Seaswept Abandon Read online

  She flung back her wet hair and stared mutely at Jericho, a question in the dark velvet of her eyes. There was a harshness in his face that she did not understand. What had she done this time? Why did he always look at her as if he wished to throttle her? Water dripped in tiny rivulets from her hairline, past her temples, and along her pink cheeks. Her spiky lashes fluttered to stem the flow as if she were fighting tears.

  "Damn you," he muttered, his eyes darkening. "I knew you'd be trouble." He leaned closer to her upturned and startled face. Her mouth was so close to his that if she touched her tongue to her own lips he would be able to taste her. "I reckon your kind can't help it."

  She recoiled as if he had slapped her. Jumping to her feet, she stood rooted to the deck, arms akimbo, her hair in a dark fiery tangle about her face and shoulders. "How dare you! You paint me scarlet even while you want me. If I am a whore, then what are you to desire me? Are there no well-bred ladies who will honor your suit? Leave me be, Jericho Smith! You may be willing to overlook your disgust of me but I find myself unable to reciprocate."

  It was a magnificently trenchant speech, and she quite startled Jericho with her vehemence and vocabulary. He sat back on his heels, staring up at her flushed face and glittering eyes, and vowed that he had never known such a spirited setdown as the one he had just received. He found himself without a reply of any kind.

  Determined to take advantage of Jericho's stunned silence, she prepared to walk away. With grave dignity she lifted her chin, quieted the breathless heaving of her chest, and stepped past his crouched figure.

  "Ooooofff!" Stately carriage and dignity had its place, she supposed, but not when one had to watch out for a neglected sliver of soap on an already slick deck. Her arms flailed in the air in a futile attempt to right herself before she landed with an inelegant thwack on the wet deck. Droplets of water flew out from beneath her, and the cause of it all, that accursed bar of soap, sailed in an arc above the rail and landed neatly in the river.

  She swore as she rubbed her abused posterior. Jericho's eyebrows lifted in astonishment as he struggled with a reckless urge to laugh. With great effort, he tamped it down and turned away, only his bright blue eyes hinting at the humor he found in Red's ungainly position.

  She had no need to see his face to know what Jericho thought of her performance. She was ready to turn the force of her embarrassed anger on him when her palm touched something hard in the flesh of her buttocks, and the pain of it caused her to cry out.

  When Jericho spun to face her, tears of humiliation were already burning her eyes. Humor vanished. "What is it, Red? Have you hurt yourself?"

  She could have called on some reserve of wounded pride if Jericho had ridiculed her clumsiness or berated her for being so poor spirited, but his unexpected kindness completely undid her. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed jerkily, her shoulders heaving in an aching rhythm.

  Jericho first examined the shape of his nails, then studied the shifting pattern of soap bubbles on the deck, and wondered all the while at his own helplessness. He had always scoffed at men who complained they knew naught but frustration when confronted with a woman's tears. Yet he felt the very same at this moment, having no idea what was expected of him, if, indeed, she expected anything. "Hell, Red," he said finally. "If you'd just tell me what's wrong, I figure I can help." Surely it was a reasonable request, he thought, issued in a reasonable tone. He swore more eloquently when she only cried harder. "C'mon. It hurts to listen to you."

  Any number of cutting retorts occurred to her, but she discovered she hadn't the breath to say any of them. She found, however, that she had voice enough to yelp loudly when Jericho sat in the puddle beside her and hauled her onto his lap. The throbbing pain in her nether parts increased sharply as she came down hard on his thighs.

  "What are you tr-trying to do—kill me?" she whimpered against his chest.

  "Madam," he explained patiently. "I'm trying to make some sense of your bawlin'."

  "I habba plinter in my bottom," she told him, tears filling her throat and nose.

  Jericho hesitated. "I beg your pardon, Red. I thought you said you had a splin—"

  "Plinter in my ass! Muft I repeat ebberting?" Was the man completely lacking in any finer sensibilities?

  Jericho choked on his astonishment and made a gentlemanly effort to halt his rising laughter. She still felt the rumble in his chest as he moved against her, and before she considered the consequence of her action she pounded on him with tightly folded fists. She used every manner of vile language to heap curses on his head, and because the words sounded so ridiculous in her clogged little voice, Jericho laughed until tears shimmered in his own eyes. He scooped a handful of soapy water from the desk and neatly sprayed her gaping mouth with it. It had the desired effect. Red sputtered into shocked silence and dared not move, fearing further retaliation. She regarded Jericho warily.

  "Can't recall my ears ever burnin' like that, Red. If you're finished, I'll see what's botherin' your backside." She struggled in Jericho's arms when she realized his intention, but there was never any doubt who would be the victor in the uneven combat. When he sensed she had tired herself into compliance, he easily flipped her on his lap and held her captive with one leg over the back of her thighs. With the calm reserve of a seasoned physician, Jericho bunched her nightshirt about her waist and examined the injured area. He needed but a moment to ascertain that he would have to remove the splinter before infection set in. He covered her again but did not release her. "Below, Red. It has to come out, and I don't figure you can manage it yourself."

  She flamed with mortification, yet she had no recourse except to obey. "I can hardly rise if you continue to hold me," she said tartly.

  "That's the spirit," Jericho said encouragingly, lifting his leg. He chuckled as she scrambled out of his reach and fled to the cabin. He followed at a slower, more thoughtful pace, wondering what he had done to deserve this upheaval in his life. And worse, like it.

  When he entered the cabin, Red was lying on the bunk, facing the wall, and hugging a small bolster pillow to her breast. Jericho found a valet's sewing kit in the wardrobe and chose a new needle for the operation. "I doubt you'll feel this at all," he said as he sat beside her.

  "Humph."

  "Humor me, Red."

  It suddenly occurred to her that for all his easy ways, Jericho was decidedly uneasy about doing this. That thought made him seem more human, less distant, and served to relax her. "I shall be very brave," she assured him with a measure of mockery. "But don't expect me to enjoy this. That would be painting it a bit too rosy."

  Grinning, Jericho flipped up the hem of the nightshirt and applied himself to removing the splinter. It was deeper than he had at first thought, and a number of painful minutes passed before he had the thing out. To distract her while he worked, he encouraged her to talk.

  "I didn't think you would be so mean as to send me in the wrong direction," she said, answering Jericho's query about her aborted trek.

  Clearly puzzled, he asked, "Wrong direction? Do you think I would do that?"

  "What else can I think? You said you carried me to the ship and I cannot credit that even you could have traveled so far with me on your back. I walked for miles and saw nothing but river and forest. I think you meant for me to journey to Canada."

  "A glance at the sun would have told you otherwise," Jericho pointed out. It bothered him no small amount that she thought him capable of such a thing. His distraction caused him to ply the needle with more force than was strictly necessary. He felt worse when she barely winced, proving that she intended to be brave, indeed.

  "If you recall, the sun was not much visible during most of my trip," she said through clenched teeth. Did he think her a pin cushion as well as an idiot?

  Jericho pulled out the splinter and dabbed at a small pooling of blood with the hem of her nightshirt. Once the bleeding stopped, he yanked down the shirt and told her grittily, "I moved the schooner shortl
y after we came aboard. I was thinking of your safety. Pardon me for not anticipating that you would desire to leave."

  She gingerly sat up and regarded Jericho skeptically. "Surely I did not mistake your wish to be rid of me. I thought you regretted your decision to bring me here."

  Had he truly been so obvious, he wondered, or was she practiced at reading men's minds? After a moment's study Jericho looked away from Red's frank stare and busied himself putting the needle and sewing kit away in the wardrobe.

  "You are not mistaken," he said finally, turning from the wardrobe to face her. "And there have been those occasions when I regretted bringing you here, but that is not to say I still regret it or that I wish you gone before you can fend for yourself. I have given the matter a great deal of thought and I have arrived at a plan that I believe will satisfy the both of us."

  She nodded shortly, her face expressionless as she tried to hide the fear that had flashed through her at Jericho's last statement. Drawing her knees to her chest, she steeled herself to hear his plans.

  "I am going to take the schooner closer to the city this evening," Jericho said, watching her intently. "I will go into the city—alone—and attempt to discover if the hunt for you has ended. If I believe it is safe for you to return, I have some friends who will most likely take you in." Seeing the suspicious lift of Red's eyebrows, he added, "There would be conditions, of course."

  "Of course."

  He ignored her mocking. "You will have to give up whorin' and agree to work as a servant in their home."

  "Won't the mistress of the house object to my presence?" she asked cynically, intent upon goading him. "Mayhap she will not want me dallying with the master."

  Thinking of Ashley, Jericho smiled, completely unperturbed by her efforts to find fault. "She would scratch out both your eyes if you looked at her husband askance. And I doubt Salem would be much interested in you. He has everything any man could want in Ashley."

  Something twisted inside her at the way Jericho's face softened when he spoke of this woman. No doubt his plan was prompted by a desire to see her. It galled her that she saw no alternative but to accept his proposal. When she spoke her voice was cool, completely at odds with the anger sparking in her eyes. "Then I shall be happy to work for this paragon whose husband cannot be tempted."

  Jericho laughed at her stilted, nearly frozen accents. "Don't fly into the boughs. You'll do fine, Red. Just fine. I reckon there are any number of men you could tempt from fidelity's path."

  "You?" she asked boldly. "Could I tempt you?"

  "I was prepared to pay for a toss with you the other night at Wolfe's," he said, purposely reminding them both of her profession. He steeled himself against her soft gasp and the wounded look in her eyes. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

  "You know it is not," she said quietly, looking away from Jericho's still and watchful eyes. "But it is what I should have expected. I doubt I would have accepted you or your coin," she added, trying to regain her composure by shooting a pathetic barb in his direction. "The sooner I am away from here, the better."

  A muscle twitched in Jericho's cheek. "My sentiment exactly, Red." He turned on his heel and stalked off for the upper deck. Every verbal exchange with her left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was forever regretting the things he said to her, yet they were no more than truths, and they served to keep her at a manageable distance. He was no longer certain why he wanted to keep her at arm's length; perhaps for no other reason than he was tired of having women any man could have. "And if she were a woman for only one man?" he asked himself aloud, staring at Red's thin white chemise where it fluttered on the rail. "Then you wouldn't deserve her, Smith. You don't deserve anyone like that." The soft conviction with which he said those words lent weight to them in his mind, and they remained there, an invisible burden, long after he thought he had dismissed them.

  She thought dusk would never settle on them. If she had ever passed a more uncomfortable day she was glad she could not remember it. The words they exchanged during the remainder of the morning and afternoon did not number above thirty. Silently she had gathered her clothes from the deck, and once dressed, gave Jericho his share of the meager breakfast offerings. She accepted his gruff thank you in the spirit in which it was given, turning her back on him and seeking privacy at the other end of the craft. After breakfast Jericho took the schooner farther downstream, sheltering them in the river's curve. When he took his net and pole and left to go fishing she did not even consider asking to go along. She occupied herself with the sewing kit, idly stitching anything that caught her fancy. She embroidered a small red rose on the collar of her nightshirt and another on the point of the schooner's mainsail. The latter was done with rather defiant strokes, plunging the needle into the muslin sail with the same relish she would have plunged it into Jericho's heart. Or so she told herself. Her offended pride did not permit her to examine her motives clearly when she finished the rose and found Jericho's jacket in the wardrobe and in need of some repair. She replaced the clumsy stitches on the shoulder seam with even ones that could hardly be seen and tightened two of the tarnished brass buttons.

  She did not thank him for catching her in the act of biting off the thread and smoothing the material with her hands to examine her work. Embarrassed that he had seen her performing this small, wifely duty, she threw the jacket on the bunk as if it were a gauntlet, daring him to say even one word as she regally brushed past him on her way out of the cabin. She couldn't leave the small space quickly enough to suit her once he had entered. If she didn't get away from him she would do murder. At least that was the excuse she clung to.

  She cooked Jericho's catch over a small fire she built on the bank. She did not know that he was watching from the bow of the schooner with a mixture of skeptism and astonishment.

  She gave him the lion's portion of the baked fish, finding she had not the appetite to do credit to the meal. His attitude seemed to say that if she wished to starve herself he was more than willing to aid her. He ate with a gusto that made her want to snap that he should have caught more fish if he was so hungry.

  At sunset she saw he wasted no time in removing them to a place still farther downriver. When he unerringly navigated them to a small private dock and moored them there, she knew this must be the place where he had first brought her. It unnerved her that somewhere close by was the tavern where she had killed a man, yet she still had no recollection of the event or her surroundings.

  "Don't wander off," Jericho ordered her tersely.

  "When will you be back?" She challenged him in waspish tones.

  "Too soon to suit me." Jamming his hat on his head, he jumped the rail and was gone before she hurled a dinner plate at his head.

  Jericho returned to the city by the same route he had left it. Twilight's indiscriminating blue-gray shadows lent him protection as he moved through alleyways and back streets. He neatly skirted a patrol of redcoats who may have felt obliged to harass him simply because he was alone. He felt no satisfaction with his maneuvering, only a sort of weariness that such stealth was so much a part of him it could no longer be considered second nature.

  He paused briefly when he went by Wolfe's, the hesitation so slight that only the most careful of observers would have seen it was shock that rooted his steps for an instant.

  Wolfe's was closed. Shut down by order of General Howe himself. Jericho had but a glimpse of the notice nailed to the tavern's oaken door, but he recognized the British commander's signature and stamp. Who the hell had Red killed? It had to have been someone favored by the general if he had seen fit to shut the tavern in retribution.

  Jericho's pace increased as he headed toward Salem's home, keeping his head well down but alert for any other posters that would indicate that the harlot he befriended was being sought throughout the city. There were several about, and when Jericho thought he could read one without being noticed he stopped to do so. He had merely to scan it to realize neither one of them was in any
danger.

  The description of Red included the phrase: "a buxom colonial wench of low morals and poor judgment." That fit any number of the women at Wolfe's that night, Jericho thought wryly, but not the chit he had undressed. She was no more than a handful. Finely sculpted, he admitted, but still no bosomy lass. Neither did she attain the height nor breadth of an Amazon. And to say her hair was red was not to describe it at all. Jericho had no doubt the dramatics of the evening had colored the accounts of the witnesses until their depiction bore little resemblance to reality.

  After a hasty glance around him to be certain no one was watching, he tore down the notice, folded it, and stuffed it in his jacket pocket as he walked away. He would read it to Red when he returned. Mayhap she would even smile at the characterization of him as a man of superior height. That was all anyone had remembered of him during his hasty ascent to the tavern's upper floor. Hunching slightly, shoulders sloping in a sluggish attitude, Jericho turned the corner, and no one who saw him would have remarked on his height at all.

  When he reached Salem's house he pounded on the servants' entrance at regular intervals for several minutes before he was forced to conclude no one was home. Kicking the door in disgust, he turned away. So much for his intention to ask them to take in the wench. He would just take his chances with the McClellans' generosity and present them with their new servant tomorrow morning.

  He started back to the schooner, whistling softly under his breath, well pleased that he had arrived at such a fine plan for Red's future. And his own, he added with a wealth of good feeling. He had been too long from camp. His compatriots would have known it had been he in the tavern the night of the killing and would understand the nature of his desertion. He wondered how long he would have to endure the ribald conjecture of the general and his aides while they took him to task. They would never believe Red was not the woman of Amazonian proportions mentioned in the notice, nor that he had not shared her bed.