Love and Dreams: The Coltrane Saga, Book 6 (12 page)

Bryan had crawled over the railing, stood only a fraction of, a second on the narrow wooden ledge before diving, headfirst, into the briny deep. As soon as he went under, he arched his body upward and fought his way to the surface and began to swim powerfully through the choppy current, struggling to reach the dancing, bobbing crate.

Walt Gibbons, hearing Monroe Burton’s frenzied cries, raced up on deck just in time to see Bryan dive overboard. Without hesitation, he ran for a life ring, secured to the deck by a long, thick rope. Rushing to the spot from where Bryan had dived, he threw it out and yelled down, “Get it, skipper. Grab the ring…” His voice abruptly trailed off as he saw the bobbing crate and what looked like a woman lying across it.

The other crew members reached his side in a panic. Walt pointed. “He ain’t crazy,” he hoarsely declared. “There’s a woman down there. Get the raft and get down there and help him. Go!” He gave the man next to him a rough shove.

The men reacted quickly, and by the time Bryan reached the crate, they had lowered a life raft and were paddling toward him.

The dive into the water, the ensuing struggle through the choppy, unrelenting waves to reach the crate, had brought Bryan out of his whiskey- and grief-induced stupor. He knew, as he clung to the side of the crate, that the unconscious girl lying on top was not his beloved Marnia, that such was not possible, but dear God, to look at her lying there, it was easy for him to think she was Marnia— the same diminutive size, the same shade of cardinal-red hair. Were her eyes green? Lord… He shook his head to clear it, sucked in deep breaths to his screaming lungs, for the arduous swim had left him winded.

He heard the shouts of the crewmen making their way to him in the raft, called to them to hurry. It was dangerous, he knew, to be in the shark-infested waters here.

He reached out to touch the girl, to see if she was still alive. Her flesh was warm. In fact, it was almost hot, and he could see that the part of her skin that had been exposed to the sun was burned. How long had she been adrift? No doubt there’d been a shipwreck somewhere…but where? They were halfway between New York and Bermuda, in the Gulf Stream. A transatlantic crossing? It was possible. He knew there had been a storm a few days ago, because he’d talked to a skipper on a schooner who’d raced ahead of it. But there’d been no talk of a lost ship.

The raft bumped into the crate. Bryan scrambled inside and with the help of the others lifted Jade from the crate.

One of the men incredulously observed, “Gawd, she’s burned. Look at them lips. Swollen an’ bleedin’. It’s a wonder she’s alive.”

The other sailor agreed. “Let’s hurry and get her back.” He turned to Bryan. “You want us to tie a rope on the crate and bring it in, too?”

Bryan shook his head. The crate was empty, useless, but there was something else. He’d seen the name of a ship,
Le Paris
, painted on the side and had, for what reason he did not fathom just then, deliberately pushed the crate about so the others could not see that name. He did not want them to know from what ship this beautiful creature had come, for she was, despite the sunburn and swelling, the cracked and parched lips, so much like Marnia that a great wrenching pain was knotting within, making his stomach heave with fresh grief. He sat with her cradled in his arms, and she did not move. Her bosom barely rose and fell with her shallow breathing. “Hurry,” he tersely commanded his men with their oars. “For God’s sake, hurry.”

Walt was waiting with a blanket as he took Jade from Bryan’s arms. He headed below, with Bryan right behind him, called to someone to get some whiskey. “We’ve got to get her heartbeat up. She’s pretty far gone.” He saw her burned flesh, yelled again, “And lard. Fetch some lard from the galley. We gotta get somethin’ on her skin.”

She was carried into Bryan’s spacious cabin, with its huge bed and lace canopy above, a creation of Marnia’s, who had loved frothy, dainty things and had filled her world with delicate beauty.

Bryan stood back and watched in silence, allowing Walt to take charge, for the present, of the sea treasure he had found; he was too entranced, too hypnotized, to be useful. This beautiful creature, his mind was screaming, had been given to him to mend his broken heart, fill the aching void that had made him want to take his life, end the misery. Now he had a reason for living. The devil had lost his fight to render him insane, take his soul. God had won.

Walt gently removed Jade’s ragged clothing.

Bryan saw her perfectly sculpted body, was not surprised at such sensuous loveliness. Marnia had possessed a breathtaking body, never failing to arouse him. This woman, this gift to him from God, was no less fetching.

Walt saw the glazed look in Bryan’s eyes, surmised he was shaken from his feat. He intruded on his reverie to ask, “You got anything I can put on her, something with no sleeves, maybe, so it won’t rub against her arms? They’re so burned…”

Bryan shook himself to bring himself out of his feeling of wonder. “Of course, of course.” He hurried to the closet built into one wall, something Marnia had designed in which to hang her gowns so they would not be crushed during the voyage to their island. Often they had entertained important people from Bermuda and sometimes had taken friends with them from New York, but even when they were alone, Marnia always insisted on formal dress for dinner. It was her way, wanting everything to be lovely at all times.

Opening one of the narrow drawers built across the bottom of the closet, Bryan pulled out a delicate silk nightgown that was sleeveless, wispy, and thin; it would give modest coverage but not irritate her skin. Up until now, he could not bear to touch anything that had belonged to Marnia but had refused to allow her things to be removed. Everything had been left as it was before she died. Now, however, there was no hesitation or remorse, for he knew it was meant to be that this girl have what had been his wife’s.

He handed the gown over to Walt. “Put this on her.” He waited till it was done, then dared to ask the question starting to burn within, “How bad is her condition?”

Walt drew in his breath and let it out slowly, thoughtfully. “Hard to say, skipper. I’ve seen lots of sunburn, and this is bad, but not as bad as it could be. No way of knowin’ how long she’s been driftin’, but I’d say, from the looks of her skin, not more’n a day. Any longer than that and she’d have been fried.”

Bryan made his voice controlled, even, for he was not going to contemplate a negative answer to his next question. “Will she live?”

“I think so.” Walt turned at the sound of a soft knock on the door, went to open it and take the bottle of whiskey Monroe Burton held out. Returning to the bed, he said, “Let me see if I can get a few drops of this down her. Then I’ll rub some lard on that burn, see if I can bring her around.”

Walt took a handkerchief and dipped it down into the bottle, then placed it in her mouth so it would drip inside and, ultimately, down her throat as she swallowed. Bryan watched this, then headed up on deck, feeling the need to be alone.

Bryan Stevens had never been a particularly religious man, but he did believe in a supreme being, knew that someone omnipotent had given him the joyous life he’d known with his beloved wife, his treasured son…just as he knew that same supreme being, for some unknown reason, had chosen to cruelly repossess His blessings. But now He had deemed to mercifully bestow a benediction. Bryan was so grateful; he wanted to give thanks, to vow to do whatever was required to ensure that he would never, ever lose what he had been regiven. If he had done something wrong before, something to offend, and had lost Marnia and his son as punishment, he did not want to repeat such a mistake. He was going to be a devout and worshipful being, worthy, this time, of such joy.

He fell to his knees, clasped his hands before him, tamed his face to the sky…and prayed.

Chapter Ten

His arms wrapped tightly about her, and he held her against him for long moments while their lips met in a searing kiss, the melding of their tongues igniting raw, primal needs deep within. His hands began to slide down her back, gently sculpting her waist before moving to cup her firm, rounded buttocks. He pushed gently against her, and she felt the probing swell that would ultimately challenge, enter, and make them one being, one love.

Jade’s head pressed back against the pillows, neck arching as his lips touched, licked, branded with a love bruise upon her gentle flesh.

Slowly, tantalizingly, he lowered his lips, his tongue like liquid fire as he moved to her breasts. He gently suckled, as eagerly as a babe upon his mother’s breast, and she wrapped trembling fingers in his hair to hold him lovingly closer to her bosom. “I love you,” she whispered huskily, hoarsely. “Oh, Colt, I love you so. Please…please…take me, darling, take me now.”

She parted her thighs for his entry, a whispered moan of anticipation escaping her mouth.

Then a voice beckoned her from her fantasy. “Drink this, please.”

Jade flung her head from side to side as she felt something touch her lips, causing agonizing pain to the cracked, bleeding flesh.

“Try, please,” the masculine voice urged. “You’ve got to.’’

She opened swollen lids, struggling to see beyond a hazy veil to match a face to the unfamiliar voice.

“Please,” the voice begged, warned. “If you don’t drink something, you’re going to die.’

Jade felt as though her arms were on fire, for her skin was burning with agony. Her throat was dry, sandy. She felt weak, exhausted—why? What was going on? Why did she feel this way…who was speaking to her? She didn’t know that voice, struggled to identify past the ringing in her ears.

She felt a hand gently touch her shoulder.

“Can you hear me, miss? Can you see me?”

The veil was parting. In its place was an opaline shadow, and slowly, oh, so slowly, that obstacle was moving away.

She strained to see the face looming above hers, could finally make out golden hair, then blue eyes with an expression of deep concern…and caring. But who?

He was leaning closer, and she groggily thought how handsome he was. He asked, “What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”

She tried to answer but couldn’t; her throat was too tight, too dry, to make a sound.

He sensed the difficulty and again urged her to drink. “Your body is all dried out, and so’s your throat. You’ve got to have water. Let me help you.”

She stared at him suspiciously but slowly, gratefully, sipped from the glass he held to her lips. The cool wetness felt wonderful to the stinging, dry walls of her throat. She started to drink faster, to gulp.

The strange man withdrew the glass. “That’s enough for now. You’ll get sick.”

She closed her eyes, began to fight the maelstrom of her mind. Where was she? What had happened and how had she gotten here? She remembered leaving France, sailing, making beautiful love to Colt in their cozy cabin. After that, it was as though a curtain had dropped before her eyes and mind, and she could see nothing, feel nothing…the frustration was terrifying.

“Will you try to talk now and tell me your name?” the stranger softly repeated.

She tried once more and this time was able to whisper, barely audibly, but enough to be understood, “Jade…”

“Jade,” he repeated triumphantly. “That’s a beautiful name.” He leaned closer, smiled. “Your eyes are the color of fine jade. I’ll bet that’s how you got that name, and I’ll also wager you’re Irish.”

Jade’s brain was spinning. A great roaring was starting within, threatening to build to a crescendo and ultimately explode to take her away from the baffling present, and she did not want to go. Not yet. She wanted to remain, to ask questions and find out what in God’s name was going on. And where was Colt? Why wasn’t he here with her?

Softly, hoarsely, she called his name.

“Colt?” her strange companion echoed at once. “Who is Colt?”

She tried to reply, but her throat refused to obey the command to speak. He gave her more water, and then she was able to murmur, “My husband. Please get him, tell him I want him with me…”

She heard the man sigh, as though in pity, and she suddenly felt a wave of apprehension mingled with terror and did not know why. She struggled to sit up, but he quickly moved to restrain her as she cried, “Where is he? I want to see him. Who are you? What’s happening to me?”

He looked away, and she knew at once that something was horribly wrong. Her eyes widened with the expression of a startled cat. Every muscle in her body tensed, back stiffening, head rising from the pillow. She looked at the man, then through him, beyond, to the crypt of memories that can never be truly erased from a tortured soul. She could see it now, as clearly as if it were happening again—the storm, the waves, the crazy lurching of the ship, the sound of glass breaking, the terrifying feeling that they were sinking, struggling out on deck, clinging to a railing, and then there was Colt, calling to her, screaming her name, fighting to get to her, and—

The crate!

The damned crate!

The agonizing scream tore from her throat and ripped away what moisture had collected there to further blister and scald with the dry horror of realization. “He’s dead. Dead. I saw him fall…saw the crate strike his head…and there was blood, so much blood. Oh, God, God, no!”

Bryan Stevens knew at once that she was remembering the nightmare that had brought her here. He held her down on the bed, attempted to reason with her, calm her. “Listen to me. It’s over. You’re safe now. You’re here with me, on my boat, and nothing is going to happen to you, I swear it.’’