If I Wait For You (15 page)

West turned fully away from her, his
entire body taut, shaking from the need to pull her to him. He took
a deep breath.

“
I came down her to ask
your assistance.” He barely recognized his voice. “The injured man
needs tending and I thought you could help.”

“
Of course.”

Without turning toward her, he walked
to the door. “Get dressed and meet me in the aftercabin.” He
sounded angry, impatient, and he couldn’t help it. He was angry and
impatient. He wanted to forget he was engaged. He wanted to
throttle Sara’s brother for making him take that ridiculous vow. It
did seem ridiculous at that moment. The little scoundrel had
probably known how beautiful his sister was, knew what a temptation
she would be to him, and made him promise not to deflower her. No
man could be expected to resist her, especially with her looking at
him with those soft eyes of hers, smiling at him with those
enticing lips, wearing almost nothing in front of him as if she
hadn’t the slightly notion of what she was doing to him.

Ah, damn. She didn’t know, couldn’t
know.

As the sharply cold air struck his
face, West felt better. The men had already begun making
preparations to boil down the blubber by rigging the platform to
the side of the boat and getting the fire under the tryworks going.
All he needed to do was get the young man tended to, and he could
begin working beside the men.

“
Mr. Mason, where is
Walker?”

Oliver jerked his head to where the
young man, the son of a freed slave, was sitting. West smiled. The
kid was trying his best not to fall unconscious. It had been a hell
of a blow and he’d lost some blood. He lifted him by his arms,
noting he was well-muscled for a boy his age, and wrapped an arm
about his waist.

“
I can walk,
sir.”

“
Yes, I can see that,” West
said dryly, looking down at the noodles the boy had for
legs.

By the time West got him down to the
aftercabin, the lad was slumped limply against him. It was only
when he’d got him on the sofa and slapped his face lightly that
West became more concerned. The boy did not respond. Hell, the cut
didn’t bleed all that much, he thought, gazing at the wound. He
would need perhaps six stitches. There was hardly a lump to speak
of. He slapped harder. Nothing.

He felt Sara move up behind him. “He’s
not responding.”

Sara looked at the boy, her eyes going
to the small gash on his head. “Has he lost much
blood?”’

“
Not enough to make him
faint. He was just speaking to me. Told me he could walk himself,
fool boy.”

“
I’ll clean him up the best
I can.”

“
He’ll need stitches. I
would do it but I’m needed on deck. You will have to manage on your
own. Can you?”

The thought of pulling a needle and
thread through flesh horrified Sara, but she nodded. If he asked it
of her, she could do it. “I can.”

Before leaving, West shook the boy
again, hoping to see his eyes open, but he remained unconscious.
When he’d gone, Sara went to work cleaning the wound. The bleeding
had nearly stopped and it truly didn’t look like a too bad a cut. A
few stitches and he would have only a small scar.

“
I’m going to stitch you up
now, Mr. Walker. I do hope I do not hurt you.” She threaded the
needle with a shaking hand, and grimaced as she placed the needle
against his flesh. She pushed through, letting out a small sound of
anguish, her gaze going to his eyes to make certain he hadn’t
awakened. He was still blessedly unconscious. She began sewing him
up, realizing that sewing flesh was not much different than sewing
soft leather. She made seven small stitches then sat back to admire
her handiwork.

“
You’ll not even have a
scar to boast of, sir,” she said, smiling down at the boy. She wet
a cloth and laid it upon his head, thinking he might have a
headache. His breathing was regular, but shallow, and Sara grew
more worried.

“
Mr. Walker?” No response.
“Mr. Walker?” Sara sat back, tears pressing against her eyes, as
she realized this young boy might be dying. She wondered about his
parents, whether they worried about him going off on a
whaler.

An hour later, he breathed his last
and Sara knelt and prayed for his soul. Then she got up wearily and
made her way topside to tell West he’d lost one of his
crew.

Sara nearly gagged at the smell that
enveloped her as she reached the deck. West, watching intently,
stood near the railing where the men were cutting away large chunks
of blubber from a piece still attached to a large hook hanging
above them.

A shout rose up and the men near the
carcass backed away in a panic, slipping and sliding on the slick
deck. A huge slab of whale fell away from the hooked portion,
landing on the deck so heavily, Sara felt the wood beneath her feet
vibrate. West turned on the man responsible, and though she could
not make out his words, she knew he was fiercely reprimanding the
man. His face was a mask of fury, and the guilty man looked like a
dog about to be whipped. He was taking a pause in his scorching
lecture when West saw her standing by the companionway.

In that moment, it seemed everything
disappeared but the rage in his face that grew even more sharper
when he spied her. Sara felt her whole body tingle almost
painfully. West strode toward her, slipping and nearly falling on
the oily deck, which only served to make his expression more
fierce.

“
Miss Dawes,” he said when
he was within ten yards. “I thought I gave express orders for you…”
And then he stopped and stared at her for a long moment before his
whole body seeming to sag with the weight of what he saw in her
eyes. West knew. And it pulled the heart right out of him. “When?”
he asked wearily.

“
Just a few moments
ago.”

His face tightened and he turned his
head to look at a sea that was just turning pink and gold in the
early morning light. It was a lovely morning.

“
He never regained
consciousness?”

“
No.”

“
Did you stitch him, then?”
His words came out hoarsely, as if it were becoming more and more
difficult for him to talk.

“
Yes.” Sara’s throat closed
on unshed tears. She wanted to go to him, to place a hand on his
arm.

He turned to her, his violet eyes
seeming more brilliant in a face covered with soot and oil. “I’m
glad he did not have to die alone.”

West turned back to the whale carcass,
to the men who worked and pretended not to wonder about one of
their own. Even though it was bitterly cold, he had taken off his
coat, his shirt and waistcoat—the one with the tear—were badly
soiled. They would need a good washing. And Sara decided she would
mend that tear; she didn’t think West would mind
anymore.

It was the only way she knew how to
make things better.

Chapter EIGHT

Later, when West looked back on the
days he shared his cabin with Sara, it was that first good-bye kiss
that marked the change, that turned her into more than a desirable
woman sharing his cabin. It turned her into his wife.

He knew she was not truly his wife,
and that she would never be, but that kiss marked them as mates, as
a man and woman who couldn’t bear to be separated from each other.
West refused to put a label on his feelings. He only knew that when
he came into the stateroom after a grueling day, he was glad to see
her turn toward his lamp with a shy smile on her lips. Every time
the boats were lowered after that, he would kiss her. Oddly, it was
the only time he did so for he knew if they were alone when he
started kissing her, he highly doubted he’d be able to wrench
himself away. It was sweet torture.

In the cabin at night, he kept his
distance, returning only after he was certain she was abed after
several hours working at his sketches and carvings. He found the
work soothing, and it was one of the few times he was not plagued
with his desire for her. He thanked God for rough seas and rainy
weather, for it meant Sara would keep below and out of his sight
for much of the time. It was almost as if he had no will of his
own—if she was on deck, he sought her out and inevitably ended up
by her side. Oliver would cackle each time he took a step toward
her, each time he caught West gazing at Sara with an intensity even
he was not aware of until Oliver made a particularly crass
statement.

“
Hell, if you want ‘er that
bad, go on with you. I’ll watch the ship for you.”

West had torn his gaze away from Sara,
his wind-reddened cheeks turning scarlet. He was standing by the
foremast, fully aroused, in the middle of the day wearing an
expression his first mate had easily marked. West ignored his mate,
which only made the man laugh aloud.

“
We’re heading into some
weather,” West said, hoping the man would leave off. It was getting
more and more difficult to pretend indifference to her. Almost as
if the sea heard him, the wind picked up and the seas roughened.
“I’m sending Sara below.”

“
Take yer time,” Oliver
cackled.

West gave the mate a level look. “I’ll
be right back,” he said forcefully, more to himself, he realized,
than to the old man.

He walked to Sara, trying not to allow
his heart so soar when she saw him. She would smile and his heart
would wrench, as it always did when she smiled at him. Ah, there it
was, that smile that made him feel as if his heart was somehow
being beaten.

“
Are we having a
storm?”

Her skirts whipped around her and the
hair that escaped her braid flew in the wind like a tattered sail.
“Yes. I need you to go below and stay there until the storm has
past.”

She frowned, as he knew she would, for
she didn’t like staying below any more than he did. “You must
promise me, Sara.”

“
I will.”

Sara had no real desire to
be on deck during a storm. She might be a good sailor now, but the
waves still frightened her. She went below and stayed there,
watching from the bank of windows in the aftercabin as the sea grew
more and more angry. It was just light enough to take in the
awesome sight of twenty-foot waves rolling toward the ship. Just as
it looked as if the wave would crash through the windows, the back
end of the ship would lift and the
Julia
would ride the huge wave up
and over, dropping again into to a watery valley. Sara turned away
from the sight. It was one thing to be brave about being tossed
about the cabin, it was quite another to watch the waves threaten
to swamp the boat time after time.

Night came and the storm continued
unabated. West had not been below in nearly twenty-four hours and
she wondered how he was faring. He must be exhausted, she thought,
for though the mates and seamen were allowed to rest, he stayed on
deck.

Finally, the shrieking wind lessened
to a constant moaning, the waves crashing against the hull softened
to a dull pounding. Exhausted from trying not to be thrown about
the cabin, Sara went to bed, hoping to fall asleep. Instead, she
found herself clutching the rail in an attempt to stop from being
thrown forcefully against the wood that kept her from falling to
the floor. The seas calmed, and Sara lessened her death grip on the
side. Eventually, she fell asleep, awakened only occasionally when
the ship took a violent dip and threw her against the
railing.

The sound of West entering the
stateroom dragged her from a blessedly deep sleep. In his hand he
held an oil lamp, lit low, as he sloshed across the thick carpet,
seawater squishing from his boots and leaving black footprints on
the red carpet. His jacket was coated with ice, and his hair looked
as if it had been frosted. The warmth of the cabin began melting
the tiny icicles still in his hair, and he blinked against a steady
stream of water.

“
The storm is
passed?”

He turned toward her, not surprised to
find her awake and watching him. “It’s passed.”

Indeed, the ship’s movements were slow
and languid as if the tempest had never happened. West swayed on
his feet, and Sara realized he was so weary he could hardly stand.
She watched as he struggled to undo the buttons of his jacket for a
full minute before getting out of bed.

“
Here, let me. Your hands
must be frozen.”

West began fumbling anew, unable to
make his fingers, stiff from the cold, work properly. Sara made to
push his hands away, but gasped. “My God, they’re like ice. You
should wear gloves, Mr. Mitchell,” she admonished, clucking her
tongue as she made short work of undoing his coat
buttons.

“
Gloves hamper me,” he
said, sounding irritated.

Sara ignored his churlish tone and
shoved the coat, heavy from the water, off his shoulders. She stood
there for a moment, uncertain what to do with the coat, before
deciding to put it outside where the steward would see to it in the
morning.

“
You’re soaked right
through,” Sara said, eyeing his white linen shirt, which was
plastered against his body. Against his muscled, taut body. She
blinked.