Lost Lady (James River Book 2)

NO STORY EVER TOLD COULD HAVE PREPARED REGAN FOR the blast of wind and sharp salt air that tore into her body as she opened the door under the quarterdeck. It took all her strength to push the door open wide enough to allow her onto the deck, and it slammed hard behind her. A wave of salt spray soaked her immediately, making her wool cape cling heavily to her slight frame.

Bracing herself against the stair railing, using her strength to keep upright, she blinked against the cold, piercing water that seemed to want to drill holes into her and tried to see if she could find Travis. At first she couldn’t distinguish men from the parts of the ship, but her interest in the safety of Travis was stronger than the pain caused by the violence around her.

Gradually, her eyes adjusted, and, blinking rapidly to clear the water away, she made out the shadowy figures of men in the midst of the long, wide deck. Before she could make a decision about how to get to that part of the ship, a sudden lurch sent her sprawling, and, like a piece of driftwood, she was knocked down and rolled across the deck. As her body slammed into the side of the ship, she grabbed what was nearest to her—the wooden support of an iron cannon.

When the wave was past, she began to pull herself upright again, and as she did she heard the cracking sound again; only this time she could tell that it was coming from overhead. One of the masts must be breaking. Starting slowly, taking each step by inches, she began to move toward the men and the breaking mast.

Every crewman and, she was happy to see, Travis also, was holding on to a part of the ship and looking up at the splintering wood.

“Get up there, I say!” the captain bellowed, his voice even louder than the fury of the sea.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Regan could see the sailors take a step backward, and it took her a moment to realize that the captain was ordering someone to climb the rigging. She had half a mind to tell him what she thought of his request, but of course she must keep quiet and not let Travis know she was there.

But one quick look at Travis, and she saw that he’d already seen her and was making his way toward her. The look of rage on his face put the sea to shame, and without thinking Regan started back toward the door under the quarterdeck; her courage had quite suddenly vanished.

Travis’s big hand caught her shoulder before she’d gone two steps. He didn’t say a word, and since everything was written on his face, he didn’t need to.

As the ship lurched and another wave threatened to capsize them, Travis flung his body over hers, pinning her against the railing, holding her securely with his superior strength.

“I may beat you for this,” he shouted into her ear when at last the ship righted itself.

But their attention was caught by another, louder, shout from the captain. “Isn’t there a man among you?”

It was at that moment, with Travis holding her arm in a painful grip, that Regan saw David and knew immediately that he’d followed her onto the deck. Even in the dim light, through the pounding spray, she could see the bruises on his face where Travis had hit him. Her eyes locked and held with his for a moment, and a wave of guilt passed through her because she saw that he knew she’d used him, that he knew he’d made a fool of himself.

A smaller wave washed across them and broke their eye contact, and when it receded she saw that David had moved forward—but he wasn’t looking at her. Walking as straight as he could under the circumstances, he went toward the captain.

Stopping just opposite Travis, he shouted, “I’m a man. I’ll climb the rigging.”

“No!” Regan screamed, clutching at Travis’s arm. “Stop him!”

David held onto the fife rail at the base of the mast and turned his head to Travis. Travis, seeming to understand David’s silent plea, nodded once before clasping Regan’s hands in his and stilling her.

Regan struggled against Travis, wanting to go to David, to stop him, knowing that what he wanted to do, this attempt at what amounted to suicide, was her fault.

When she saw that there was nothing she could do, she became very still, like the crew. Travis braced himself between the rail and a cannon carriage, holding Regan tightly, but his eyes never wavered from David’s slight form.

The captain, glad to finally find someone brave enough to climb the rigging, was shouting instructions to David while wrapping rope about his waist. From gestures and the few words that could be heard, it was clear that David was to climb the swinging rope rigging to the first and longest yardarm, crawl along its narrow width about halfway until he was suspended over the turbulent water, and bind the splitting yardarm.

Regan could only gasp in disbelief, too astonished even to make a further protest. She knew for sure that she was watching a man go to his death. With fear, she buried her face against Travis, but he pulled her head around and made her look at David, who was poised at the base of the mast, waiting only for Regan to give him a parting glance.

Lifting her hand toward him before dropping it helplessly at her side, she stood straight, her back against Travis’s chest, and watched as he grimly started the climb.

His ineptitude was immediately apparent as his feet slipped, quite often losing their grip so that he held on by only one hand. The wind tore at him, pulling his hands away, knocking the rope from under his feet.

Regan put her hand to her mouth and sank her teeth into her own flesh as she watched.

Slowly, with great difficulty at every step, David finally reached the yardarm. Hanging on to it with both his arms, seeming to pause for a moment’s rest or perhaps waiting until the next great wave passed, he hesitated. When the water cleared, and the people on deck saw that he was still there. they gave a united gasp of relief.

As the ship righted itself again, David inched forward on the yardarm. A foot before he reached the break, he unwound some of the rope about his waist and put one end into his mouth.

“Look out!” came a shout from near Regan.

But David could not hear the warning as another big wave separated him from the people below.

On deck, the crashing of the wave was mixed with another sound—that of splintering wood. Holding her breath, seeming to wait an eternity before the water cleared, Regan stared fearfully up at the yardarm where David hung so tenaciously. When she could see at last, she smiled because the yardarm was still intact.

But her smile quickly receded when she saw what had broken. Above David’s head was the maintop, a large platform where the men kept vigil. This platform had broken away on one side, part of it just over David’s head, and from the way he lay without moving, it seemed to have hit him.

Regan clutched Travis to her, her hands holding tightly as she watched David’s small, motionless figure high over her head.

She had no idea that Travis was watching her, studying the fear on her face. She was aware of nothing until Travis pushed her away from him, wedged her body onto the deck, and clasped her hands about the heavy, anchored cannon. “Stay!” he commanded, before grabbing rope tied to the fife rail and wrapping it about his waist.

Terror of a new kind surged through Regan, a terror so great that no words would come out of her mouth, and her arms clutching the cold cannon were white with strain.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she watched Travis ascend the rigging, his feet and hands much more sure than David’s, agile in spite of the size of him, or perhaps his strength was needed to hold him against the raging storm.

Each time a wave came over her and cut Travis from her view, Regan felt that she died a little bit. By the time he reached the yardarm, her body was as rigid as the iron of the cannon she gripped.

Cautiously, Travis crawled along the yardarm, straddling David when he reached him, leaning over, obviously shouting to the young man, but the fierce wind took the words away.

When David lifted himself and looked up at Travis, several of the sailors shouted encouragement. But Regan felt no relief whatsoever.

Travis and David seemed to talk for quite some time before Travis began moving forward, giving everyone more to fear as he passed David on the narrow projectile. Deftly and quickly, Travis lashed the splintering yardarm together, wrapping it tightly with the rope he carried. Twice he had to stop and cling to the pole as a wave threatened to pull him into the sea.

When he finished, he backed toward David, David handed him the rope from his waist, and Travis tied one end about his own waist. Now they were joined together for whatever fate awaited them in the long descent to the deck.

More talking was done as Travis seemed to be trying to persuade David to move from the piece of wood he held in a strangling grip.

Regan’s heart almost stopped beating as she saw Travis pull on the rope, encouraging David to back toward the main mast. It was as if Travis had all the time in the world as he patiently waited for David to begin to move.

Slowly, each muscle at a time, David started backing up, and Travis guided the young man’s feet onto the rope rigging. As if he were a child, Travis helped David, placed his hands and feet in the proper places, and once flung his arms across David, holding them both to the unsteady and flimsy rigging. When the wave passed, they started down again.

Regan began to breathe a bit when they were about twenty feet above the deck. She saw Travis shout at David, saw the young man shake his head, and heard Travis shout again until David nodded his head in agreement. David began to descend alone, Travis holding the rope about his waist, tying one end to the rigging.

Rising from her squatting position, Regan saw that Travis was making sure David was safe, that he was securely fastened so that if the next wave carried Travis over, he would go alone.

Guessing that as Travis glanced out to sea he saw something that the people below couldn’t see, she watched, tears coursing down her face. Travis wrapped the rope around his powerful forearm; then, entangling his other arm in the rigging, he kicked out at David, whose head was now even with Travis’s feet. David, unsteady and terrified, immediately lost his grip on the rigging, and his slight body swung away, falling for a few precious seconds before the slack was taken up in the hold Travis had on the rope about David’s waist.

A high scream of terror escaped David before Travis began to lower him, and the sailors caught him, quickly pulling him to the deck.

But Regan’s eyes never left Travis, who, as soon as he saw David was safe, dropped the rope and grabbed the rigging, ducking his head as if in protection. She left the cannon with one swift step, and that was as far as she got before the biggest wave of all hit them. The deck was flooded with cold, salty water, and in protest the ship threatened to turn over.

Regan slammed into the deck, rolled across it, and hit the fife railing with a bone-jarring jolt. Yet, in spite of her pain, all she was aware of was that above her she heard another horrible sound of wood cracking.

In spite of the angle of the deck and the rushing water, she grabbed the railing and tried to pull herself upward. A man’s scream and a fleeting glimpse of a body sailing over her head and going past the deck rail did not deter her from her course. It was difficult to breathe, much less see, as she struggled to look up at the rigging where Travis hung.

Had she not been looking so hard, she would not have seen the blurry image of Travis as his hands lost their grip and he began to fall. His foot was caught in the rigging, and this saved him as he appeared to struggle for his senses and find the rope he needed to hold him fast.

The aftershocks of the big wave tossed the big ship like a child’s top as Regan clung and prayed and watched Travis struggling to hang on. She could see that something was wrong with him, that he was fighting more than the sea.

With one arm hooked about the rail, she wrenched a piece of rope as big around as her arm from the pins and then inched toward the bottom of the rigging.

All around her, men were shouting, and the wind and water played tricks with sounds, but Regan only saw Travis as he painfully lowered himself. Still holding on as best she could, she climbed up the rigging until she was able to touch Travis’s foot.

Scared but knowing there was no other way, she wrapped the rope around his ankle and the rigging. The rope was too long and too big for her to knot properly, so all she did was wrap it, hoping she’d have time before the next wave came.

She was unprepared for the slash of a wave while hanging above the deck on just a bit of rope. She tangled her body in the rope and hung on for dear life.

After this wave, she was too frightened to move, and with her hand clasping the end of the big rope attached to Travis’s ankle, she was afraid to open her eyes. She’d done all she could to save him, and now she couldn’t bear to look to see if he was there or not.

It seemed to her a long time that she hung there, half-sitting, half-suspended, before she heard shouts below. Still afraid to open her eyes, she kept them wrenched shut.

“Travis!” came the clear call from below her, actually seeming quite near.

“Mrs. Stanford,” called a voice that could only be the captain’s.

With trepidation, she opened her eyes, still afraid to look to her left where Travis might or might not be.

Later, no one could remember who was the first to start laughing. Perhaps it wasn’t a laughing matter, but the sailors were so relieved to have finally left the storm behind them, the last two waves having knocked the ship out of its path, that the sight above them was hugely entertaining.

Regan, ten feet above deck, was practically sitting in the rigging, clad only in a very wet muslin dress, her bare legs through the knotted rope squares wrapped tightly, hugging her own body, as were her arms. In one hand was an enormous rope attached to the leg of Travis, a man twice her size, who now lounged in the rigging as if he were sleeping. For all the world she looked like a little girl leading some sort of strange animal.

“Stop your yammering and get them down!” the captain bellowed.

Encouraged by their laughter, Regan dared to look toward Travis, and at this close range she could see the blood seeping at the side of his head.

When three of the sailors had climbed to her and saw Travis’s condition, they no longer laughed.

“You saved his life,” one of them said, awe in his voice. “He’s not even aware we’re here. He couldn’t have hung on without you tyin’ him.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s breathin’,” the sailor said, but would say no more.

“No,” she said when he touched her. “Get Travis down first.”

Now that the seriousness of what Regan had done reached them, the sailors glanced up at her in amazement for a moment before turning away and respectfully not looking openly at her fine, bare legs.

With some dignity, Regan was able to descend the rigging with the help of a sailor. She was startled at how high up she’d gone and at the difficulty she had in getting down.

Finally on a solid surface again, she followed the men carrying Travis to their cabin. As they passed David’s cabin, one of the men murmured that the young gentleman was sleeping. Regan only nodded as her thoughts were completely with Travis.

The ship’s doctor came to Travis quickly and examined his head wound. “The maintop must have hit him when it broke away.” The doctor turned appraising eyes toward Regan. “I hear you kept him from being washed overboard.”

“Will he be all right?” she asked, not caring about his praise.

“No one can tell with these head wounds. Sometimes they live, but their minds never work again. All you can do is try to get him to drink water and stay quiet. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help than that.”

Regan only nodded as she smoothed Travis’s wet hair from his forehead. The ship was still rolling frantically but seemed calm after the last several hours. Turning, she asked one of the sailors still in the room to get her some fresh water.

When she was alone with Travis, she started to work, undressing him first, which was no easy task considering the weight of Travis’s inert body. Wrapping his naked body in dry, warm blankets that she got from a trunk, she stopped to answer a knock at the door.

Sarah Trumbull stood there. “One of the sailors came to get me, told me some wild story about you tying Travis to the sail. The man said Travis was hurt and you might need help. And he sent this.”

Regan took the water she offered. “I don’t need help,” she said, her voice tight. “Maybe you can help the other passengers.” She gave a brief nod toward David’s closed door.

Sarah had only to look at the fear apparent on Regan’s face to know that something was dreadfully wrong. “You have the prayers of everyone on board,” she whispered, giving Regan’s hand a quick squeeze.

Alone again with Travis, she began to bathe his head. The cut wasn’t long, but it seemed to have been a hard knock as Travis was completely unconscious. Once he was clean and warm and he still didn’t move, she stretched out on the bed beside him and cradled him in her arms, hoping to bring him back to life by sheer force of will.

Hours later she awoke, having fallen asleep from exhaustion, and her teeth were chattering with cold. She’d been unaware that she still wore her wet clothes. Travis lay still, deathlike, his skin pale, his vitality gone.

Rising quietly, she peeled away her sodden, cold dress and noticed absently that somewhere she’d lost her new wool cape and that the muslin gown was torn in several places. Poor Travis, she thought with a smile. He was going to have to buy her a new wardrobe before the first one was even finished.

The thought sent her hand to her mouth and tears to her eyes. Perhaps Travis wouldn’t live to see her new clothes; perhaps he’d never wake up from his death-sleep. And all because of her! If she hadn’t flirted with David, the young man wouldn’t have felt compelled to show Travis that he was indeed a man. If only…she thought again but made herself stop.

Going to the chest, she pulled out a dress of heavy maroon corded silk, piped about the waist, neck, and cuffs with pink satin. Once dressed, she went to Travis again, bathing his cool face and washing the cut on his head which still seeped blood.

At midnight he began to move and thrash about on the bed, and Regan tried hard to restrain his flailing arms to keep him from hurting himself. Her strength was no match for his, so all she could do was throw herself on top of him, using her body weight to hold him.

By morning he grew tired again and seemed to fall asleep, although for the most part he kept his eyes closed. As the sun was entering through the window, Regan sat on the edge of the bed, her head on Travis’s shoulder, and fell into a deep sleep.

What woke her was Travis’s hand stroking her hair gently, calmly touching her hair and her neck. Instantly, she was fully awake, her head coming up to look at him and see if there was some lucidity in his gaze.

“Why are you dressed?” he asked hoarsely, as if that were the most important thing in the world.

She had no idea how rigidly she’d been holding her body for the last several hours, but now so much tension left her all at once that she was shaking, trembling. Great fat tears rushed to her eyes and glided down her cheeks. Not only was Travis going to get well, but his mind was unharmed.

He put a finger to her cheek, touched a tear. “The last thing I heard was the maintop breaking away. Did it hit me in the head?”

All she could do was nod, and the tears came harder. “Was that yesterday or the day before?”

“Before,” she mouthed, the lump in her throat so large she couldn’t speak.

Travis began to smile, winced once with pain, and then the smile returned. “So those tears are for me?”

Again, all she could do was nod.

His eyes closing once again, he kept smiling. “It was worth a little bump on the head to see my girl shed tears for me,” he whispered before falling asleep.

Regan put her head back down on his chest and gave herself over to tears. She cried for all her fear at seeing Travis climbing after David, at having gone after Travis herself, and for the last several hours when she hadn’t known whether he was going to live or die.

Travis was a wonderful patient, so wonderful in fact that Regan was exhausted within forty-eight hours. He took to being spoiled and pampered more easily than a new colt takes to walking. He wanted every meal spoon-fed to him by Regan, constantly needed her help in dressing, and wanted a sponge bath twice a day. Every time Regan suggested he try walking in order to regain his strength, Travis suddenly developed an even more severe headache than the one that plagued him constantly and needed Regan to run cool cloths over his forehead.

On the fourth day, when Regan was about to tell Travis she wished he had been washed overboard, she answered the door to find David Wainwright standing there.

“May I come in?” His arm was still bandaged, and there was a fading greenish bruise on his jaw.

With more strength than he’d shown in days, Travis sat up in bed. “Of course you can come in. Have a seat.”

“No,” David said quietly, not looking directly at Regan. “I came to thank you for saving my life.”

Travis studied the young man for a moment. “I only did it out of shame because you made the rest of us look like cowards.”

David’s eyes widened, and he was well aware of the way he’d been paralyzed atop the yardarm and how Travis, patient even in the midst of the storm, had gotten him down to safety. Yet he also saw that Travis had no intention of repeating the story to anyone. David’s shoulders straightened a little, and he gave a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes telling more than his words. Quickly, he left the cabin.

“How kind of you,” Regan said, bending and kissing Travis’s cheek.

His arm flew out and caught her about the waist. “Your aim’s off,” he growled, pulling her across him and kissing her on the mouth.

Regan’s arms went around his neck, responding to him fully, her body well aware of the many days since she’d touched him in any way except an impersonal one. Pulling away from him, as his teeth gently chewed on her lower lip, she gave a deep chuckle. “An hour ago you were too weak to get out of bed.”

“I still don’t want to get out of bed, but it has nothing to do with weakness,” he said, his hand at the back of her dress.

Instantly, she jumped out of bed. “Travis Stanford, if you tear another one of my lovely dresses, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I don’t care if you do speak to me,” he said as he threw back the covers and showed her that he was more than ready for her.

“Oh my,” she breathed, her hand unbuttoning buttons faster than anyone’s hands ever had before or since.

Gleefully, naked, she sprung into bed with him, running her legs up and down his body, her face buried in the soft skin of his neck. She had waited quite a long time for him to return to her bed, and she was as ready as he was. Yet, when she tried to pull him on top of her, he wouldn’t budge.

“No, my little nurse,” he chuckled, and put his hands about her waist, lifting her like a doll and setting her on top of his manhood.

Gasping in surprise, it took Regan a moment to recover from her first sense of shock, but as Travis pushed her forward and took her breast in his mouth, her surprise gave way to delight. His hands ran up and down her back as his mouth teased the front of her. Never had she felt so many sensual areas touched at once. His strong hands moved back to her waist and lifted her, slowly, before setting her back down.

Regan did not think twice before she caught the rhythm herself. Her strong legs, muscled from walking about the constantly moving ship, moved her body up and down. She soon learned that she liked controlling the rhythm, fast or slow, bending to rub her breasts across Travis’s chest, leaning over him, watching his handsome face turn to an angelic expression.

But her interest in watching him faded quickly, and as her passion mounted she began to move faster and faster. Travis grabbed her in a hard clasp and, never leaving her, rolled her onto her back, where he thrust hard and deep until the wave of release and delight swept over both of them.

Weak, he collapsed on top of her, his body coated in sweat, every muscle relaxed. Under him, Regan smiled and hugged him close. It added to her pleasure to have control over him, to be able to take someone as strong as Travis and turn him into this pliable, calm man atop her.

Still smiling, she fell asleep.