ear to see his wound. Checking his bruised ribs was entirely out of the question. He could harbor internal injuries, but there was no polite way to inquire.
“No, you should have your walk. You never know what might wash up on shore.”
A half smile reached her lips, an unfamiliar gesture she couldn’t remember doing last, but in Mr. Smith’s presence, she found the smiles easier to come by. Alarmingly so.
“I doubt I will find my husband on the beach.”
He faced the ocean, hands on his hips, striking very much the same pose as Caleb used to take. For a moment, her heavy heart lifted, as if the burden of pain she’d carried was at a close. Release me. A feeling, rather than a distinct voice, penetrated her thoughts. The breeze caught the longer ends of his hair and whipped them about his sun-bronzed neck.
“One day, Mrs. Quinn.” His words hung on the sea breeze like the pilot gulls around them. “One day, the man you love will walk down this beach. Home, to you.”
She groped at her collar, suddenly at a loss for breath. His words penetrated her dreary thoughts.
“Do you truly believe that?”
Perhaps this man who had survived a terrible, miraculous ordeal had glimpsed some truth unknown to ordinary people. She didn’t believe in magic or fate or destiny. But miracles were another thing. Miracles brought missing husbands home.
He turned slowly and faced her. The afternoon sun glinted off his hair, lighting the dark strands with a silver glow. His eyes widened as he gazed directly into hers.
“I hope, with all my heart, that somewhere there’s a woman as kind and compassionate as you who loves me well enough to await my return.”
“I’m sure there is.”
She broke his gaze when she was aware she didn’t mind staring into his eyes. In truth, it was rather comforting to stand close to him.
They continued walking and she stumbled over a rock that slid beneath her shoe. He slipped his arm around hers.
“Allow me, please. I would not wish you to injure yourself, Mrs. Quinn.”
She should have protested she did not need any assistance; that she was perfectly able to walk the beach on her own as she had done for months. But it was so easy to allow someone else to take care of her, for a change.
She settled her hand on his sleeve with a light enough touch that she wouldn’t be too aware of the muscular arm below hers, yet not too light that she couldn’t feel his strength and support.
He stopped abruptly, his gaze on the sand. He stooped and picked up something by his foot. His closed fist hovered over her hand, and when she opened her palm, he dropped a Spanish gold doubloon into her hand.
“You see? There is always something bright and shiny waiting for you to find it.”
“It’s yours. You found it.” She pressed it back into his palm, but he closed his fingers gently around hers. The gold had heated in the afternoon sun, but she couldn’t tell which was warmer—his skin or the coin.
“Take it, then, as a token of my gratitude for all you’ve done for me.”
She wanted to say that he had done just as much for her. Already, she could sense a page had turned in the book of her life. The future, once bleak, seemed filled with possibilities.
And all because she had gone for a walk on the beach one day.
“Thank you.”
She dropped the coin into her pocket, where it hung in a comfortingly heavy weight against her thigh. He offered his arm, and she took it without question.
When they reached the stairs, he paused. Fearing he was ill or over-exerted, she turned on the bottom stair, which made her the same height as him. His face flushed, but she realized quickly it was not from his injuries. He seemed to contemplate what he was going to say. Her heart pounded in anticipation.
“I would consider it an honor if I may come back here and see you. To make certain all is well.”
He gazed steadily into her eyes. His closeness and warm, masculine scent seemed to overpower her. Her legs trembled, and she gripped the rail for balance.
“You will always be welcome, Mr. Smith.” Her voice sounded far away, but he heard her.
“Good.” A smile touched his lips. He indicated the stairs. “Shall we have our supper now, Mrs. Quinn?”
Chapter Six
He lay on his pallet, the hearthrug an extra pad between him and every knot and nub of the pinewood floor. Although his bed was not too uncomfortable, he sensed he had slept like this, or worse, more recently. He shook back the long sleeves of Caleb’s nightshirt, another gift from his sweet hostess, and stared at his arms in the firelight. Dark, purplish marks replaced the bloody welts caused, he presumed, by manacles. Mrs. Quinn’s ointment had worked wonders, and the scarring would be minimal. He touched the welts, as if rubbing them would spur a memory, but his past remained a mystery. How had he ended up in manacles? Had he been a prisoner? If so, who had captured him? He must have been in desperate peril to jump overboard during a storm.
He remembered the sailors watching from the ship rails when he was in the water. None of them was familiar, and he knew not if they were friends or foes. Enemy or not, why had the crew not attempted to rescue him? Perhaps he had been given up for dead, or they had decided he was not worth the effort.
The more he thought about his ordeal, the more questions he had. The lack of answers was irritating. He punched his pillow and turned on his side, which put him in full view of the cottage’s single bedroom.
Mrs. Quinn had retired an hour before, as had he. She’d wished him a curt good night, a blush rising to her cheek, belying her stern demeanor. They hadn’t spoken much during dinner of more crabs and mussels than he could eat, as well as a crusty, hot loaf of bread she’d magically created from the meager amount of flour left in the sack. The doubloon was a glorious find. She’d told him of the supplies and foodstuffs it would fetch, with enough left over to help her brother’s family. She meant to go to the village stores in a few days. He suspected she didn’t want to leave him alone at the cottage, but whether it was because she feared for his injuries or didn’t trust him, he could not decide.
A threadbare curtain separated the kitchen from her bedroom. If he squinted, he could make out her bed, which was surrounded by a soft glow from the moonlight shining through the window.
He closed his hand into a fist to retain the memory of her touch when he’d given her the coin. Her skin was soft as silk, and so pale he could see the fragile veins underneath. She’d looked up at him, wide-eyed and trusting. Inviting him. He’d had to fight the surge of desire overtaking his senses. Just as he fought it now.
He heaved a sigh as he turned onto his back. He would not repay her hospitality with such crude behavior. No matter if her cheeks bore a rosy hue reminiscent of flowers in a garden, and her full lips were made for kissing. He’d looked at those lips until he felt he would go mad with frustration. Her prim, closed-up attitude only made his wanting worse. He was sure he didn’t have a wife or sweetheart back home—wherever home was. Mrs. Quinn wouldn’t hold an allure if his heart belonged to another. Surely, he would feel something akin to guilt, were he attached to someone else.
Pity she had not remarried, although the thought of her with another man irritated him to the point of distraction. There was little evidence she would ever stop grieving long enough to consider another. Around the cottage lay traces of the husband who’d never come home. Caleb Quinn’s pipe rested on the mantel, as if its owner had set it there for a moment and would shortly return. Quinn’s clothes—even down to his undergarments and stockings, remained in the chest of drawers, pressed and folded.
He exhaled deeply to bring sleep closer. He’d decided earlier he would leave before sunu
p. The longer he stayed, the more he feared he would never leave, which would put her in danger. If he kept to the woods, he could reach the Canadian border in a few weeks. She’d pinned a map to a wall, dotted here and there with little X’s, presumably from where her husband had written her. He’d studied it when he cooked the mussels. The border wasn’t far, not if he could do twelve miles a day. He longed for a horse, and the guilty thought crossed his mind that perhaps he could steal one. He didn’t know from where his confidence in his trekking abilities came, but sensed he could survive in the wilderness until he reached the British forts strewn along the border. And then—dear God, then, he would know his true identity.
The crackling fire soothed him into a sort of dreamy haze, and he stared into the flames. After a few moments, his gaze drifted upward to the bricks lining the inside of the hearth. Every few bricks were stamped with the letters L and C. Lobster Cove, of course.
He nearly sat upright, his heart pounding and his stomach clenched. The flash of a sailor’s face twisted in agony filled his vision as clearly as if the poor wretch stood before him. He smelled the coppery scent of blood. Saw the man’s bare back striped red from lashes of the mate’s whip. The tattoo blazed in sharp black relief on his exposed bicep. An anchor, with the flukes in the shape of twin lobster claws, the letters L and C on either side.
Samuel stiffened. The sailor was from Lobster Cove, which meant he’d been on an American ship. Captive, presumably. It would explain why he’d made his daring escape. Perhaps he’d fought his way out of the brig and made it to the deck, only to be shot as he attempted to flee. What a vicious captain must have been at the helm for the Americans to whip one of their own. He was lucky to have escaped with his life.
He nearly laughed aloud with relief for this newfound knowledge. Perhaps if he concentrated hard enough, the rest would come to him.
The wind rose outside the cottage, and the shutters clattered against the windows. He rose from his pallet and went outdoors to secure them back on their pegs. The cold night air went through him, and he shivered as he hurried to his task. The paint peeled beneath his fingers on the weathered wood. He shook his head. Poor Mrs. Quinn. Left alone at such a young age, without a man to help with the maintenance of the cottage. If only he could stay another day, he would repair the shutters. Summer was nearly here, but winter came too soon in the northeast. He glanced around the small garden to the side of the cottage. If Mrs. Quinn didn’t begin her planting soon, she’d have nothing to put away for the fall.
There was a chicken coop as well, but its silence avowed to the fact the chickens had long died or gone away. Perhaps he could find some running wild through the countryside. Mrs. Quinn could use a cow for milk and butter, but the cost of a cow might as well be worth its weight in gold if the buyer had no money.
He paused at the door and faced the sea, black save the silver streaks from the moonlight on the surface. From the safe distance of the cottage, the water didn’t look as cold and forbidding as he knew it to be. An urge to speak to the sea overcame him and he crossed his arms over his chest.
“My name is not Samuel,” he said loudly, clearly. In a Yankee accent, and not the English tongue he’d been using the past two days. The tone sounded more natural. He hadn’t even thought about how he sounded. When he’d first talked to Abigail—Mrs. Quinn, he mentally corrected himself—he sensed something unnatural with his speech. Then, he couldn’t place his discomfort. Now that he heard his voice, he knew the Yankee tone was his native tongue.
So why could he also sound just like a highborn English officer?
He hurried inside; loathe to study the sea any longer. His answers lay at the port from where his ship had sailed. For better or ill, he had to know the truth.
The fire had died in his absence. He placed another log on the embers, and it caught a spark. He squatted before it, hands outstretched to warm them. Just the thought of his ordeal in the ocean made him shiver.
The clock on the mantel struck eleven. Mrs. Quinn was long asleep, and he should rest as well, or he’d never be able to leave before she awoke. He hurriedly stuffed the few clothes and items she’d given him into an empty flour sack hanging from a nail. He would look like a beggar, but better he fit in with the country folk than stand out like an English soldier.
He lay down again and crossed his arms beneath his head. Perhaps if he slept, the truth would come to him in a dream. He closed his eyes and imagined a well he could dip a bucket into and pull up a lifetime of vanished memories. He was doing the right thing, the safest thing, by leaving Lobster Cove. He had a responsibility and a duty. His home lay far away, he was certain. He could have a family waiting for him, as desperately as Mrs. Quinn waited for her Caleb. Perhaps another version of Mrs. Quinn walked a sandy beach on a distant shore, counting the hours until he returned. He tried to picture his mystery wife’s face but nothing came to him. He felt the third finger of his left hand, but it didn’t seem like he had ever worn a wedding ring.
He rubbed his eyes hard. God willing, he did not have a wife or sweetheart pining for him. He would seek the truth about his past and then return to Abigail.
“Caleb!”
A scream tore through the silent cottage. The hair rose on the back of his neck, and he sprang from the floor. Mrs. Quinn screamed her husband’s name as if she witnessed the unfortunate soul’s demise. Without hesitating, he tore open her bedroom curtain and crossed the short distance to her.
She sat up in bed, her face pale and drawn, her lips tight in a scowl of pain. Her hair hung in wild waves about her face and shoulders, reminding him of the angelic vision he’d had during his fitful dreams after she rescued him. Her outstretched hands clutched at something invisible. He grasped them and gave her a slight shake.
“Mrs. Quinn! Dear lady, are you all right?”
“Caleb! You were drowning! I tried to save you…” She gasped and choked on her words, gulping back sobs and thrashing to pull her hands from his. “Caleb.” Her voice ended in a moan.
He sat on the edge of her bed, her hands still within his grasp.
“It was just a dream. A bad dream.”
“Oh, thank God, Caleb. You’re home. Home, at last.” Her hysteria calmed, and she stared through him, as if she didn’t see him at all. She was still asleep. She pulled her hands away and touched his face. “I knew you’d come home. Leon told me to stop believing. But I didn’t listen.” She smiled through her tears and leaned close. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.” She rested her head against his chest, her arms limp at her sides. Her breath tickled his chest.
He patted her back, hoping to wake her, but she only pressed closer. “Don’t leave me again.” Her voice was a muffled whisper buried in the folds of his shirt.
It felt natural to hold her. Natural and… He didn’t dare believe it, but it felt right. She had a slim build and was strong for having to work harder than she should have under different circumstances, but he didn’t expect her to be so soft. For her breasts to crush so yieldingly against his chest. Her arms reached around his waist, in little bursts of energy. A soft moan emitted from her lips, and she turned her face up to his.
The moonlight only emphasized her loveliness. He brushed a tangled strand of hair from her wet cheek, and her eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted with a gasp, and he wondered if she kissed her ghostly husband in her sleep. Before he could stop himself, he gave in to his pent-up frustration and longing and brushed his lips across hers.
He expected her to sink back into the bedclothes, dead asleep, or, worse, wake up. Instead, her lips quivered against his. Her arms tightened around him, sliding up to grip his shoulders. The pads of her fingers dug into his back. He couldn’t help himself. He deepened the kiss, aware of his rising ardor, but unable to contain it. She twined her fingers in his hair, pulling her to him with an urgency he didn’t want to fight. Every fiber of his being vibrated with sparks ignited by her kiss. His muscles weakened with each passing moment, as did his resolve to leave in
the morning. How could he sneak out of the cottage like a criminal, when she was so alone, so desperately alone?
He would have to go soon, regardless. His presence was too much of a risk for her. For himself, he cared little. But he could not put the burden of harboring an enemy upon her.
He broke the kiss gently so as not to awaken her. Cradling her in his arms, he lowered her to the pillow and pulled the quilt up to her chin. He kept watch by her side to ensure she didn’t have another nightmare, but she slept heavily. She resembled an angel in sleep, with her golden hair tumbled across the pillowcase. In sleep, she was more the young woman he sensed dwelled beneath her daily sorrow and mournful burden. It was a shame, truly a shame, that she could not cast the burden aside and give her heart again.
Despite the almost painful urge to hold her through the night, he pulled up a hard-backed chair and sat beside her. He did allow one indulgence, which was to take her hand from the coverlet and hold it lightly. Her fingers closed around his.
Just before dawn, he staggered from her room and unpacked the flour sack of Caleb Quinn’s belongings before falling into a dead sleep on his pallet.
Chapter Seven
The fragrant aroma of brewing coffee awoke her. Abigail stretched and yawned, fighting off the remnants of a strange dream. She’d had her typical nightmare of watching helplessly from the shore while Caleb drowned only feet away, and she was unable to reach him. Unlike most nights, the dream changed and he was with her, here in the cottage, warm and alive and breathing. Holding her. Kissing her. She pressed her hands to her lips to retain the pressure of his lips. A faint scent—a masculine scent of sweat and shaving soap—lingered on her fingertips.
She sat up straight, her heart racing. It had to have been a dream. There was no other explanation. She’d felt Caleb in her arms, but that was impossible. The blood rose to her cheeks in a hot blush. She often awoke from her nightmarish cries. Had she cried out and roused Mr. Smith from his bed? Had it been his arms where she’d found comfort? His lips pressed against hers, tender and loving, yet burning with a passion she hadn’t known in ages?
