Heart Of The Storm. Mary Burton

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СКАЧАТЬ into small fists. No bigger than a sprite, she possessed a warrior spirit he had to admire.

      Her face nestled in the crook under his chin. He could feel her warm breath against his skin.

      Ben laid her gently on the bed. She rolled onto her side and curled her legs close to her body. She still clutched the blanket close.

      He lit a lantern. A soft glow of light shone on the double bed, dresser, sea trunk and large hearth.

      He quickly removed his wet jacket and tossed it into a heap on the floor.

      Ben turned his attention to Rachel and her damp clothes. She whimpered when he pried the blanket from her hands. “You’ll be warm in a minute.”

      He quickly undressed her. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the softness of her skin or the ripe fullness of her breasts. He covered her with the thick bedspread. She shivered and burrowed deeper. Lantern light cast a soft glow on her skin.

      Ben set to work on lighting a fire. It didn’t take long before the wood took flame.

      The woman’s breathing sounded more labored now, and though the blaze was slowly warming the room, she still trembled under the blankets.

      Ben opened the chest at the foot of the bed and removed another blanket. He laid it over her, tucking the edges around her slender frame.

      She moaned and rolled onto her other side. “I’m so cold.”

      Ben touched her forehead. Cold as ice.

      He sat on the edge of the bed and uncovered her feet. She moaned in protest until he cupped them between his hands. Slowly her feet warmed.

      Warming her with the blankets would take hours.

      Accepting what must be, he stripped completely and climbed into the bed. He pulled her cold, naked body against his, tugged the blankets over them and draped his arm across her very narrow waist.

      She’d not die on his watch.

      Chapter Four

      Ben awoke with a start.

      His mind fogged with sleep, he thought for a moment he was still a decorated naval officer in command of twenty-six sailors and destined to rise higher through the ranks.

      As much as he wanted to believe he was on the clipper ship Intercept, reason whispered he couldn’t be. Absent were the sway of the ship and the sound of men working. And when had he fallen asleep? He’d never slept the night through when he was at sea.

      He sat up and shoved his hands through his hair. Morning sunlight streamed into the cold room through the window by his bed. Outside the wind banged a shutter open and closed. Gradually his mind cleared. He wasn’t on his ship. He was in the lightkeeper’s cottage.

      Ben relaxed back against the pillow. A flock of seagulls squawked outside his window. He glanced over at the hearth to the dying embers.

      His senses kicked into play. The Anna St. Claire had wrecked. The rescue. He remembered.

      He looked down at the woman beside him. Curled on her side, she lay naked under the blankets, her long hair flowing down her back.

      Rachel.

      The coarse blankets covered her petite frame and molded to the gentle curve of her hip. Her profile was classic, a long patrician nose, high cheekbones and full, round lips. Her skin was the color of porcelain. Beautiful. Her hair, dry now, glistened. He captured a stray curl between his fingers. Silk.

      She stirred, stretching her legs. Her bare toes peaked out from the end of the blankets into the morning cold. But they retreated under the blankets and rubbed against his, seeking warmth.

      The touch was innocent enough and yet it possessed an intimacy that unsettled him. In the quiet morning hours this was the kind of moment a husband and his wife shared before the day began.

      She nestled her bottom closer to him. He grew as hard as a pike. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman and he was accurately aware of it now.

      Of course, if Rachel were his, he’d be under the covers with her. And he’d be kissing her awake as he moved inside her.

      Embarrassed by the direction of his thoughts, Ben lay very still, waiting as she settled. She sighed and burrowed her face into her pillow.

      He didn’t want to wake her. She needed her sleep and, in truth, he liked being close to her. He liked it too damn much.

      Taking in a deep breath, he stared out the window. He had no rights to the desires flooding his veins. She’d said her husband was dead, but she could very well have children and a whole other life waiting for her return.

      Chance had brought her to these shores, but she would soon leave. She didn’t belong here.

      He shifted his thoughts to the work to be done today—the ropes to be rewound, the oil that would have to be hauled up the one hundred plus steps of the lighthouse and the lenses that would have to be polished. When that didn’t ease the throbbing in his groin, he thought about the frigid waters of the Atlantic. If only he could dip into those waters now.

      Rachel stirred and muttered something in her sleep. She rolled onto her back, revealing the other side of her face. In the morning light, he saw the bruise. Angry and purple, it marred an otherwise flawless face. He’d not noticed it last night in the dark.

      A primitive anger stirred inside him. Had the sailors done this to her?

      Suspicion replaced desire. A woman of means, bruised and traveling alone on a frigate manned by hardened sailors. Nothing about Rachel Davis made sense.

      Restless now, he eased up and leaned against the headboard. He’d serve them both well by getting dressed and giving her privacy. When she woke, she’d likely be confused and dazed as most near victims of the sea were.

      Later he would talk to her and find out where she came from.

      “Ben!” His aunt Ida’s voice echoed through his cottage. Ida had taken him in and raised him as her own after his parents had drowned crossing the Sound when he was six. Whenever news of shipwreck reached the nearby village she came to check on him the next morning.

      Very aware of his and Rachel’s nudity, and the picture they made, Ben vaulted out of bed toward a small dresser. He stumbled over their wet clothes entwined in a sopping mess on the floor.

      “Mama, I want to check on Timothy to see if he’s doing all right.” The voice of Ben’s cousin Callie drifted through the small house.

      “Not until you’ve paid your respects to your cousin first. Ben! Are you home? It’s Ida and Callie.” His aunt’s voice grew closer.

      “Hello, Ben,” Callie said.

      He yanked open a dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of dry pants. Their timing was flawless. “I’ll be right there.”

      He yanked the pants up over his hips. As he fumbled with the thirteen buttons on the dual front flaps, Rachel awoke with a start. She sat up in bed, her eyes wild and full of fear.

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