Rapture's Rendezvous (8 page)

Maria's heart leaped with glee. He
was
awakening from his long bout of deep sleep. He
was
going to be all right. “Alberto, Alberto,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around him.

Alberto strained with all his might and managed to
speak some more, saying, “The… heat… Maria “

Hurriedly reaching to pick up the dampened cloth, Maria began to bathe his face. “I know,” she purred. “I know.” A fit of hacking coughs suddenly seized her, along with chills that encompassed her body from her head to her toes. Fear grabbed at her heart. She had seen so many die after many such seizures of coughs. Was .. . it. .. meant that she was now to have the dreaded pneumonia herself… and die … ?

Her eyes searched desperately around her. The heat was the tyrant. She had to remove herself and Alberto from this top deck, or most surely Papa would not have two children to wait for in America. They would be a part of the sea .. . never to rest in a final grave beneath a protective covering of earth.. ..

Alberto's hand reached upward and brushed a few strands away from Maria's face, relishing in the touch of her soft skin. But there was something else this day. There was a clamminess about her. God. She was ill. He wanted to reach for her … protect her .. . when
she began coughing violently again.

“Maria . . . ?” he whispered. “You must get . .. help.”

Maria clutched at her chest, feeling pain stabbing the insides of her lungs. The damp, cold night air and the extreme change to hot, dry days had done its damage. “Yes. I know,” she replied. Her gaze settled on the door that led downward, where Michael ate and slept in comfort, but where also .. . she had found Alberto … injured .. . and left to die in a most cruel way.

But Alberto was alive. He was going to be all right. But he would have a much better chance for a complete, healthy survival if she went to Michael and asked for assistance. Reaching up to smooth her hair back from her face, securing it with a comb on each side of her head, she knew what she had to do. “Alberto,” she whispered, licking her lips, trying to wet them. “I know I promised to not leave your side. But I must. For a moment. Then I will return. Do you understand? I am going to seek help. I know . .. of. .. someone who will willingly help. Then you and 1 . . we . .. can be more comfortable .. . and even eat and drink as one should.”

Alberto tried to raise himself upward, but groaned noisily when the pain struck him at the back of his head. “Who .. . ?” he whispered.

“An American,” she answered. “That's all I can tell you now. Just trust me.”

“Can …
he
… be … ?”

Maria touched Alberto softly on a cheek, smiling. “Yes. He can be trusted, Alberto,” she said, then turned her head to cough once again. The pain was worsening in her chest with each fresh bout of coughs. She knew
that she must hurry. If she got too ill to care for Alberto … then she had to be sure there would be someone else who would be willing to. Surely Michael would do this for her. Hadn't he shown such a gentle side to his nature? Hadn't he truly cared for her. . . not just for what she had shared with him? She had seen more than lust in the depth of his blue eyes. She had seen love … compassion… .

Pushing the legs of her breeches back to cover her ankles, she kissed Alberto softly, then rose and began to make her way through the throngs of milling people. Her hair blew in dark streamers behind her and her birthmark seemed larger with the steady rays of the sun seeming to mark her face in even more strawberry reds.

A tightness moved around her chest as she pushed her way onward, then a fresh bout of chills sent bone-aching tremors up and down her legs, chest, and arms. She covered her mouth when she began to cough again, seeing the door that led downward to Michael through a haze as her eyes misted in gray blurs.

Stumbling, she opened the door and almost fell down the stairs. Her knees were growing weak, as was the alertness in her head. She cringed when she began to walk down the narrow, dark passageway, fearing someone might even grab her into one of the rooms, possibly even rape her. When she had been in this passageway before . . . she had been with Michael. But she had to shudder … remembering when she had been alone . .. and had found Alberto. . . .

Maria turned to lie on her side, sighing leisurely. The splash of the water beneath her had a lulling effect, and the steady movement of the ship made her feel as though she was in a cradle, rocking. Then her eyes moved quickly open, darting around her. Where was she? She didn't recall having been brought here. A long, crimson velveteen curtain hung from the ceiling next to the bed, hiding all else from her eyes.

“A bed,” she thought to herself. “I'm lying on a bed. How?” A slow smile curled her full, sensuous lips upward, now running her fingers across the softness of the sheets beneath her. She had only known one bed. Michael's. And it was his bed that she had somehow become acquainted with once again. Then her fingers began to feel down the full length of her body, relishing in the luxuriousness of Michael's night robe that had again been so generously loaned her.

A slow flush rose upward from her neck, wondering if it had been Michael who had shed her outer
and
undergarments. If so, had he taken liberties with her body … when she had been unaware of it… ?

Maria closed her eyes and thought hard, trying to remember how and why she had come to be in Michael's cabin this second time on this voyage. She
had been … worried . . . about Alberto. . . .

Her eyes flew open again, a slow desperation causing her to push herself upward. Where was Alberto? Was he all right? Feeling a cool sweep of air settle on her breasts that were now fully exposed from Michael's night robe having fallen agape in front, Maria clutched at it, holding it together. Then she slowly pulled one end of the curtain aside, breathing much more easily when she discovered Alberto stretched out in an apparent deep, peaceful sleep on a bunk at the far end of the room, covered with a blanket up to just beneath his chin.

From what Maria could tell, Alberto was all right. But he did need a fresh shave. A thick patch of dark whiskers framed his lips.

Her thoughts moved swiftly to Michael. “Michael, oh, Michael. You really do care. Or why else would you have taken both me
andmy
brother in?” she whispered, feeling a delirious warmth of desire surging through her blood. She leaned closer to the curtain and pulled it further aside, craning her neck, searching the cabin around her. She moved to her knees, feeling the thunderous pounding of her heart when her gaze settled on him.

Michael was slumped over his desk, writing in his journal. His shirt front was unbuttoned halfway to the waist, and the dazzling white of the shirt was accentuated even more by an abundance of ruffles spilling over his thick, golden chest hairs.

He placed the tip of his pen to his lips, lifting a thick brow as he gazed toward Alberto. He knew that Alberto's strength had to have returned. Each evening, Michael had learned that to be sure that Alberto
would eat, all he had to do was take leave of the room for only thirty minutes or so after having placed the tray of food on the floor beside Alberto's bunk. Always when Michael returned, the food would be gone and Alberto would once again be playing his game of pretense, lying so still, appearing to be asleep.

“Damn it. Why?” Michael fumed to himself. He turned a bit sideways in the chair, now thinking about Maria. He dropped his pen to the desk top and bolted upright, discovering Maria peering back at him from the lifted corner of the curtain. He whispered her name and hurried to her side, not caring when the velveteen curtain jerked loose from the ceiling and crumpled to a heap on the floor. He sat down on the bed beside Maria, taking one of her hands in his, lifting it to his lips, kissing it with soft, feathery touches.

“Are you really all right, Maria?” he said thickly. His gaze raked over her, leaving no spot untouched by the caress of his eyes.

Maria settled back onto the bed, in an almost swoon. She wasn't sure if this was caused by Michael's presence, or a sudden lightheadedness from a piercing hunger gnawing away at her insides. “How long have Alberto and I been in your cabin, Michael?” she asked, placing her fingers to her brow, breathless. She now knew the intensity of her weakness and suddenly recalled how ill she had been the day she had decided to seek Michael's assistance.

“Several days, my sweet,” he replied. With the back of his hand, he reached upward and touched her cheeks, then her brow. “But I believe your fever has broken and you're on the road to recovery.”

Maria fluffed a pillow and placed it behind her back,
leaning into it. “And was I so ill?” she asked. “So ill that I cannot even remember these past several days?” She felt her face coloring, looking at the bed and the empty space beside her. “And did you . .. did we even … ?”

Michael laughed throatily. “No. I, nor we, didn't,” he said, leaning closer to her. “And my, aren't our thoughts a bit on the wicked side? It's a sure sign that you are well.” He leaned even closer and whispered into her ear. “You're a wench. A she-devil. Did you know that?”

“Michael. Please,” Maria said, glancing toward Alberto. He was lying much too quietly. Not appearing to even be breathing. Could he be feigning sleep? Was he indeed hearing all? Her face flushed even redder, imagining what could be going through her brother's mind if he had heard. Alberto hadn't known of her one time with Michael. If he did, or would ever find out, Maria even suspected that Alberto might become guilty of violence.

Michael reached for a cloth and wet it, wringing it out to be almost dry. Then he began to smooth it across Maria's face in slow, even strokes. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I didn't mean to embarrass you.”

Maria leaned her face into his caresses. “That feels so good,” she sighed.

“I'm sure my doing this daily helped to pull the hated fevers from inside you,” he said, moving down to her neck, lifting her hair.

“You've done this? And I wasn't even aware of it?”

“You've been quite ill, darling.”

Maria's eyes darted to Alberto once again. “Michael, please do not call me sweet names. Not in Alberto's presence.”

“He is asleep, Maria.” “I'm not so sure.. ..”

Michael turned and studied Alberto. “Yes. I know what you mean. He has a way of fooling a body.”

“And is Alberto going to be as well as 1?”

“I'm sure he is already,” Michael grumbled, resuming his strokes with the cloth.

Maria's eyes widened. “What do you mean, Michael?”

“It's been the damnest thing,” he grumbled further. “At times, I'm sure I feel his eyes on me when I least expect it. But when I turn to look at him, his eyes are closed again.”

“But why would Alberto not talk to you, if he is well? Surely you're imagining things.”

Michael glared toward Alberto, tensing inside when the same feelings of apprehension raced through him. Even now, he could tell that Alberto was indeed feigning sleep. This made his trust for Alberto wane even more. It didn't seem Alberto and Maria were from the same mother's womb, much less twins. Their personalities were too much of a contrast. He turned his gaze back to Maria. “Damned if I know,” he finally said.

“And you're so sure Alberto is well?”

“After I got him in out of that sweltering heat, he began to improve quite readily,” he said. “I don't know why you and your brother chose to stay out in that damned weather when I had so eagerly offered the comforts of my cabin,” he added, furrowing his brow.

Maria didn't want to explain the whys. Doing so would be to reveal how angry Michael's words had made her when he had accused her of having more than sisterly feelings for her brother. Even now it angered
her. But she did feel a deep sense of gratitude for Michael now, and renewed strange feelings swirling around inside her because of his nearness and the gentleness of his strokes as he continued to caress her face and neck with the dampened cloth. “I do appreciate what you've done for Alberto and myself,” she murmured, fluttering her eyelashes nervously as his gaze met hers and held. His blue eyes were like pools, luring her into them, making her insides begin a slow melting.

“And will you stay on here with me in my cabin even now that you are well?”

Maria's heartbeats faltered, glancing toward Alberto once again. “No. I think not,” she said. “As soon as Alberto is able, we must return topside. It is the only decent thing to do. One can take only so much advantage of another.”

“But you might have a relapse,” Michael said, placing the cloth back on the table, leaning down closer to Maria. He felt the heat in his loins as his eyes lowered, seeing the heaving of her bosom, so large, tempting his hands to reach upward to touch. But, no. He had to remember. She had just recovered from an illness so close to having become pneumonia, and also, her damn brother who was too close, ready to pounce if Michael made the wrong move. The curtain had been hung for privacy. He would have to tack it to the ceiling once again.

Maria stretched her long, lean legs out in front of her, crossing them. “And how far away are we from America?” she asked softly. “I am so anxious to see this new world. And also my Papa. It's been so long. I only hope he is well.”

“I'd say about another week of travel should get us there,” Michael answered, moving to sit beside Maria, crossing his own legs. He couldn't keep his eyes from venturing along the smoothness of her olive-colored legs, and then on upward. Surely he could hold her again .. . have her all to himself. . . before the ship reached its destination. For once they had reached New York, the confusion of the docks could very well separate them forever.

“Can you tell me about it, Michael?” she asked, eyes wide.

“What do you want to know?”

“What I will first see when the ship draws near to the New World.”