Scarlet Butterfly Read online

  Holding his breath, Sean pressed his ear against the door. Nothing. The thickness of the wood protected the intruder, and, he decided, himself as well. Surprise was his best offense. He’d simply rush the man and take his chances. Taking a deep breath, he raised the hammer and opened the door.

  To silence.

  To a cabin that smelled, not of tobacco as he’d expected, but of … wildflowers? Sean allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to the shadows and waited, ready to meet the intruder.

  There was a creak in the floor, as if someone had shifted his weight. Sean immediately turned toward the sound. But, other than a curious shadow, there was nothing. The cabin was empty. He took a step deeper inside the room. There was no place for a person to hide, except perhaps beneath the bed.

  The floor creaked again.

  Then the sheet moved, and he heard a sound of shallow breathing that seemed to come from the bed. Sean closed his eyes and opened them. Yes, there was a shape beneath the covers. What kind of burglar took time to take a nap? he wondered.

  “Shades of Goldilocks and the Three Bears!” he whispered, and moved closer. With the hammer still raised, he clasped the sheet and slowly lowered it.

  It was a woman. No, a pale, fairylike creature, some mythical spirit who had wandered onto his ship and was sleeping in his bed.

  Her skin resembled fine porcelain, faintly tinted, but clearly too fragile to be touched. Short, light-colored hair like wisps of silk lay across his pillow. Her eyes were closed in sleep, eyes with long, delicate, golden lashes that made the fantasy complete.

  One slender arm was extended toward him, her hand placed in such a way that she almost seemed to be pleading. She was wearing something silk, a slip perhaps, cream-colored and so sheer that he could see the outline of her small breasts faintly rising and falling with each breath.

  Sean felt a rush of disorientation, déjà vu almost. He blinked, then lowered his arms as he realized how he would look if the woman opened her eyes.

  Not Goldilocks, he decided, but Sleeping Beauty, waiting to be awakened with a kiss. But what the hell was she doing in his bed? And since when did mythical fairy princesses drive red rental cars?

  Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he’d suffered heat stroke on his way back to the river. Maybe this was all a bad dream and he’d wake up and find that nobody had written about his restoring the schooner. All this was just another mystery.

  Sean blamed the unexplained sounds and smells on age, on natural shrinkage and expansion, even on the ship’s name. If the captain had only called her something reasonable—“not,” he whispered, “the Scarlet Butterfly.”

  The Scarlet Butterfly. Carolina smiled in her sleep. She was dreaming about the fierce-looking man who’d brought her there and put her to bed. She’d known even as he growled at her that he was concealing his kindness with his curses.

  Now, without opening her eyes, she knew that he was back. She had to thank him, apologize for fainting in his arms. With great determination she forced open her eyes and smiled.

  “Thank you, Captain. Even if you are a dream, you’re just what I expected you to be.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect you.” Sean’s voice thundered across the small confines of the cabin. “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m Carolina,” she whispered softly, “I was looking for the Butterfly, and you brought me here.”

  Her eyelids fluttered closed, and he could tell from the sound of her breathing that she was sleeping again. He’d brought her? The woman was some kind of nut. A regular fruitcake. Then he remembered his brother’s words.

  A woman who claimed that one of her ancestors had disappeared on the Scarlet Butterfly.

  Well, he’d just take care of that, and quickly. No woman was going to intrude on his life, not when he already had the courts and the historians to fend off. He’d just take her back to town and—

  How? He’d had to leave his truck a good mile back. He’d have to carry her. To make matters worse, a predicted advancing storm now seemed to manifest its presence with a rumble of thunder in the distance. As if on cue, the wind picked up and the ship began to dip and sway as the air currents announced the impending storm.

  Perspiration began to roll down Sean’s face as the humidity grew more intense. He’d turned the ship’s forecastle into his living quarters, complete with a window fan that wasn’t operating and would only have circulated hot air if it were on. At least a good rain shower would cool the air. He glanced over at his unwelcome guest again and felt his pulse quicken. The storm might help bring down the temperature, but something about this woman was raising his.

  She wasn’t the kind of statuesque beauty he was normally attracted to. Yet even as he warred with himself over what to do, a flicker of heat blazed to life somewhere above his knees and spread upward, forcing his attention to a part of his body that welcomed the visitor in spite of his strong misgivings.

  Physical manifestations were new to Sean. Always before, when frustrating moods of despair swept over him, he’d wrestle the demons of discord by pacing the deck. He’d think of Beth, his beautiful sister who’d died because he’d been too busy to see what was happening. He’d focused his anger on the family, most directly on his brother Ryan, who’d been closest to Beth and should have known. But those kinds of bad moments had occurred less and less often in the last year.

  Until now.

  The girl in his cabin wasn’t Beth, though she was small like his sister had been. And this night the air smelled of flowers. There was no hint of the tobacco scent that periodically permeated the air around the ship. He’d decided that long ago the Butterfly must have carried tobacco in its hull and that its fragrance had permeated the timbers. There was no other logical explanation, except for intruders.

  Sean turned and climbed the companionway steps to the deck, just as the clouds opened and the rain began to fall. It was a cooling rain, but a brisk wind slapped the drops against his bare chest like stinging sand. Sean peeled off his trousers and underwear and stood completely nude, his head thrown back, letting the water wash over him until he was calm again.

  All right. So there was a woman in his bed. She wasn’t after him or his body, or she wouldn’t have gone back to sleep. Because she was thin and pale, he wondered if she’d been ill or in prison. Perhaps she was still sick. He couldn’t take her back in a storm. And he couldn’t stay on deck in the rain.

  Striding into the galley, he pulled on a shirt he’d left hanging on the back of a chair. He’d have to go below for pants. Suppose he woke her? He hesitated, finally deciding that this was his ship; the shirt was enough. He uncovered Bully, who cocked his head and made a crude comment about what he would like Sean to do with himself.

  “Watch it, old boy. I didn’t think I left you covered. But you do remember the story about the blackbirds, don’t you? I don’t know much about making bird pies, but I could turn you into parrot stew.”

  Bully seemed unusually subdued. As if he knew about the woman, he remained quiet.

  Sean made a pot of coffee, grilled a cheese sandwich, and listened to the radio as the storm intensified. Hurricane Circe—appropriate name, he thought—wouldn’t hit land, but the weather system would kick up enough rain to make the river rise.

  He’d already checked the moorings, extending the linkage to allow for the rising water. Though he was anchored to a dock on a small saltwater lake, the lake was fed by the St. Marys River, which joined the Atlantic a few miles south. Because the ocean was so close, the lake and the river were subject to the ocean’s tides. Often a storm swept in from the sea and played havoc with the river and its inhabitants, as it did now with the Butterfly.

  Damn! After a long, hot, quiet summer, the season was about to change. And the thing that Sean Rogan hated most in life was change.

  As predicted, the storm had settled offshore. They’d be lucky this time, catching only the fringe rain that accompanied it. Sean checked the masts again and secure
d the inner workings of the schooner. He was tired and wet, and even a little cold.

  Cold. The woman. She was covered only by a sheet.

  He covered the distance to his quarters in a second, then slowed to a tiptoe as he reached the bed. In the darkness he could hear her, but he couldn’t see without a light and he was reluctant to wake her. Cautiously, he reached out and touched her shoulder.

  Icy cold.

  Damn, he didn’t want her around, but he didn’t want her to freeze to death either. He searched for a blanket, found one, and covered her. She didn’t move, didn’t respond to his touch or the noise he was making. Maybe she was dead.

  Sean groaned. If he wasn’t already in the spotlight, he would be if some woman had sneaked on board and died. The press would rehash all the painful events of the Rogans’ lives, including the death of his sister. No, this intruder couldn’t be dead. He heard her breathing. But she wasn’t warming up, either. When a second blanket made no change, he took a chance and shook her.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, are you okay?”

  Her only response was a moan and a single word that she whispered over and over.

  He leaned down, touching her lips with his ear before he could understand.

  “Cold—cold.”

  He’d never wanted a phone, never needed one. Until now. He couldn’t get to his truck without exposing her to the elements and more shock.

  As a blast of cold air swept across the cabin, physically shoving him to his knees on the bed, the answer came to him. Almost without a thought he shed his shirt, swept back the covers, and slid beneath them, pulling the woman into his arms. Heat could be transferred body to body, even to someone suffering from exhaustion and chills.

  Sean began to massage the woman—gently, once he felt the fragility of her body. The silk garment was all she was wearing; no panties, no bra—though a cursory examination of her body suggested that she had little use for a bra.

  Her head found a place beneath his chin and nestled there, her soft hair a faint tickle on his chest. He shifted her, pulling her even farther over his body. Her right arm fell limply beside her, the other curled around his neck.

  Sean took a deep, ragged breath. He was suddenly doing his part to raise the temperature in the room. More than that, his body was proffering its own rhythmic massage, pulsating against the inner part of the woman’s thigh, in spite of his attempts to still his response.

  Although she showed no awareness of what was happening, gradually a slow warmth crept over her skin. She was coming back to life, and Sean wondered briefly what she’d do if he allowed himself free reign to hasten the process.

  Outside, the storm continued, the wind whipping from one direction for a while, then changing to the other. The Butterfly rode the turbulence well, almost as if there were a hand on the wheel helping her.

  The girl shifted. Sean caught her and pulled her higher, then let her slide back to her former position. The movement caught her slip and held it around her waist, allowing the soft curls of her pubic hair to tangle with his own. Her nipples pressed into his chest. Her breath came in little puffs now, and he felt it whisper against his neck.

  Almost without his being aware of it, he moved his arm farther over her, across her back, curling his fingertips over one small breast. Beneath the silk garment he felt her nipple pucker, and the corresponding jerk of response in that portion of his anatomy caught between them.

  Sean groaned and tried to adjust their positions. But the movement only brought him closer to the part of her that he wanted most desperately to explore.

  He felt such a tightening, such primitive lust, such overwhelming desire that it was all he could do to stop himself from rolling the woman on her back and plunging inside her. The thought of making love to her took over his mind and, like a physical presence, pressed against his temples, bringing pain.

  Pain that jerked him back to reality.

  Pain that sliced through him and for one moment brought a sense of great loss. He didn’t know whether the tears on his cheeks were his or had fallen from the face pressed against him. But he felt the wetness, and as if he were in some distant place, he struggled back.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, caressing her breast and her lower back and leg. “I won’t hurt you. I didn’t take care of Beth, but I’ll take care of you.” He repeated the reassurances over and over again, until at last he, too, was calm. And without knowing that he was doing so, Sean closed his eyes and slept.

  The parrot, mysteriously covered once more, remained uncharacteristically quiet.

  The storm raged through the night. Limbs broke off and fell to the ground. Logs and pieces of timber thrashed by the water slammed against each other and swirled back the way they’d come. The river rose and spilled over its banks, flooding the road and washing the lightweight red car into the rising swamp.

  The ship rode the changing currents, cushioning the two passengers like a cocoon. Finally the wind calmed, leaving only a steady rain that pelted the deck in a symphony of gentle sound.

  The scents of pipe tobacco and wildflowers permeated the cabin. The woman slept, sensing that she was safe, protected, cherished. The Scarlet Butterfly fluttered on the tips of the waves, and eventually, just before dawn, became still.

  Two

  Carolina dreamed they were in a hammock, she and her imaginary lover. Their bed moved back and forth, folding them together so that she was lying on top of him. She sighed in contentment and rubbed her face on his chest, relishing the caress of springy hair on her cheek.

  “Nice,” she whispered, feeling his knee slide between her legs. She’d dreamed of him before, her captain, but never so vividly, nor with such pleasure.

  She felt warm and safe, treasured by his touch as his fingertips left the breast they’d been holding and moved lower. A warm breeze nuzzled her hair—no, not a breeze, but his breath, which, like her own, had quickened.

  “See,” she wanted to say to her disbelieving friends, to the father who’d protected her as long as he could by selecting her friends, subduing her will, and ignoring her when she’d voiced the need to stand on her own two feet. He meant well. He loved her. After her mother died he’d showered all his love on Carolina. But now that her illness had been conquered, that love was killing her.

  See, I knew I’d find something—it, him.

  With a wiggle, she adjusted her body so that his hand could slide lower, to the coil of heat that was spinning outward. More, she decided, wanting him to cover her with the hardness of his body. Wanting …

  As if he’d heard her speak, he slid her from his body to her back and turned to follow her. His lips planted little moist kisses down the side of her face. His hands touched and examined and sought out every spot that gave her pleasure.

  Carolina had always wanted to believe that she could feel such sensations. She’d always hoped that her father was wrong when he’d tell her she was too delicate to lead the life of a normal woman. But for a very long time, she’d believed him.

  Until she’d found out that he’d lied about her imaginary childhood illnesses. There’d been nothing out of the ordinary wrong with her then. He’d been overprotective out of fear, because he hadn’t wanted to lose her.

  Carolina moaned and timidly reached out to touch the body of the lover who’d come to her in a dream. His bare skin felt warm and wonderfully real. Braver now, she allowed her fingers to move up his neck, across a face prickly with the stubble of a beard, and upward to full lips that parted and captured a fingertip.

  She gasped. He pulled gently, sucking, setting off waves of pleasure that ran down her arm and collided with the sensation moving upward from the place his fingers had found.

  Her body seemed to vibrate. She couldn’t hold herself still as she felt the pressure of his fingertips, fanning over her stomach and below, cautiously, as if she were fragile, in danger of being bruised.

  “More,” she whispered. She wanted more. Pulling her finger free, she ski
mmed her hand down, ruffling the chest hair, the coarser thatch below, until she reached—

  Carolina came suddenly awake. Her gaze met a pair of startled eyes directly over her, brown eyes, eyes so brown that even the watery light spilling from behind her couldn’t penetrate their darkness.

  He wasn’t a dream lover. He was real.

  “What the hell?” he said, pulling away and dragging the coverlet to the floor as he stood.

  Carolina let out a little scream and skittered back against the cabin wall. “What are you doing? Where are your clothes?”

  Sean followed the woman’s gaze with horror. What had he been doing? The last thing he remembered was trying to warm her. Warm her? Maybe, but he was the one who was hot and aroused—and horrified.

  “My clothes? Lady, these are my sleeping quarters, and I sleep buck naked every night. I believe I’d be correct in saying that it’s you who is out of place. How’d you get here, in my bed?”

  Carolina didn’t know how to answer. There was much that she didn’t know, including why the man who’d rescued her, taken her into his bed, and cared for her so tenderly was talking to her as if he were a monk and she’d just stormed the monastery walls.

  “It was you,” she whispered, grabbing for the sheet and trying to force out words that seemed to hang in her throat. “You rescued me and brought me here.”

  “Me? Rescue you?” He stiffened, muttering a curse. “If trying to bring you back from the dead is rescuing you, I apologize.”

  “You should.” Relief turned her muscles weak and evaporated her thought process.

  Sean stared at her. Lord, she was beautiful. All he wanted to do was reclaim his place in the wonderful dream from which he’d been jerked. His intense disappointment was out of character and out of control.