Page 3 of A Tempest of Desire
“You were alone?”
Silence greeted him. Did she know what she was saying? Had she been the only one to fall over the side in the rough seas? Yet he’d seen no evidence of anyone else or of a ship torn apart by nature’swrath. No masts, no sails, no splinters of wood. No barrels, no cargo.
He didn’t want to contemplate that perhaps she’d been tossed over the side, that someone had deliberately attempted to do away with her. He couldn’t discount the possibility. He’d grown up on the tales of how murder had played a role in bringing his parents together.
Finally, he reached the top of the stairs and turned into the only bedchamber with a bed. He’d not bothered to replace the rotting, decaying furniture he’d tossed out from the other three bedchambers, because he’d anticipated never having guests.
Gently, he maneuvered his coat from her person, allowing it to hit the floor, before he lowered the soaked woman to a settee near the fire. Quickly he added additional logs to set the flames to roaring rather than being lazy as he preferred. Then he dragged a blanket from the bed and draped it over her, tucking it in around her.
While drawing his shirt over his head, he dashed over to a small cupboard and snatched two thick towels from a shelf, running one of the linens rapidly over his drenched hair and torso as he made his way back to his guest, grateful for the heat of the fire.
The woman was shivering with more force, her teeth clattering louder. He wanted to wrap her in his embrace so the warmth of his skin could ease away her chill. Wanted to do all within his power to ensure she didn’t die. She couldn’t die on him. Not another to burden his conscience.
But first he had to get her dry. He knelt beside the settee, uncovered one of her arms, and began to briskly rub a towel along its length, all the while studying what was visible of her, searching for other injuries. A lump marred her forehead, scratches and bruises her face. “Miss? Miss?”
She didn’t respond except to shiver more violently.
Working diligently, he moved to the other arm and then to her legs, striving to ensure her modesty so as not to alarm her should she awaken. But soon modesty be damned. He had to get her out of the wet clothing. He would do it impersonally, paying no attention to what he was uncovering.
He’d do as he’d done once before and focus on the task, not the person. It would make it less painful if his efforts failed. He fought not to recall a time when he hadn’t been such a pessimist, when he hadn’t realized how innocent he’d been. How foolish. How naive. How childish. Before he’d discovered how cruel life could be.
He wouldn’t even consider that he’d find corpses, that anyone on board hadn’t safely escaped the thrashing water. He pushed back the memories of others he’d been unable to help. Most had perished before he got to them, but some had died in his arms, calling out for their mothers. They haunted him still.
It had been far too long since he’d divested a woman of her clothing. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, ribbons, and laces as he fought not to notice the hint of warmth striving to burst through the chill of her skin, like a seedling emerging through the soil come spring. He tried to preventhis knuckles from making contact with her flesh, but it was an impossible task when her clothing was plastered against her as though it were desperately searching for whatever solace she could provide.
He needed to tend to her quickly so he could search the shore for others. Her companions, friends, family. Anyone for whom she might have a care. Even a husband. Although she wore no ring, so perhaps a suitor.
But why were any of them out on the water when there had been signs of a storm brewing?
Finally, finally, he managed to drag off what remained of her clothing. He ordered himself to forget the lovely bits he’d been forced to view because doing so had been the only way to remove what needed to be removed. Gathering up her tangled strands of hair, he draped them over the arm of the settee to prevent the wetness from touching her and making her uncomfortable. Then he grabbed another blanket and replaced the damp one, gently tucking the dry one in around her.
Although her skin was still cold to the touch, she was shivering less. Clumps of sand clung to her face. He considered leaving her to deal with the granules later, but imagined her rubbing them into her eyes, the damage they might cause. Having spotted no one near her, he’d have to circle the island, might be gone for hours. He dared not leave her until he knew she wouldn’t need him, that she was out of danger.
He went to the wash bowl, dipped a cloth into the cool water, and then squeezed out the excess.Returning to her side, he knelt on the floor and tenderly began to wipe away the grit, careful to keep his touch light so as not to scratch her. She had finely arched brows. He was fairly certain the cut at the edge of one was going to leave a minute scar. He wondered if she was vain enough to be bothered by a marring of her skin.
Her lashes were long, thick, golden. Her cheekbones high and sharp. A lump on her cheek was going to cause her some discomfort. As would her nose, swollen and bloody, a gash going down one side of it. Fortunately, it was no longer bleeding. And he realized much of what he was wiping away was blood. Her chin reminded him of the bottom of a heart his sister often drew on her correspondence. Not quite pointed, but fanciful all the same. It was her mouth, however, that drew him.
A wide and crimson cut marred one corner of her lower lip, causing a bit of swelling, but even without that puffiness, there was a plumpness to her lips that he suspected would provide a man with a great deal of pleasure if he were to indulge in tasting her.
Removing most of the sand revealed that she’d been badly battered by the sea.
Leaning back slightly, he took in the whole of her features—and he felt a kick to the gut. He was struck once again with the familiarity of her. He was fairly certain he had seen her before, but the circumstances remained a mystery. Something about her seemed off, but he couldn’t quite determine what aspect of her didn’t appear to be particularly right.
He tried to envision her without the bruising, scrapes, swelling—
Her hair was the incorrect shade, but if it were black—
He shoved himself to his feet to take in all of her. By God, he knew her.
Not that they’d ever been properly introduced because nothing about her was proper. But on a few occasions, he’d seen her, studied her. Had even lusted after her—like half the men of his acquaintance.
He came close to bursting with ribald laughter. He’d cried out for a woman and fate had seen fit to deliver to his shore London’s most infamous courtesan.
Chapter 2
Early May 1878
The secret rooms at the Twin Dragons catered to men and women with certain needs. For the most part, the women needed a benefactor. The men, as men were wont to do, were in need of a dependable fuck. Not that the purpose of the rooms was advertised as such.
