The McKenzie Brothers: Windemere Part 18

"Are you feeling up to it?"

"Please."

"Of course. Turn around."

She did, and when he unb.u.t.toned her wrinkled dress, a surprising s.h.i.+ver ran down along her spine. It felt odd, having him undress her, as the only other time he'd done so was on their wedding night. But at the same time, there was no way he could have anything on his mind other than helping her into fresh clothes, and she certainly couldn't fault him.

When she was bundled into a fresh chemise and corset and simple gown of pale peach muslin, Julian fetched her cloak from the wardrobe and eased it around her shoulders. "Ready?"

She took his arm and once they were topside, squinted in the bright sunlight. The air was warmer than it had been in Brunswick, the ocean now more blue than green, and when she breathed deeply, the salty tang of the sea had a soothing effect on her. As much as she hated those first few days of sailing, when her seasickness was always at its worst, she loved the water, and her favorite part was always discovering they were entering the warmer clime.

A gentle breeze stirred, ruffling Julian's hair into peaks, and as she glanced up at him, she noticed he'd left his greatcoat behind. His s.h.i.+rtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, and a dark shadow of beard darkened his jaw. He looked tired. Then it dawned on her, where had he slept while she was so sick? He couldn't have gotten much rest with her throwing up.

Her legs felt a little shaky, no doubt from the lack of food, although the s.h.i.+p's cook had sent down broth for each meal. She hadn't managed more than a few mouthfuls and now felt the effects. Her stomach rumbled, but she wasn't going to be sick. She was hungry.

Food could wait, however. She wanted to stay exactly where she was, with the sun on her face and the sea breeze touching her skin. Without thinking, she hugged Julian's arm against her.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Little by little, the last remnants of her seasickness faded away. She smiled as she turned her face into the breeze. "Where are we?"

"Only a few days from the coast of Bermuda."

"Already?"

"Good winds. Have you ever been?"

"To Bermuda? No." She shook her head. "I've always wanted to stop, but there just never seemed to be time."

"We should stop on the return voyage. Did you know the sand there is pink?" He gestured off the port side of the s.h.i.+p.

She squinted to the east, where she thought she could just make out the silhouette of the island. "Pink?"

He nodded, reaching up to catch a handful of her hair that'd pulled free from the braid and pushed it away from her face. "In Southampton Parish, where the water washes up on the sand, that sand is pink. Because of coral and sh.e.l.ls and other dead things I can't name. But I do know the sand is pink. I've seen it myself."

"Perhaps we can stop on our way back. I think I'd like to see pink sand."

He nodded. "I think we might be able to. I think you'd like it. You'll find yourself wis.h.i.+ng Windemere was on Bermuda instead of St. Kitts."

"There are times now when I wish it was anywhere other than St. Kitts."

They strolled along toward the bow of the s.h.i.+p, and at the foremost part of the railing, Emma leaned against the polished wood. Julian slid his arm free and moved to stand beside her. "Is St. Kitts so terrible?"

"No, not really, I guess. I think it's because Momma's time there wasn't a happy one. My grandfather wasn't a warm soul, and we went there on rare occasions." She sighed as she gazed out over the water. "It's a pretty place, but the main house is like a museum. And my grandfather collected these terrible masks-" she s.h.i.+vered despite the sun's warmth "-and they frighten me to this day."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Tell me about it." She tapped her forefinger against the wood then shrugged. "Maybe it's changed since he's been gone. Maybe one of the housekeepers took them down. I can't imagine anyone really liked them. I don't know why Grandfather did."

Julian clasped his hands together, resting his wrists on the railing. "Maybe he liked that they scared everyone."

"Oh, they were horrible. Like monsters. I used to hide under his desk and peek at them to scare myself. And when Mary was old enough, I used to scare her with them."

"See? They couldn't have been so terrible then."

"Oh, they were. But scaring Mary was far too much fun to give up."

He let out a deep laugh, and she realized that she hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. It was the most beautiful sound she'd heard in a long time.

And it reminded her of why she'd fallen in love with him so long ago.

She slipped her arm through his again, and this time let her fingers graze against the dark hair shadowing his forearm. She felt a crackle of electricity, as her skin met his, and he must have felt it as well, for he turned to gaze down at her. There was something in his eyes that made her heart skip a beat, something that made her blood swirl faster in her veins, and she wanted to touch him. Not just on the forearm, not just on his bristly cheek, but somewhere more intimate, like the patch of flesh at the back of his neck. He s.h.i.+vered when her fingers danced over it.

She rose up onto her tiptoes and impulsively brushed her lips against his cheek. She wobbled and placed a hand against his chest to steady herself. Then he surprised her again by covering that hand with his and pressing hers into his chest.

His fingers curled over hers, and he pulled her hand free to turn it palm up. When he bent over and pressed a delicate kiss in to the middle of her palm, she wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to see her hand go up in flames.

Never mind skipping a beat, her heart threatened to burst free from her chest.

He didn't stop there. His lips crept up, over the delicate flesh of her inner wrist. Julian wasn't shy, he pushed her sleeve back, and back, until he bared her inner elbow. When his lips teased the crease, she sucked in a sharp breath.

But then he released her arm, leaning in to move his a.s.sault up along the slope of her neck. When he caught her earlobe between gentle teeth, she gasped aloud, and loudly enough that several men swabbing decks around them stopped and stared.

"We should go below, Mrs. McCallister." Julian's voice was barely a growl. "I should hate to make a spectacle of you so soon into the voyage."

She didn't want to leave his embrace, but still...he was right, so she nodded and allowed him to lead her back below.

In the time they'd been gone, someone-Thomas, most likely-had changed the sheets and removed the foul bucket and opened the window. The rancid stink had been replaced by those delicious ocean aromas of salty air and wood shavings.

Julian swung her up into his arms, and he carried her across the threshold and to the bed. There, he gently pressed her into the mattress and covered her body with his. She smiled up at him, all signs of her upset belly long gone. She linked her fingers about the back of his neck, her heart beginning to beat a little quicker.

The bed was soft and comfortable, molding to her curves as if she floated on a cloud. She didn't relinquish her hold on him, tugging him against her.

He smiled. "What are you doing, Mrs. McCallister?"

"What? I'm just holding on to you." But her smile must have given her away. She couldn't help it. She almost felt as if she could fly.

Julian dipped in toward her and his lips, warm and dry, brushed hers. Sunlight streamed in to spill across the bed, adding to her growing sense of wickedness.

Not that Julian seemed to mind. His mouth moved slowly against hers, and he lowered himself until he was flat against her. She welcomed the weight of him, the feel of him surrounding her. And when he wrapped his arms about her, she surrendered to the delights she knew she'd find with him.

Julian's eyelids refused to stay open and he refused to fight with them. Delicious drowsiness stole over him, along with a wonderful glow that he was sure he could never get enough of.

Emma fit so perfectly next to him, curved against him, her head nestled into his shoulder. Her hair spilled down his arm, as soft and silky as it looked. He wanted to let his fingers skim down the l.u.s.trous ma.s.s, to gather it in both hands and bury his face in it. At times like this, he could forget why he'd always been so dead-set against marriage. At times like this, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe he wouldn't go mad.

He glanced down at the top of Emma's head. His wife. All because of a single, poorly timed kiss.

But at the same time, he couldn't complain. After all, he was where he'd wanted to be, sharing his bed with her. And for some reason, he wasn't unhappy about that single, poorly timed kiss.

Emma stirred, lifting her head to blink sleepy eyes at him. "What time is it?"

"The clock is on the shelf above my desk. I can't see it from here. But I'd say it was near four." A raven curl stuck to her cheek, and he brushed it back behind her ear. "Do you have somewhere to be?"

She smiled, rolling onto her belly. The sheet molded to the curve of her backside, and he almost groaned at the sight. It was almost as sensuous as seeing her naked. "Of course not. It's just that-"

She ducked her head, but not before he saw the pink flush sweep up over her cheeks. Even her blush was beautiful. He'd never realized it before, never saw her for what she was. She wasn't just Garrett's sister, the little girl who so staunchly told him "I love you" to keep him from running off to join a war.

"It's just that, what, sweetheart?"

Propping her chin on one fist, she smiled down at him. "Is it always like this?"

He brought his hand to her cheek. He couldn't help himself. Her skin almost begged to be touched. It was soft, smooth, and the urge to pull her close and pin her beneath him roared to life again.

"G.o.d willing, it will be."

"I certainly hope so."

Her brow furrowed, and he brushed that same curl away from her face again. "What's on your mind, Em?"

"I never liked sailing." She lowered back against him, tucking her head back on his chest. "I've always been afraid something would happen and the s.h.i.+p would sink. My mother lost her mother and sister that way, you know."

He didn't. "Did she?"

She nodded. "It happened before she met Papa. And she rarely speaks of it, but I wonder if that's why I don't like being on a s.h.i.+p. I'll be so happy when we arrive."

"Nothing's going to happen. We'll arrive safe and sound in St. Kitts in a few weeks."

"What about you? What're you afraid of?"

He stared at her. Where had that come from? The last of his feelings of peace and serenity vanished as the air grew uncomfortable. He didn't even know how to answer her. "I-that is-well, to be honest-"

"Julian-" she sat up, pulling the sheet with her "-it's not that difficult a question. I was just laying here thinking that we don't know each other all that well-I mean, really know each other-and-"

There was one way to divert her questions, and so he reached for her, fully intending to silence her uncomfortable question with a deep kiss.

But she wasn't having any of it. Warding him off with a hand pressed to his chest, she said, "Julian, wait. I'm serious. I want to know. It seems like something a wife should know."

He sighed. "Emma, are you sure you want an answer to that?" When she nodded, he took a deep breath and drew a hand through his hair. "Tomorrow."

"What?"

"Tomorrow. The day after that. Every day ahead of me. I have no idea what lies ahead, and that's enough to scare me more than anything."

Chapter Nineteen.

EMMA STARED AT HIM as if she'd never seen him before. That was the last thing she'd expected him to confess, and it left her at a loss as to how she should respond. She bit her bottom lip, casting her gaze to the sheet partially wrapped about her. It covered her front, protected a little of her modesty, but her back was exposed, so she wriggled back to sit against the wall.

"Julian, no one knows what tomorrow will hold," she finally said, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. She half expected him to pull away and was pleasantly surprised when he didn't.

"True, but most people don't have to worry about what their future holds, either." His forehead wrinkled and he rubbed it slowly. "And I don't worry about myself. At least, not entirely. I a.s.sume that if I do go mad, I won't be aware of it. But now I don't have only me to worry about."

Her heart ached at the pain in his voice, so soft and yet so plain to her ears. Curling her fingers over his hand, she murmured, "I don't believe in curses, Julian. I don't believe in all of the rumors and gossip that's been spread about your family. No one was there that night. Only your mother and father. No one, aside from them, knows if your father went mad. Perhaps he didn't."

"What if he did, though?"

"And what if he didn't?"

"But what-"

"Julian-" she broke in carefully, still holding his hand "-if he did, does that mean you will have no choice but follow?"

"It wouldn't be the first time."

There was something in his voice, a low steeliness, that she'd never heard before and it sent a ripple of unease along her spine. "The first time what?"

"The war."

She didn't have to ask, didn't want to pry by asking, so she a.s.sumed he meant he'd killed when he was in the war. "That's different. That was a war."

"Still-"

"And have you killed anyone since you got out of the navy?"

"No."

"And there's my point." She tugged harder on the sheet, pulling it free from the foot of the bed to wrap it completely about herself, leaving Julian with the quilt. She scooted up to him. "Julian, you are not your father. Why, in all the years I've known you, I don't think I've ever heard you raise your voice in anger. When Garrett and Drew were busy pummeling their way through everyone in town, where were you? Off with your nose buried in a sketchbook, working on s.h.i.+p designs. You aren't a violent man. At least, I've never seen you violent."

"That doesn't mean I can't become violent."

"No. No, it doesn't." She traced her finger along a fold in the sheet. "But by that logic, anyone could become violent at any time, and none of us are safe."

Julian slid to the edge of the bed and rose. He bent to retrieve his trousers from the shadows beneath the bed then slid into them. "And if I do, who do you think I'll direct that violence at?"

He said it in that same, low voice, but this time, she felt a flutter of fear. "But what if-"

"I don't," he finished, and none too happily. "Emma, the last person in the world I would want to hurt is you. And that's what happens. The men in my family kill the women in my family."

"Maybe the women in your family were trying to kill the men first. I won't kill you. I love you."

The words popped out before she could hold them back. But then, once they were free, the oddest thing happened. She didn't care. It felt good to say them out loud again.