Seaswept Abandon Read online

  "You want something?" he asked.

  "I thought you might be more comfortable in the bunk."

  "I'm sure I would be, but where would you sleep?"

  She considered his statement very odd in light of her occupation. "Why, here of course. I imagine I must be used to sleeping with men."

  "Sleeping is not the word that comes to mind, Red," he said dryly.

  "Oh. I see. Well, that isn't what I was thinking."

  "That is precisely what I was thinking." He turned his back to her.

  "I believe you must be a gentleman," she said, snuggling into the feather tick.

  "No, ma'am. Just discriminating."

  "Oh," she breathed softly, deeply hurt. She blinked several times to stem her tears, them simply gave in to them. They dripped silently over her freckled cheeks and when her nose filled with them she pulled both blankets over her head to smother her snuffles.

  Closing his ears to her muffled sobs, Jericho cursed himself for his blunt reproach. It was as unnecessary as it was cruel. He had wanted her once, and if he was truthful, he wanted her still. But it was his very desire that drove him to push her away. He might want her, but he did not want to need her. And there was something about her that warned him it could happen. It scared the hell out of him.

  * * *

  In the morning she found Jericho on deck, leaning listlessly against the rail. His arms were folded in front of him and he appeared to be studying the scuffed toes of his boots. There was a troubled frown on his brow. She did not imagine his thoughts boded well for her. She began to turn away, loath to interrupt him.

  "Don't go," he said quietly.

  She stopped. He had not looked up. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

  "I doubt you can help it," he said under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her stiffen and realized that not only had she heard him, but she was offended. He refused to explain. Better she remain offended. She would keep her distance. "You're feeling better this morning, I take it." He gave her the briefest of glances.

  "Yes."

  "Your voice is better."

  "Yes."

  "You're a prickly thing when your tender feelings are hurt."

  "I'm surprised you credit me with emotion."

  Jericho pushed away from the rail and gave her a hard look.

  He would have liked it better if she did not appear so much like a schoolroom miss. Her shawl doubled as a fichu, modestly covering her shoulders. Her heavy hair had been neatly secured with the ribbon that had adorned her chemise and her face was freshly scrubbed. Hell, her freckles looked polished. "Don't pick a fight with me, Red," he said tightly. "You'll lose."

  She swallowed, but she did not look away.

  "Damn you," Jericho said after a moment. He spun on his heels and picked up the fishing pole that was lying on the deck. "I'll be back in a few hours. Then we'll talk about your future."

  He was on the bank before she found the courage to call after him. "Please, Mr. Smith. May I come with you? I'll be quiet and I can dig for worms."

  It was the mention of worms that swayed him. One eyebrow lifted lazily as he assessed the sincerity of her offer. He nodded abruptly and continued on his way, never once glancing back to see if she followed.

  She kept her distance as she trailed Jericho along the riverbank. By accompanying him she hoped to make herself useful and give him pause about sending her away. She had no doubt the subject had been uppermost in his mind when she saw him on deck. She felt compelled to make him understand that until she knew her past she could not leave his protection. What would become of her? She did not think she had the stomach for whoring any longer.

  Jericho left the bank for an outcropping of large rocks that had accumulated at one bend in the river. The slabs of stone had been warmed by the early morning sun and several robins and a lone whippoorwill were taking advantage of the heat. They did not even flutter as Jericho walked lightly by them. Erosion had created a natural seat of sorts on one rock and he settled there, his long legs dangling over the side well above the water.

  She watched Jericho move among the rocks with a surefootedness she envied. She could not imagine the element in which he was out of place. While he rested comfortably in the curve of his rocky throne she stepped through the underbrush and walked deeper into the woods. Never asking herself if there was something a mite inconsistent about a lightskirt who knew all the best places to find slugs, she hummed softly to herself and overturned rocks and decaying logs. She plucked fat wigglies and sluggish maggots out of the rich, dark humus and dropped them into a carryall she improvised with her shawl. To the thick wrigglers she added a goodly portion of soil. "Something to play in," she told them. "While you wait your turn at the hook. No matter what some people may think, I am not without finer feelings."

  Jericho appeared to be sleeping when she dropped beside him with her lively bounty. She was becoming accustomed to his strange ability to be ever alert, so she was not surprised when he sat up immediately and examined her bait.

  He looked from the moving mound of earth on her watch plaid shawl to the serenity of her expression. He handed her the roughly fashioned pole.

  "Go ahead, Red. You put the crawlies on the hook. Can't stand them myself."

  She did not believe him for a minute, but thought she recognized a peace offering of sorts in his quiet admission. She chose one energetic annelid, baited Jericho's hook, then passed the pole back to him. Without a word of thanks he dropped the line in the water. She watched his indolent technique with no small degree of skepticism. It was obvious he had come fishing to think, not with the intent of catching their dinner. She sat very still while Jericho returned to his resting position against the rock. The pole rested loosely in his hands and his eyes closed, but she knew he would be alert to any break in the peace that surrounded them.

  Jericho had never known a white woman, and few white men, who could sit as motionless as his companion sat now. It was a learned skill, one he had acquired shortly after jumping ship in the colonies. Two years spent with the Seminóles in the southern colonies had not been without rewards. He had already known how to fight, but the Indians had taught him how to win. How had she come by these skills?

  "Have you remembered anything?" he asked tonelessly, as if her answer were of no consequence.

  "No."

  Jericho permitted himself a hint of a smile at her terseness. She took her promise to be quiet seriously. He almost wished she hadn't; it would be one less thing to like about her. "I wouldn't mind if you wished to elaborate on your answer."

  "No. I have not remembered anything."

  "Red." The manner in which he said was a warning that his patience was not infinite.

  "Why do you call me that?" she asked. She drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them, looking at Jericho askance.

  "I heard the owner of Wolfe's call you by that name. It suits you. After all, it is the color of your hair."

  She fingered a stray lock that brushed her forehead. She pulled it down in front of her, examining it until her eyes crossed. "Oh, surely not," she frowned, ignoring Jericho's musical laughter. "I saw myself in your shaving mirror this morning. My hair is quite brown."

  Watching the sun's light accent the copper fire in her hair, brown was not a color that leaped to Jericho's mind. Auburn, perhaps. Certainly mahogany. Her hair was rich with the shades of autumn's gold and umber. "Would you prefer I call you Quite Brown?"

  Her soft lips puckered as she blew the offending strand of hair out of her eyes. "No, I don't think so. It's odd, you know, but Red seems almost familiar. Not precisely right, but nearly. Why do you suppose that is?"

  Jericho shrugged. "It's all I've ever called you. Perhaps that's why it seems right."

  Not all you've ever called me, she could have told him. How easily he forgot harlot and whore. Enjoying the camaraderie that had sprung up between them, she decided not to correct him. "How did you come by Jericho? It seems a curious sort of nam
e."

  "Not so strange once you know I chose it for myself when everything crumbled about my head," he said flatly. The admission surprised him. He did not always share his first name, and never before had he spoken of its origins. He hesitated, then shook off the past. "No matter. It was a long time ago. I was ten."

  She said nothing. She bit back the myriad questions that came to her, knowing he would not appreciate nor allow her probing. But he could not stop her wondering about a ten-year-old who felt compelled to rename himself, to force a memory in the manner of a punishment. "And Smith?" she asked.

  There was an infinitesimal pause. "Smith is my own."

  It was more than she could claim. She rested her cheek against her knee and studied Jericho's peaceful countenance. There was no hint of tension about his mouth, no furrow about his brow. The lashes that fanned his cheeks were so dark in contrast to the brightness of his hair they did not seem quite real. She was certain he was watching her watching him, yet by not so much as a flicker did he indicate it.

  "I think you have a bite," she said as Jericho's pole wobbled.

  Jericho cocked one eyebrow. An eyelid lifted lazily. "Appears that way." He handed her the rod. "You take it, Red. I don't care for all that thrashin' around."

  She smiled. Jericho Smith worked hard at being lazy. Not much scratched his placid surface. She struggled halfheartedly with the line, felt it give, then pulled it in. "He got away."

  "Did he take the bait?" he asked, unconcerned.

  "Yes."

  "Good; he'll be fatter next time around."

  That philosophy would not feed them this evening, but she found she didn't care. She plucked another wriggler from the dirt and baited the hook. She returned the pole to Jericho's idle hands. Her fingers brushed his and she pulled back sharply. The warmth of the contact startled her. Jericho, she noticed, appeared to be unmoved.

  "I have a friend named Jerusalem," Jericho said into the chasm of silence that had developed between them.

  "Oh."

  "I thought that a rather strange name."

  "To be sure." She was glad he had taken the initiative to speak, but she was having difficulty responding. How could an attraction be so one-sided?

  "Of course, no one calls him that. Well, hardly anyone," he added, thinking of Ashley when she was piqued with her husband. "Mostly he's called Salem."

  She could not care less. "And mostly what are you called?"

  "Smith." He grinned. "At least to my face."

  "Should I—"

  "Jericho's fine."

  She understood better than Jericho would have wished. Every time she used his name she knew he would recall the walls that had crumbled and were rebuilt. He would not be destroyed again. A ten-year-old did not forgive or forget easily.

  She continued to hug her knees, rocking slightly on the warm, smooth stone. Quite suddenly she stopped and turned the full beauty of her green eyes on him.

  "Why do you suppose I became a whore?"

  Jericho choked and nearly lost his grip on the fishing pole. Was there ever such a guileless harlot as she? He had not thought the two words could be linked together until he made this wench's acquaintance. "I hadn't given it any thought," he lied, gathering the precious threads of his calm. "I've no doubt you have some theory you wish to expound."

  The dryness of Jericho's tone did not escape her. "Not if you've no wish to hear it."

  He waved one hand negligently. "Pray, tell me. You may hit on some spark that will fire your memory." It was years of practice that allowed Jericho to hide the curiosity consuming him.

  "I rather think I must have been sold into it," she said finally, leaning back on her elbows and stretching her legs. "My family was probably starving."

  "So you put yourself on the flesh market to put food on the table."

  "Something like that."

  "You made the ultimate sacrifice. Virginity for venison."

  "There is no need for crudity. I was only trying to say that I must have entered the profession for compelling reasons."

  "I apologize, your highness."

  "You're forgiven," she said grandly.

  Jericho was thoughtful. "I will concede you don't talk much like any whore I've known."

  "I wasn't always one, you know," she continued seriously. Silently she wondered how many of her sisters he numbered among his acquaintances. "I may have been stolen by Gypsies. Or perhaps I fled a brutal husband. Mayhap—"

  "I applaud your imagination. But what does it serve? Nothing is changed."

  "No, I suppose not. I had hoped—" She stopped. What was it she had hoped? That Jericho would think kindlier of her if there were some excuse for what she was? That he would be more likely to offer his protection and not desert her? It mattered naught, she decided. She would survive without him. At least she could feed herself, which was more than she could say about the fisherman at her side.

  She sat up abruptly, pulled off her shoes, rolled her stockings in a neat ball and stuffed them into the toes of the shoes. Standing, she unhooked her skirt and dropped it to the ground, and then yanked the saque over her head and tossed it in the pile. The ribbon that held her hair fluttered to her feet as she defiantly shook her head. She stood poised on the edge of the rock in her thin undergarments but a moment, her naked arms raised to the sun and sky. Then, with no more than the gentlest push of her toes, she thrust herself into the air and arced headlong into the bitingly cold river.

  Damn fool chit, Jericho swore, tossing aside his pole and peering anxiously into the water. She could have broken her simple neck with a stunt like that. She didn't know how deep the water was. She didn't know if there were more rocks below. Hell, maybe she had killed herself. Then Jericho relaxed. He saw her bubbles first, then the top of her head cut the surface. He reached for his line, so that when she turned to look up he appeared to have been unperturbed by her reckless dive.

  Jericho's legs dangled high above her. She wished she could pull them into the water. She recognized it was a stupid thing she had done. Lord knew the water was freezing this time of year, and she had narrowly missed smashing her skull on a submerged rock bigger than anything she had been climbing on. She was fortunate it had only been her arm that scraped its edge. She didn't feel cleansed, only cold. It had been senseless to believe the water could wash away, even briefly, what she was. Scarlet to her very bones. That was her lot. She prayed for the return of her memory so it wouldn't bother her so much.

  "Reckon you could put a fish on the line, Red? Seein' how you're down there and all?"

  She sputtered, pushing wet clumps of hair out of her eyes, and glared up at Jericho. Her prayer could not be answered a moment too soon. "Get your own damn fish!" she yelled. She struck out for the bank and clambered onto the rocks. By the time she reached Jericho's perch she was shivering uncontrollably. She was glad he did not look at her. Her wet underthings were plastered to her pimply flesh and provided nothing in the way of modest protection. She crouched beside him, covering her breasts with one arm while she gathered her clothes in the other.

  "Might cold, was it?" he asked pleasantly.

  She gritted her teeth, a nearly impossible task given the way they chattered. "Invigorating is the word that comes to mind. I'm going to dress now." She turned away and headed for a more private enclosure among the outcropping.

  "Red?"

  She glanced over her shoulder, tapping her bare foot impatiently. Jericho's unhurried gaze swept the damp line of her long legs, the shadowed cleft of her buttocks, her slender back, and finally came to rest on the green brilliance of her eyes.

  "You looked real fetchin' doin' that dive, but if you do somethin' that stupid in front of me again, I'll put color in your backside that will shame your hair."

  She simply stared at him, not disbelieving he would do it, only disbelieving his audacity in saying so. Because she could think of no reply stinging enough, she thrust out her chin, sniffed derisively, and stalked off. It did not improve her t
emper that behind her Jericho's laughter rumbled deep in his chest.

  She found seclusion on a large slab of stone nearer the water's edge. It was gently angled, perfect for lying on, and it had absorbed a generous amount of the sun's heat. She stretched out on the face of the rock, belly down, and nearly purred as its warmth passed into her. It seemed a wasted effort to dry her underthings separately from herself. She shifted slightly a few minutes later to take advantage of a dryer and warmer spot, but did not move again, except in the careless movements of sleep.

  Jericho Smith sat hunkered on the edge of rock about ten feet above where she slept. He had been there for fifteen minutes, motionless, watchful, and slightly drunk on the beauty beneath him. None of it showed on his face. It was as still and fierce as one of the granite sentinels guarding this bend in the river. His lashes neatly shuttered the desire darkening his eyes. His mouth had taken on the grim, ascetic line of self-denial. He envied the rock that held her body flush to it. He wanted to be under her now, feeling her restless movements as she tried to make him yield to her softer contours. He wanted to palm the curve of her buttocks, jerk her close to the hardness of his thighs, and say, "Here. This is how we fit." Perhaps he would touch his mouth to hers, show her how noses adjusted, how lips locked. His hands would cup her breasts and the budding nipples would touch the exact center of his palms. "See," he would say. "You were made to fit these hands."

  But there were things he knew he would not do. He would not be particularly kind or gentle. He would not count her freckles or thread his fingers through her hair. He would not touch his lips to the backs of her knees, tug on her toes, or whisper anything of love in her ear. He envied the rock for reasons that had nothing to do with the nearness of her body. He envied that stone slab because she would rise from her nap, go on her way, and the rock would be the same. That was what he wanted. To be unchanged when she was out of his life.

  Jericho came to his feet as she stirred and was already walking away when she came fully awake.

  She yawned, stretching sleepily. By slow degrees she became aware of her surroundings, the rhythmic splash of water against the rock, the fragrance of the budding forest behind her, and the toasty heat that had penetrated her flesh to the marrow. She shielded her eyes against the brightness of the sun and wriggled her toes, feeling perfectly content not to move more than that.