For an instant time stopped.
She was aware only of the beating of her heart and of him.
Rachel imagined that this was what a lover’s touch must feel like. Tender. Soft. Gentle.
This man, she realized, was doubly dangerous.
Not only did questions lurk behind his gray eyes, but he had her dreaming of kindness and lovers’ touches—things she’d given up on.
She met his direct gaze. “Don’t worry about me. I will be fine.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. Once again he was trying to peer into her soul.
Finally he drew back. “If you’re not wanted by the law, I guess that means you’re a runaway. The question now is who are you running from?”
Her skin itched with fear. “Stay out of my business, Mr. Mitchell.”
Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. “I wish that I could.” He rose and left the room….
Acclaim for Mary Burton’s recent works
The Unexpected Wife
“If you liked Sarah, Plain and Tall, you’ll love this book. It’s a touch different, but alike in all the right places.”
—Romantic Times
Rafferty’s Bride
“Ms. Burton has written a romance filled with passion and compassion, forgiveness and humor; the kind of well-written story that truly touches the heart because you can empathize with the characters.”
—Romantic Times
The Perfect Wife
“Mary Burton presents an intricate theme that questions if security rather than attraction defines the basis of love.”
—Romantic Times
The Colorado Bride
“This talented writer is a virtuoso, who strums the hearts of readers and composes an emotional tale. I was spellbound.”
—Rendezvous
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For Elizabeth and Lee
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Washington City
March 1866
She couldn’t breathe.
Rachel Emmons had never done anything more desperate in her life. She was running away from her husband, Peter Emmons, a man who in a rage had struck her so hard last night that the pins from her chignon had pinged on the Italian marble floor of their Washington town house.
This hadn’t been the first beating in their eleven-month marriage, but it had been, by far, the worst.
The early morning air was damp, the fog thick as she hurried down the cobblestone streets past the bales of tobacco, sacks of flour and piles of freshly milled lumber. The Potomac shipyards were busy this morning. Sailors readied their ships, farmers drove their carts filled with produce and men of business inspected cargo. Her heart pounded in her chest as she searched for the Anna St. Claire.
She’d dressed in widow’s weeds with a heavy lace veil over her hat. Widows were invisible. And she wanted no one to remember her or to see the bruise on her face.
She pushed through the crowds and moved toward the docks. The innkeeper had told her the Anna St. Claire would be moored on a pier near the tobacco warehouses. The small freighter was scheduled to leave on the morning tide. But as she made her way through the early morning throng, she saw no sign of the ship. She scanned the vessel nearest her. The Maria Nova.
A sailor bumped Rachel’s shoulder. She murmured an apology and hurried further down the dock, fearing she’d taken a wrong turn. What if she couldn’t find the freighter before it sailed out of port? She clenched her gloved hands. She couldn’t go back.
She stepped around a crowd of men, not daring to ask for directions for fear they’d remember her if questioned later. The next ship was a slow draft steamer, the Zephyr. Her brisk pace quickened to a run as she headed toward the next set of sails.
To her relief she found the Anna St. Claire two blocks north of where the innkeeper had said it would be. The three-masted schooner was weathered and in desperate need of cleaning. Cargo was piled high on the deck and her hull rode low in the water, a sign she was loaded and ready to leave. Her patched sails flapped in the wind.
There were eight men aboard. The sailors who manned this ship were rough, hard-bitten men. Several shouted profanities. One sailor dropped his trousers and urinated over the side of the ship.
Two sailors pointed at her. A redheaded one grabbed his crotch and laughed. “Nay, I can’t see her face. But I can tell by her stiff back that she needs a man to loosen her up. She’s in need of a good poke.”
“Ah, but with a stick like yours, Sebastian,” the shorter sailor said, “she’ll never know she’s been had. She needs a real man, like me.”
The men laughed, each going into detail about what they’d do if given an afternoon alone with her in a cabin.
Such indignities would be a part of her new life. But Rachel would pay any