Seaswept Abandon Read online

  She thought her memory must be returning by slow degrees because her dreams had been so erotic they continued to fire her imagination upon waking. She could hardly credit she had been so abandoned in her affections. Some movement to her left caught her eye, and she sat up abruptly as the object of every one of those delicious and frightening dreams walked away from her. Jumping to her feet, she pulled on her skirt and saque, and carrying her shoes and stockings, ran after Jericho. He never stopped and she never called to him, but she was certain he slowed his pace so that she could catch him. It was as if some deeply ingrained code of values and manners would not allow him to be a complete boor.

  "I'm sorry about falling asleep like that," she apologized breathlessly, treading lightly in his wake. "I only meant to shut my eyes for a few minutes."

  Jericho shrugged. "You needed the rest. No harm done."

  "But your fishing... I wasn't there to bait the hook." She noticed he had no fish on his stringer.

  "The worms didn't mind. I let them go." He halted so suddenly that she nearly knocked him over. He gritted his teeth in frustration, working the muscles in his jaw as the smooth tips of her fingers grasped him by the waist to keep them both from toppling. Cutting off the beginnings of her apology with a brusque wave of his hand, Jericho pulled her shawl out of the top of his boot where he had stuffed it. He thrust it blindly backward and it caught her in her midriff. Jericho swore under his breath. "Are you all right?"

  She did not bother to answer because he was already five paces in front of her and showed no indication that he cared one way or another. Shrugging philosophically, she shook out her shawl, tied it around her waist, and followed Jericho at a more sedate pace. It did not set well that his abruptness hurt, but she admitted that it did. She cautioned herself against finding him attractive when he so obviously loathed even her casual touch. Better that she should return to the city as soon as possible than stay in the care of a man completely beyond her reach. Given her profession, Jericho Smith had already risked much for her, and she did not want to press his good will or her good fortune. Her shoulders slumped slightly, her walk slackened further. Perhaps she was not meant to exercise such a rational mind, she thought sadly. She was certain she had never felt so bereft in her life.

  She only caught up to Jericho because he had stopped along the way. He was standing on the grassy bank of a narrow inlet, staring at the blue-green water and looking quite pleased with himself. She watched in astonishment, a faint smile lifting the corners of her generous mouth, as he pulled in a net from the shallow backwaters. As the net wriggled and jerked with its lively catch, it became abundantly clear to her why Jericho hadn't cared a fig about hooking his dinner.

  "It was very shabby of you not to tell me about your trap," she admonished him lightly as she approached. He merely grinned, but she thought it no mere grin. His smile, mischievous and boyishly sly, brought her up short. That flash of animated humor gave his face a startling beauty, an innocent freshness that totally belied the hardships that had shaped the man. In that moment she glimpsed the unfettered youth he had been and felt her heart squeezed at the loss. She bent over his catch to hide the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes. "May I help?" she asked as he efficiently began pitching the smaller fish back into the water. He gave her a brusque nod and she knelt beside him, matching his quick motions. Without a word passing between them, they settled on the same two catfish for their dinner.

  "Do you know how to prepare them?" Jericho asked as he lifted the net and turned toward the schooner.

  She hesitated, thoughtful, then nodded. "Isn't it strange, but I do know. I wonder why some things are easy to remember and others, hard?" Jericho only grunted a reply that she decided confirmed his indifference to her plight. The remainder of the walk to the ship was silent.

  On board the schooner Jericho attached the net to one of the lower rails so it fell into the water, keeping the catch fresh until they had need of them. When he straightened from his task he nearly bumped into her. "Dammit, Red! Must you dog my every step?" He lifted her roughly by the shoulders and set her to one side as if she were so much baggage. "Stay out of my way!" Ignoring the ashen cast to her features and the hurt darkening her eyes, Jericho strode to the bow of the schooner and gripped the rail until the knuckles of his hands whitened. He did not relax until he heard her moving in the cabin below.

  Had there ever been such a devilish mess as this? he wondered. He wanted nothing more than he wanted this woman out of his life, yet he could not bring himself simply to abandon her. What a pathetic creature she was, knowing naught but cleaning catfish and firing a man's loins with a mere glance of her eyes. If he let her loose in the city she would be flat on her back within the hour and in prison within two. And the hell of it was that it mattered to him.

  He pushed away from the rail, his mouth a grim fine, and turned to face her as he heard her approach. His eyes covertly swept her slender figure, taking particular note of the uneven and telltale bulge in the shawl at her waistline. Red had been busy below, he decided, and prepared himself for her pitiable arguments.

  "I've decided to leave, Mr. Smith," she said, her chin lifting a notch. Her show of determination was undermined by a slight trembling. "You must know that I am grateful for your timely intervention," she continued with great dignity. "But I have no wish to cause you any further distress, and I cannot seem to help but do so." She pointed to her lumpy shawl. "I took a little food from the bench, and lest you think me a thief, I tidied the cabin in trade. I would have prepared your dinner, but I think I should make the most of the daylight."

  His face and voice void of expression, Jericho said, "That is wise of you. These woods are not without danger at night. Between the beasts and the brigands you will have a time of it."

  "Brigands?" She swallowed hard.

  "There are deserters of both armies roaming these forests, Red. You'll have an easier time eluding the four-legged animals. You have taken your dagger, haven't you? You'll need it, unless you intend to spread your thighs along the way."

  She blanched at Jericho's crudeness. "I have it," she said, patting her leg.

  He nodded, apparently satisfied. "I reckon you'll want to be goin', then. Do you know your way?"

  "I'll find it."

  Jericho forced down a smile. "Well, Red. I wish you the best."

  "Yes. You also." She stared at him a moment longer, memorizing each feature, then the whole of his face. "Well... goodbye."

  "Good-bye, Red." Jericho watched her descend the gangboard and take five steps before he called to her.

  She looked up hopefully when she heard her name. Perhaps he wasn't going to let her leave, after all. He might be ready to apologize for his callousness. She would pretend to hesitate, of course. But not so long that he might think better of his decision to invite her back. She would forgive his gruffness and promise to stay out of his way, while he would admit she wasn't such a bad companion. They would reach a pact of sorts and could begin at the business of being friends.

  Jericho pricked that bubble cleanly. "Other way, Red."

  She thought of several things she wanted to do to the man. All of them slow, none of them pleasant. The other way, indeed. She turned sharply on her heels and began walking.

  Chapter 3

  She sat huddled at the foot of a budding maple. The tree's thick trunk provided a barrier of sorts against the intermittent gusts of a bitterly cold wind. A cluster of daffodils that had dared to show their bright yellow blossoms was now edged with icy crystals. The food she brought along lay untouched in the lap of her skirt, while the shawl that held it was pulled tightly across her shoulders and kept in place by stiff fingers and a haphazard knot. She squeezed her eyes shut as another blast of cold air gathered force along the river and shot right up the bank to her shelter. Had it only been this morning that she had sunned herself in nothing more than cotton undergarments?

  She shifted uncomfortably, tucking the hem of her skirt under her feet and
legs. Her foodstuffs fell unnoticed to the ground. She admitted that nothing had gone as planned since she left the schooner. She had thought she and Jericho were only a few miles from the city proper, yet she had been walking for hours and never saw any evidence that she was coming upon New York. It occurred to her that Jericho had purposely sent her off in the wrong direction, but she could not credit him with the calculated cruelty that would play with her life. She knew she had not been walking in circles because she had been careful to follow the river's course. Now it was getting dark and this morning's penetrating heat was but a memory, hardly the stuff to keep a body warm.

  She wondered what sort of beasts and brigands she could expect to encounter in this cold. She was now convinced she had been a fool to leave Jericho's protection before he ordered her away. Which convinced her she had but one alternative: to return to the schooner and hope that he would not toss her overboard.

  She struggled to her feet as the wind whipped her skirt about her legs. She stepped out from behind the maple and was nearly knocked to her knees as a spindly branch thrashed her face. Pressing the back of her hand to her cheek, she felt the warm wetness of her own blood. She bit her lip to still its trembling, but her tears slipped heedlessly down her face, stinging the open wound. Blindly she pushed her way out of the undergrowth and began the long trek back to Jericho Smith.

  She had only gone a hundred yards and rounded the nearest bend in the river when she spotted the schooner moored to a tree stump on the bank. Looking ghostly in the dwindling light and the shimmering of her tears, she thought she must be seeing it because she wanted to see it. She knuckled her eyes to clear her vision, and when the apparition remained, bobbing and rolling on the crest of the water's white waves, she scrambled down the steepest portion of the bank, finishing the hasty descent on her backside.

  "I hate you, Jericho Smith!" she cried to the shadowy figure leaning against the rail of the schooner. "D'you hear? I hate you!"

  "Tell me to my face, Red!" he called back, cupping his hands around his mouth so she could hear him above the rising wind. "Slip the line off the stump, hold on, and I'll pull you in."

  She followed the mooring line to the tree stump and saw that it was pulled so taut that she had no choice but to cut it. She took out her dagger, and gripping the rope in her right hand, she slashed through it with her left. She had known once she cut the line its tension was going to pull her hard into the water, but the strength of the jolt and the bitter cold of the water nearly caused her to lose her grip. She fought to retain her tenuous hold on the rope and her dagger and succeeded in spite of Jericho's urgings that she get rid of the bloody knife or he would leave her to the fish.

  Jericho dropped to his knees as she crumpled on the deck after he pulled her over the side. He pried her fingers from the line and impatiently tossed the dagger in the direction of the hold. He yanked her close to him, folding her in his secure and relatively dry arms, and ran his palms along the line of her slender back, assuring himself she was all in one piece.

  "I hate you, Jericho," she whimpered against the curve of his neck.

  "I know, Red."

  "You followed me."

  He merely nodded, pressing her shaking body closer. What could he say to her? That he had only meant to show her what a complete infant she was? It seemed unnecessarily brutal to voice his purpose now. He had never intended that she should come to any harm, yet the weather had turned cold and she had suffered for it. She could have retreated at any point and he would have been there to help her. He had rarely lost sight of her painstaking progress along the river's rough trail.

  "Warm me, please. I'm so cold." Her fingers clung to the rough texture of his wool jacket.

  "Oh, God," he muttered low against her ear. "I thought you would never come back to me."

  She warmed to those words. "I was so afraid."

  Somehow Jericho knew her fear was not of the elements but that he would not want her back. "I've got to get you below, Red. And out of these clothes. Can you walk?"

  She nodded and let him help her to her feet. The deck rolled beneath them and she fell against Jericho, her sodden skirt wrapping around his legs. "It's the simple things I can't seem to manage," she said giddily, pushing herself away. The skirt held her fast to his side and she nearly toppled over backward.

  Jericho caught her by the waist and shook his head with exaggerated patience at her bemused expression. "I reckon I'll have to carry you, infant."

  He said it with such fondness that she could not bring herself to object. She slipped her arms about his neck and her sigh of pleasure was carried away in the wind.

  "Can you manage your garments?" he asked after making certain she was steady on her feet. "I have to see to the schooner's direction, else we're liable to run aground."

  She had been ready to tell him she could not hope to get out of her clothes on her own, but she hesitated when she realized he was needed more at the wheel and sails. "I'll be fine," she assured him. "Do what you have to do."

  Jericho eyed her carefully, not quite convinced, but not really having much choice in the matter, and left the cabin. Later he estimated he had probably not even reached the bottom step before Red simply sank to the floor.

  "Little liar," he said softly as he lifted her out of the puddle that had formed around her and dropped her on the bunk. He made short work of her muddied skirt and saque, her stockings and underthings, tossing them all back in the dirty pool of water and slipping her into a nightshirt. "It's unconscionable the way you use me as a nursemaid." Her lips curved in a delicate smile that had nothing to do with Jericho's words and everything to do with the warming blanket he pulled around her shoulders. The teasing light in Jericho's eyes vanished when he gently washed her face and saw the extent of the scratch on her cheek. He washed the area gently and hoped it wouldn't scar.

  "Hell, Red, I'm sorry," he said feelingly. "I didn't want you hurt. I would cut my own face before I'd wish this on you." But there was no response forthcoming, and her slumber that evening was much more peaceful than Jericho's.

  * * *

  It seemed as though a redcoat cannonade rumbled through Jericho's head as he came awake. Groaning, he sat up and massaged his throbbing temples. It was hard to believe that inside his head there was so much noise and outside nothing but the cheerful call of a few birds. He stretched stiffly and washed his face at the basin that she had thoughtfully filled for him. He shaved quickly, not a little curious about her whereabouts. He had not expected her to rise so early, not after yesterday's experience.

  Jericho stepped on deck and was immediately bathed in sunshine. In his present state of mind he found nothing to glory in and merely cursed the fickleness of spring. It was as if yesterday's chilling squall had never happened. Squinting, he brought up a hand to shield his eyes and looked around for some sign of Red. He found her kneeling at the bow rail, pulling a bucket of water over the side. She was still wearing the nightshirt and it was sticking wetly to her frame, evidence that she had been at work for some time. Every stitch of clothing she owned was hanging on the rail to dry, and Jericho couldn't imagine what she wanted with more fresh water.

  "What are you doing now, Red?" he asked a trifle gruffly. It was the headache that made him testy, he told himself, and not the sight of the damp garment hugging her curves.

  Startled, she lifted her head jerkily. She flushed, embarrassed as she recalled Jericho's arms about her, and wondered why she should be nervous with him now. "I had to wash my things," she explained, offering a small, uncertain smile. "They were caked with mud. Now I'm going to wash my hair."

  When she turned her face on him fully Jericho recoiled at the sight of her scratched cheek. He fastened his eyes at some point in the water behind her. "You have some soap?"

  Her gaze dropped to her reflection in the bucket. Self-consciously she picked at a few strands of hair and covered the reddened weal. "I found a little in the wardrobe. You don't mind, do you?"

 
Did she think him a complete ogre? "No, of course I don't mind. Use anything that strikes your fancy." He hesitated. "Do you want some help?"

  "Er—no... I can manage." Before he could protest her decision, she ducked her head into the bucket and thoroughly wet her hair. When she came up and reached blindly for the soap it was his hand that put it into hers. "Thank you." Her head bent, she began to work what passed for a lather into her hair.

  Jericho watched for a while and finally gave in to the urge that seized his trembling fingers. He dropped on his haunches beside her and took the soap from her. "Let me," he commanded roughly, then more softly, "Please."

  She was too stupified to pull away from the tug of his fingers in her hair. She nodded mutely, closing her eyes as his gentle hands massaged her scalp. Her hands fell uselessly to her side while his soaped the short tendrils of hair curling at her nape and temples. There was a curious heat building inside her, and breathing seemed more difficult now than it had when she was being dragged willy-nilly through the water. She squirmed uneasily beneath his touch.

  "Am I hurting you?" Jericho asked, his fingers stilling.

  "No... you're not hurting me," she denied. Not in any way that I understand, she amended silently.

  Jericho's fingers stirred again and he continued to rub the lather through each silky strand, marveling that the water had not doused the fire in her hair, only darkened it. What magnificent hair for a harlot, he reminded himself critically, hoping to stem the burning building within him. It was not particularly effective, and the tension in every line of his body showed no signs of abating.

  "Rinse," he said tersely. She leaned forward and Jericho poured the water over her head. He ignored her sputterings, drew another bucket, and rinsed her one more time. He spilled a goodly amount of the cold river water on his shirt and breeches. If he had known how to swim he would have leaped into the water and stayed there until his temperature cooled.