Taming Charlotte (31 page)

Jacoba narrowed her eye for a moment, then let out a booming laugh that did much to ease the tension. “No, miss, not so’s you’d notice. There’s a washroom that way, and I’ll see what I can find you in the way of fresh clothes.”

“I have plenty of dresses on board the ship—”

Jacoba interrupted with a shake of her head. “Won’t do. We’ll boil the fever out of what things we can, but the rest will need burning.”

Charlotte did not want to think of her beautiful, custom-made garments being tossed into a fire, but she knew no unnecessary chances would be taken lest there be a new epidemic among the people on shore.

“What about the crew?” she asked. “Many of them are still sick.”

Jacoba spoke distractedly, her mind evidently fixed on the next task awaiting her busy, competent hands. “There be an old homestead just down the beach; the captain’s men will be looked after there until we’re sure the plague has passed.”

Charlotte nodded and made her way toward the indicated washroom, too weary to think further.

The luxury of the chamber startled her, for she had not seen its like even in Khalif’s palace. There was a great, tile-lined pool, set directly into the floor, and even one of those modern commodes with the pull-chain for flushing. Lush plants, thriving in priceless crockery urns, lined one wall, and there was a high, arched window to let in the vision of the sea.

Charlotte stripped away her ruined dress and washed carefully with scented soap. Presently a smiling woman with beautiful coffee-colored skin entered, bringing towels and a white cotton dress.

“Hello,” Charlotte said, pitifully grateful for the smile. She was a stranger in paradise, and not entirely sure of her welcome. “My name is Charlotte Trevarren.” A frown creased her forehead. Or was she still Charlotte Quade?

The maid executed a curtsy, averting her eyes. “I be Mary Catch-much-fish,” she said. “Miss Charlotte wants food?”

Charlotte’s stomach grumbled at the prospect. “Oh, yes, please.” She took one of the towels from the stone bench where Mary had set them and covered herself modestly as she climbed the steps out of the pool.

Mary bobbed again. “I bring plate to table outside, now Mr. Sun go to other side of house.” With these words, she turned and went out again.

Charlotte put on the white dress, which was too large for her but clean and otherwise comfortable, found a comb and carefully worked the tangles from her wet hair. When she went out into the master bedroom again, Jacoba was spooning some sort of broth into Patrick’s mouth. His eyes, so hollow before on the rare occasions when he’d opened them, brightened when he saw Charlotte approaching the bed.

He held out one hand, and Charlotte went to him, ignoring Jacoba’s palpable disapproval.

“He’ll be needing a bath of his own now,” the housekeeper interceded, her voice blustery.

Patrick actually chuckled, an event that made Charlotte’s beleaguered spirits soar in celebration. “I probably smell like a camel,” he said.

“Worse,” Charlotte assured him, bending to kiss his forehead. A moment later, she raised her eyes to meet Jacoba’s gaze straight on. “I’ll see to my husband’s bath,” she said. “You may go as soon as you’ve finished giving him the soup.”

Jacoba opened her mouth to protest, darted a quick look at Patrick, and then thought better of speaking.

Mary entered, carrying a tray, and Charlotte kissed Patrick again, then followed the good-natured maid out onto the terrace. “I’ll need lots of hot, clean water for the captain, please,” Charlotte said as she sat down at the table in a pool of soft sunshine. An array of fresh and exotic fruits
awaited her, along with cold chicken and a delicately flavored rice dish.

“Yes, Miss Charlotte,” the maid replied, with another curtsy.

Charlotte was so hungry that she was tremulous, but as she ate, the weakness subsided and she felt steady again, if tired. The view of the sun-dappled sea revived her a little too, though she was glad to be back on shore again.

Restored, she left her tray for Mary and went inside. The requested water waited in tall ewers, still steaming, and cloths, basins, and towels had been laid out as well. There was no sign of Jacoba, and Patrick had drifted back into one of his fitful sleeps.

Gently, tenderly, Charlotte undressed this man who was her soul mate if not her true husband, and began to bathe him. The process took some considerable time, and Patrick did not awaken, though he sometimes stirred. Maybe it was Jacoba’s special herbal soup, maybe it was being in a safe and comfortable place again, but color was rising under his pale skin, and Charlotte could sense a growing strength in him.

When he was clean again, when even his rich, raven-dark hair had been washed and gently combed and pulled back the way he liked it, Charlotte curled up beside him in her borrowed dress, yawned, and followed him into the solace of slumber.

She awakened when she felt a familiar hand on her breast. Her senses leaped in response, pulling her suddenly to full consciousness, and she raised herself on one elbow to look into Patrick’s face.

The room was filled with moonlight, and someone, probably Mary or Jacoba, had lowered the mosquito netting into place, giving the bed a misty sort of privacy. The air was warm, the night filled with a soft symphony of cricket-song, an ocean breeze rustling in the palm trees nearby, and the combined heartbeats of two lovers.

“Charlotte,” Patrick said, and it was as though the name had cost him everything to say, and yet been worth the price. With the same hand that had caressed her breast, he lowered the neckline of her dress and bared her.

She knew what he wanted, and yearned just as deeply to give it. Charlotte moved close to him, brushed his mouth lightly with her hardening nipple, and he took it hungrily and suckled hard, as though starved for her.

Charlotte crooned with involuntary pleasure, for attending Patrick in this particular way always excited her, always filled her with a sense of sweet power. She entwined her fingers in his hair and urged him closer. After a time, she gave him her other breast, and he drank greedily from that one as well.

Finally he broke away, making a sound that might have been a groan or a laugh. “I’ve started something I’m not strong enough to finish,” he lamented, his eyes glittering in the darkness as he regarded Charlotte, who lay trembling beside him now with her dress down around her waist. “Still, I want to see pleasure in your face as much as I want to watch the sun rise tomorrow.”

Charlotte’s eyes were stinging with tears, for there had been many hours when she’d thought she would lose this man who meant more to her than her next breath. Now it was plain that he was going to live. “Another time,” she said softly.

But Patrick shook his head. “Now,” he answered. Then he took her hand and pressed her own fingers firmly to the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. His hand moved atop hers, setting the rhythm and at the same time preventing escape.

Charlotte groaned, her legs widening involuntarily. “Patrick,” she gasped, breathless, her head already tossing back and forth on the linen-covered pillow. “This is—scandalous—”

“Ummm,” he agreed. “Scandalous. You’re beautiful, Charlotte.”

She convulsed softly under his fingers and her own, but the tide of passion only rose higher. “For an almost-wife?”

He increased the pace, made a low sound of approval as she responded. “For a saucy little vixen,” he replied.

Her pelvis bucked and she cried out as a particularly keen shaft of pleasure went through her. “Dear God, Patrick—I can’t bear it—it’s too strong—”

“And getting stronger,” he said.

Charlotte was fevered with delicious desperation. “I’m going to come apart…”

“Yes,” he agreed, and when he bent to tongue her nipple briefly, Charlotte’s prediction came true and she splintered into a million fiery pieces. While she thrashed in Patrick Trevarren’s vast bed, he watched and savored her every response.

Morning found Patrick stronger but also distracted and more than a little distant. He sent Charlotte out of the room and spent a long time conferring with Mr. Cochran. When the first mate had gone, looking grim as he passed along the hallway, Charlotte hurried back to her husband’s bedside.

Patrick was sitting up, his chest bare, his broad back resting against a mountain of pillows. He was gazing out through the center set of French doors, which had been opened earlier to the sea and the fresh air, and he did not look away when Charlotte came in.

She followed his gaze, saw the
Enchantress
bobbing on the tide at some distance from shore, her sails pristine against the varying blues of the water and sky. Although the scene was almost unbearably beautiful, or perhaps
because
of that, Charlotte felt an unaccountable dread.

“The crewmen—are they recovering?”

Still Patrick did not turn his eyes from the ship, the “she” he loved beyond all others. “Yes,” he answered. “There have been no more deaths.”

The room was comfortable with that soft, moist warmth typical of the tropics, but Charlotte shivered all the same. “Then why do you look like that?” she dared to ask. “Anyone would think you’d lost your most cherished friend.”

“Maybe I have,” Patrick answered, and she saw pain move in the strong lines of his face. Even gauntness and the lack of color could not disguise the aristocratic set of his features. “Maybe I have.”

Charlotte glanced uneasily toward the beautiful clipper ship gracing the harbor. “What are you saying?” she whispered.

At last he turned his indigo eyes to her, and she saw
despair in them, along with returning health and that innate arrogance she both loved and hated.

“There will be one more victim of this cursed plague,” he said, in a raspy whisper. Then he looked at the
Enchantress
again, as though to memorize every line of her, every sail and board.

Charlotte felt her knees go weak. She put both hands to her face as she recalled Patrick telling her that the dreaded plague had gotten into the very timbers of the ship. “Oh, no,” she said. “No!”

“She’ll go down after sunset,” Patrick said in a toneless voice, his gaze remaining with his beloved mistress, the graceful ship that had served him so faithfully.

The rest of the day was tense. Patrick slept and awakened, slept and awakened. Always, when he was conscious, he looked upon the
Enchantress,
devouring her as hungrily as he had taken Charlotte’s breasts the night before.

When night had fallen, Patrick dressed himself, at least partially, refusing all help, and staggered out onto the terrace to grip the stone wall in both hands. Charlotte was at his side, ready to break his fall if his strength gave way.

All day, small boats had moved back and forth between the ship and the shore, carrying charts and maps, bells and fittings, anything that could be saved. Now the little crafts converged on the greater vessel again, alight with torches.

The
Enchantress
was boarded; the small patches of fire told them that. She was doused with kerosene from stem to stern, for that had been Patrick’s order, and then set aflame.

Men scrambled down ropes and even dived, shouting, over the sides as the proud clipper’s decks flared with fire. Charlotte linked her arm with Patrick’s, ignoring his resistance, as crimson flames licked at the masts, danced along the rigging, and finally caught the sails.

The ship was a sight of glorious tragedy as it burned against the blackened sky, and in its reflected light Charlotte saw a tear slide down Patrick’s pale cheek to lose itself in the dark stubble of his beard.

“The Vikings used to burn their ships when they could no longer serve,” he said hoarsely, after a long time. The worst
of the roaring had subsided; the
Enchantress
was now a flaming skeleton, barely afloat.

Charlotte let her head rest against his upper arm, unable to restrain the sob that escaped her throat. “Oh, Patrick, it’s like watching a loved one die,” she whispered. “What will you do without her?”

“I don’t know,” he replied bleakly.

The ship burned most of the night, and Patrick refused to leave the terrace until her trial had ended. When she tilted gracefully forward and went under, he uttered a low sound woven of the purest grief, turned, and stumbled back into the house.

He collapsed on his bed, sprawled sideways, and immediately gave himself over to the solace of sleep. His vigil had left him exhausted, and Charlotte knew his spirit was raw with despair.

She made an awkward place for herself at Patrick’s side, laid one hand lightly on his back, and closed her eyes.

She awakened the next morning to find herself in the company of a stranger who only looked like Patrick. The soul, the essence of him, seemed to have withdrawn, leaving a cold void in its place.

“Patrick?” Charlotte said, sitting up, alarm thick in her throat.

He was sitting up against the headboard, regarding her as though she were a troublesome stranger, and not the woman he had fought with, loved with tender fire, and gifted with his child.

“Go away,” he said coldly.

Charlotte sat up, sleep-rumpled, confused, and thoroughly wounded. “Patrick—”

He leveled his lethal, ink blue gaze on her. “I said go away,” he growled.

Determined that one of them should be rational, Charlotte rose, with dignity, and kept her chin high and her voice even. “You need to grieve for the
Enchantress
in private,” she said, “and I can understand that.” She reached out to touch his face, but he turned his head to avoid contact. Still, she found the courage to finish, “When you realize that it’s a
real woman you need, with a mind and a heart and hands and breasts, and not a wooden one with masts and sails, I’ll be nearby.”

Patrick said nothing, nor did he so much as glance in her direction.

Charlotte straightened her shoulders and walked out without looking back.