When I'm with You (6 page)

She couldn't bear such a thing.

She leaned back against the mantel. She hated lying, but there was really nothing else she could do. “I used to know him. He was my last employer.”

“Really? So why wouldn't you want him to see you? Did you part on bad terms?”

“No. Well…yes. Yes, I suppose we did.” Inwardly, she cringed. One lie led to another, and now she'd have to remember this story as long as she was in service at Marchand Hall. “He—”

She stumbled. What could he have possibly done to make her not want him to recognize her? It would have to be something believable, because the reality of the situation was that Captain Sebastiano was a very personable man, and from the little she'd seen of his servants, they all seemed very happy and content to work for him.

“Oh, Katie… Did he—” Martha's voice dropped to a scandalized whisper, “—try something? Like…paw you?”

The thought alone was enough to make her want to laugh. She didn't know him well, of course, but she didn't take him for someone to try and dally with any lady other than his wife. Considering what Rafe had told her of his family, no one else would think it possible either.

But, of course, she couldn't tell Martha that. Damn the lies. If the time came she was free of all this, she swore she would never tell another lie. Not ever.

God forgive me.

Rubbing her eyes with one hand, Katie nodded. “He tried to steal a kiss, when his wife was ill. Terribly ill.”

“He did?” Shock electrified Martha's words. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “What did you do?”

“I kicked him in the leg. Hard. And I nearly took the skin from his cheek with my hand, I slapped him so hard.” She smiled as if it'd actually happened. “And that was the end of that. I gave my notice that evening and left.”

“How horrible for you.”

Katie nodded as Martha wrapped her in a warm hug, which made her feel even more guilty. She didn't want to sully the Captain's reputation—or more precisely, sully it further—so she added, “It wasn't entirely his fault. He'd had a bit too much to drink, and I suppose I
was
flirting with him.”

“But still, his wife was ill.” Martha pulled back and frowned. “Too much drink is a sorry excuse.”

“Well, as you can see, I'm fine now. I survived. And I'd be surprised if he even remembers that it happened. He was far into his cups.” She squared her shoulders. “Now, we should get back to work. I should hate to have Mrs. Bates cross with either of us for tarrying too long. She might make it impossible for you to sneak off and meet up with Robert later. And I know you would hate that.”

A giggle accompanied the bloom in Martha's cheeks. “A good point. Besides, I'm just about finished here.”

“That's all well and good, Martha.” Mrs. Bates briskly rounded the far corner, coming from the servants' corridor. “Because you're needed in the music room, and Katie, Lady Sally has rung for you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bates.” They bobbed their heads and replied in unison, then gathered up the buckets, rags, mops and polish to take back below. There, they parted ways, with Martha heading toward the music room while Katie mounted the servants' staircase to go up to the next floor.

Lady Sally was just finishing her breakfast when Katie came into the room. She set back the tray and kicked away the covers before turning to rise. Katie took the tray to place it on the chest at the bed's foot. Then, as was her routine, she crossed to the shutters. This time when they opened, the only wind accompanying them was a gentle breeze. “Good morning, Lady Sally.”

“Good morning, Katie.” Lady Sally stood and stretched, her fingertips brushing the canopy over her bed. As she let her arms float down, she added, “I think I'll wear the green muslin today.”

“Yes, m'lady.” Katie went to the wardrobe to find the preferred gown.

The muslin was one of Lady Sally's favorites, although she wore it only every so often. It was a stunning shade of emerald that deepened the green in her turquoise eyes. Of course, it was difficult to imagine a gown that
wouldn't
add to Lady Sally's striking beauty. It was almost unfortunate that her personality was as lovely as her face. There were times when Katie wished there was something about her Ladyship to dislike, something ugly. It struck her as unfair at times, that the lady should be so blessed, and Katie had difficulty ignoring those envious flashes.

The lady's corset was lined with whalebone and sewn of the finest silk, cool and smooth to the touch, although the silk cords did cut into Katie's hands from time to time. Lady Sally offered her back, reaching out to hug the bedpost as Katie wrapped the cords about her hands and prepared to pull. Lady Sally grunted. Katie tugged tighter. And tighter. And tighter.

Lady Sally finally said, “Perfect. Stop there.”

How she breathed and didn't faint was a mystery, but one Katie didn't care to solve as she hurriedly knotted the cords as fast as her sore hands would allow. By the time she extracted herself from the laces, she could barely flex her fingers at all. She stretched them as best as she could since she still had to attend to Lady Sally's hair and help her with her jewelry.

“Katie? I'm ready now.”

Katie nodded and hurried to help her into the emerald gown and wrestle her thick hair into its usual coif. She accidentally stuck herself with several hair pins, and breathed a sigh of relief when she was finished. “What are your plans for today?”

Lady Sally smiled. “Captain Sebastiano and I are going into the village to do a bit of shopping. I'm only hoping we might lose Mrs. Bates for a while.”

“She'll be your chaperone?” That would be a blessing, since otherwise it meant she would have to accompany the couple. Katie wasn't certain her stomach would be able to retain its contents if she was forced to watch Lady Sally flirt with Rafe, and watch him respond in kind. If her Ladyship tried to sneak a kiss, Katie feared she just might drop dead.

“Yes. She needs to fetch supplies for Mrs. North. I believe the kitchen girl is coming with us as well.” Lady Sally frowned as she slipped an earbob into her lobe. “What is her name again? It's slipped my mind, I'm afraid.”

“Lucy.”

“Yes, Lucy. We've been through so many girls I can't possibly keep their names straight. I've long since given up trying. It's hopeless. I'm going to have to pick one name and use it for every new kitchen maid.”

“Very well, m'lady. If you're ready to go below…”

“Oh, yes. I'm ready. I'm going to see if Egg is ready to go below with me.” Lady Sally rose, then elegantly swept out of the room, leaving behind Katie and a hint of her rose-scented perfume.

Katie was busy tidying up when the door creaked to catch her attention. She backed out of the wardrobe, a long silk sash still draped around her neck, and spit out a mouthful of hair that had fallen free. With an inward groan, her gaze fell on Rafe, lounging against the doorjamb as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Eat him up with a spoon. Martha had no idea and right now Katie wished she didn't either.

He wasn't smiling, but there was a hint of the devil in his dark eyes. “Still angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry?” She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could manage and turned her attention back to the collection of cut-glass perfume atomizers on Lady Sally's dressing table. They caught the sunlight so perfectly, throwing off flashes of glittering light with the tiniest movement. “I don't live in the past. I find the future easier to reach if I don't linger in the past.”

The floor groaned behind her, and her heart thudded dully against her ribs. Not only had he come into the room, but judging by the way the air stirred behind her, he was only arm's length away. It was close enough. The fine hairs along the nape of her neck were standing on end.

“You shouldn't be in here.” She kept staring at the perfume bottles. She couldn't turn. If she did, something could happen—something
would
happen. And that something would cost her position in the house. Then what would she do? Where else could she go?

“Katie, we need to talk.” His voice remained low, calm and even. Everything she didn't trust her own to be.

“No.” She shook her head, still fighting to keep her focus on straightening the tray holding the perfumes. If she didn't look at him, her thoughts wouldn't get all jumbled together. Jumbled thoughts made her do reckless things. Stupid, reckless things. “We don't. There is nothing more for us to discuss. You need to leave now, and to forget that any of this happened.”

“Any of what?”

She froze as his fingers brushed her nape. It was a gentle touch, but roared through her with all the force of nature. The sensation began where he touched her but ended somewhere just below her belly, where it made her want to shiver from the deliciousness of it. Dear Lord, she'd forgotten how powerful just his touch could be. It wouldn't take much for her to melt right there. Keeping her thoughts straight and orderly wasn't going to happen. They already tumbled over one another, like dirty laundry in a basket. They knotted and tangled together until she couldn't remember what she'd been trying to focus on.

“Please.” She meant to sound firm but her voice refused to cooperate, rising to her lips in a breathless plea instead. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Give me strength.

“Please what?” His voice dropped to a low, teasing rumble. One she knew well. One that made the tingling not only stronger but sweeter.

His breath came as a gentle puff on her skin, and she couldn't hold back her breathless, “Oh,” as he swept his lips along the curve of her neck.

Dear God, those lips were skilled.

His memory was quite good as well, for he remembered the sensitive spot just below her left ear, and she squeezed her eyes even tighter as the tip of his tongue caressed it. Oh, he did know her sweet spot well. She'd pay the price for that. Her head spun from the pleasure behind his teasing kiss, and the perfume bottle she held slipped free from her grasp to clatter back onto the tray.

The noise rang out, and she jumped away from him, every knot inside her springing free. The spell was broken, and her thoughts cleared as if a mist shrouding them had been blown out by a fierce wind. “Stop it. Please, you're going to cost me my job, Captain. You need to leave me be.”

Now, she had no trouble opening her eyes and keeping them open. She held his stare, which was heavy-lidded and sleepy-looking—a look she knew and remembered well. Too well. It took every bit of reserve she had to take another step away from him, but she wasn't going to allow him to pull her back in. “You shouldn't be here. You can't be in here.”

“So meet me somewhere out there—” he swept a hand toward the windows, toward the beach below, “—so we can talk. You left St. Phillippe before I could talk to you. I woke that morning and you were gone. I'd never have known you left the island if the fruit vendor hadn't seen you board a ship at the San Marco dock.”

She didn't feel the least bit guilty about that. “I did what I had to do, and you know I can't meet you anywhere. It's over and done now.”

“Is it? Are you so sure?”

She turned her gaze to the window, to the birds drifting by on the breeze on outstretched wings. She didn't want to answer him but couldn't put him off forever, so she squared her shoulders and drew in a deep breath to steady her quaking nerves. It wouldn't take much for the knots to return, and she was determined not to let that happen. “It is and I am. It's been done since that day.”

“Why?”

“Why? Do you really need ask?” She spun around to stare up at him in disbelief. Did he really not know why she had taken to the sea? Why she had left? How was it even possible for him to be that dense? “You didn't stand up for me, Rafe. You didn't defend me.” Her throat squeezed shut at the pain of the memory of that terrible day, but she still held his stare. “You didn't choose me. You threw me to the wolves, so to speak.”

Two red spots appeared high on his cheekbones, and he reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I know.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. The silence stretched between them for a long, uncomfortable minute. Before it could thicken, she sighed. She really hadn't expected him to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, but she thought he might have
something
more to say than a sheepish, “I know.” Exhaustion crept over her. “You know. That's it? That's all you have to say to me?”

He paused in his rubbing, but remained stonily silent as he held her gaze. Unexpected tears stung her eyes, and she fought to hold them back. She hadn't cried in front of him then, and she wasn't going to do so now.

“Leave me alone, Rafe. Go and court Lady Sally. She is the one your family will accept. She is the good one. You should have no trouble winning her hand.”

She didn't wait for him to reply, didn't give him the chance to argue, but strode past him without looking back. If anyone caught him in Lady Sally's chambers, it was his problem. No matter how much it might hurt to walk away, she did just that. And managed to make it to the servants' staircase before she realized her cheeks were wet.

Chapter Seven

When he was on St. Phillippe, Rafe's favorite place to think was sitting perched atop one of the black stone jetties on the island's northern shore. The jetty was fairly secluded, and the rocky cove was too treacherous for ships to attempt mooring, which meant the beach remained empty, the water void of ships. He could have the entire area to himself. The more tangled his problem, the longer he'd spend on one of those jagged rocks, letting the spray—and occasional wave—douse him. The ocean was in his blood. In his blood, and he loved it almost as much as he did life itself, as silly as that sounded. The crash of the water, the sluice of the foam on the sand, even the cries of the gulls created a rhythm that soothed his mind no matter how heavy the weight it bore.

Unfortunately, in Bermuda the closest thing he could find to a jetty was a small cove about a mile from Marchand Hall. The mountains of jagged, grayish-black rock were too steep and sharp to attempt to climb, and they formed a ring between the cove and the ocean itself, with enough distance between them to allow only the gentlest of waves to roll in. It was far too calm for Rafe's tumultuous thoughts, but it was secluded, and if he wanted, he could always climb up the mountain of sand and rock at the beach's edge and sit there.

He stared up at the rocky hill. Visitors and trespassers alike had carved things into the side, from initials to drawings, meaning something to them but nothing to him. From a distance, they just looked like scribbles.

The sun warmed the sand, and the rocky barrier did much to keep the wind at bay. Rafe stood at the water's edge, letting it sluice about his bare feet and legs. His stockings, shirt and boots lay at the foot of the scribbled mountain, tossed there haphazardly. He wanted to feel that brilliant sunlight on his skin.

Coming to Bermuda had been a mistake. He should've let Conn or Galen come in his stead while he went to Puerto Rico or Europe, or anywhere else. He'd thought getting away from St. Phillippe and his memories would leave him in peace. Had he known everyone already had plans for his life, he'd have
made
either Conn or Galen take his place. Then there'd be no foolish talk of marriage. No need to be concerned with angering this person or that one. No one seemed to care if either of
them
decided to settle down. No one seemed to feel the need to meddle in their lives on such a grand scale.

But here he was, and here he'd stay until he figured out how to untangle every mess he found himself in.

Water foamed about his ankles, as warm as a bath. Here, the sand was white—pure, almost blinding white. Just beyond the rocks, where the beach met the actual ocean, the sand glowed coral with each wave. It was the only place he'd ever seen coral sand, and the last time he'd been there, he'd thought about bottling some of it to take home with him.

Today, his mind was far away from coral sand.

Not far away. Only a mile, really. One mile that might as well be a thousand.

He absently scratched at his chest, wading farther into the water. It soaked into the hems of his breeches. No doubt he'd be spending a lot of time in this cove if he married Sally Hamilton.

Married.

Without thinking, he sat and let the water sluice over him. The sun was so warm on his skin that the water was a welcome relief. If only for a brief while, it took his mind off how he was going to avoid marrying Sally.

Not that he had anything against Sally. She was a good lady and would make someone a good wife. He just didn't want that “someone” to be him.

As for marriage? His feelings were mixed on that matter. He'd seen quite a few happy unions come to men who'd thought they'd never bind themselves to one woman. His own father was a perfect example. So was Diego, his father's closest friend and business partner. And no one was certain who had been more surprised when Aidrian married—Aidrian, who had always loudly sworn off marriage to anyone who would listen, or his family. Yet where was he? Happy. Married. With two baby boys, to boot. Perfectly content to remain on St. Phillippe with his wife and children. Vanessa was probably already expecting again.

There was a time when Rafe would have been perfectly content to pick up where Aidrian had left off, happy on his ship, coming home on occasion to shower his nephews with gifts and lavish them with attention before handing them off to their parents. He wasn't a whoremonger, but he hadn't lived the life of a monk. He had enjoyed his freedom. Enjoyed everything that came with having that freedom.

Then Katie had blown into his life.

He sank his hands into the wet sand as he leaned back on his elbows and lifted his face to the sun. He soaked up the light, but it didn't soothe him much. Damn. He'd thought that ache would fade once she was out of his system, but it had burned fresh when he'd seen her, so serious as she poured their tea.

Seeing her here was a far cry from where he'd met her, in the smoke-filled taproom of a harbor pub in Kingston. There, she hadn't been all prim and proper, but sensual and wanton. Her hair, so blonde it was almost white, had spilled loose about her face. It had been thick and shiny, tumbling about her shoulders and swirling down her back when she'd grabbed him by the arm to drag him over to the bar, where Vanessa had sat. Vanessa, her friend, who had so needed Katie's help—which had been offered without any expectation of reciprocation.

It'd been a long night, as—on both Katie's and Vanessa's behest—he and Conn had pillaged a ship in Kingston's harbor with the intention of retrieving their brother's body. Only Aidrian wasn't dead. And when he and Conn had brought him back to their apartments at the DuMont Hotel, his brother had evicted the tiny blonde woman from the room she was sharing with Vanessa. He hadn't wished to share his reunion with his love.

Although Katie had lived in Kingston, she had done so in squalor, and Rafe couldn't, in good conscience, send her away when she'd comforted Vanessa, when she'd been so helpful and kind to his future sister-in-law.

Then she'd looked up at him with those beautiful eyes, as green as spring grass, and he'd been lost. He'd found he couldn't breathe, and that was something that had never happened to him before.

He was powerless to resist her.

He didn't want the power to resist her.

His life would never be the same again.

Where the trees met the beach, palm fronds rustled and a brightly-colored bird flapped wildly to rise from the treetops. Rafe closed his eyes, just let the water wash over him. It wasn't enough. His muscles hummed with the need to move.

And if he kept thinking about Katie, his breeches would grow too tight and the only movement he'd want would be to seek her out and shuck the damn things.

With a splash of foam, he jerked up from the pool and crossed the hot sand to the ocean side, where the waves came in as real waves. They broke over him as he sliced through the water's surface and dove in. He swam until the ground was far below him. It wasn't easy, treading in his water-logged breeches, but the scrape of fabric caused enough discomfort to keep him from thinking about Katie.

He maneuvered around until he could see the shore, and stared at the pale expanse while he bobbed on the water. He could make out Marchand Hall high above, peeking out through the trees. The house was three times the size of his home on St. Phillippe, and yet it was as suffocating as a one-room hut.

He should have married Katie when he'd had the chance. Before he blew that chance.

The current carried him a little farther from shore, then he turned to head in. By the time his feet touched the ocean floor, his arms felt as if they weighed two stone each. But it was a good sort of tired, and when he emerged he felt ready to deal with each problem head-on. Once he could lift his arms over his head.

“Do you do this every afternoon?” He froze at Lady Sally's teasing greeting. She was standing not more than fifty paces away, dressed in deep green and slowly twirling the parasol resting on her shoulder. For a lady of fine breeding, she didn't seem to mind staring at him, and it made him painfully aware of his state of undress. He wasn't sure just how much she could see through his breeches. They were thick, but they were still white. Or they had been, before his dip.

“Not every afternoon, no.” He trudged across the sand to retrieve his shirt, stockings and boots. When he returned, it was to find her farther down the beach, closer to the water, but still gawking at him as if savoring every last inch.

“I don't swim well.” The parasol slowed in its rotation but didn't stop. Her gaze grew sloe-eyed, her chin tilting downward so she was peering up at him through flirty eyelashes. He knew the ploy well, having seen it from countless other women who tried to be coy and alluring. “Perhaps you could teach me?”

“I'm not a very good teacher. I don't have the patience for it.” He shook his arms, trying to dry them a little faster. The longer her gaze remained on him, the more uncomfortable it made him. But if he put his shirt on too quickly, while he was still wet, he had a feeling her stare would only grow hotter. The seawater wouldn't be good for the fabric, either.

Six years her senior, he'd known her since her birth, but he couldn't remember her ever being so flirty with him. Perhaps it was because she had normally flirted with Aidrian. Since he had married, Rafe supposed Sally thought flirting with him was the next best thing.

The next best thing.

Slightly less than two years separated him and Aidrian. For as long as he could remember, he'd been the next best thing. When they were children, it hadn't bothered him, but lately? Lately, he couldn't say the same. He was tired of living in his brother's shadow. Tired of having Aidrian held up before him as the shining example of what he should strive to become, of being reminded that he was a disappointment because he chose to travel a separate path. Tired of being told that now it was his time to step up and do the family duty. To put down roots. Produce grandchildren. Help Aidrian conquer the European markets. Maybe pursue the Oriental markets as well. All the while, not one of them ever asked him what he wanted for himself. Not one.

“I'm sure you would be a fine teacher.” Sally broke through his maddening thoughts with her calm, lemony-bright voice, adding, “Rafe,” as if she was saying something blasphemous, or, at the very least, utterly scandalous.

“I don't have the patience for teaching. No patience and no time.” He didn't care if water still beaded his back, but drew on the shirt and laced it. Sally looked disappointed, her lips pursing slightly. That had to be the reason why he tossed Conn to the wolves, why the lie came so easily to his lips. “Conn's the teacher, not me.”

“But he isn't here—” Sally stepped up to slip her arm through his and press it against her, “—and you are. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“It's not a good idea, m'lady.” He tried to gently untangle himself from her as she pulled him into the soft pillow of her breasts. Pointless. She simply gripped more firmly. Damn it. Conn and Galen had better get here as fast as the
Persephone
could carry them. Sally was losing her subtle edge, becoming far more obvious. He had to be careful she didn't become
too
bold. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in a compromising position with her. That would end only one way, and he wanted to avoid
that
at all costs.

“So, we're going to New York at the end of the month?” She pulled him from his gloomy thoughts, her pout vanishing as her parasol resumed its lazy twirl. She even smiled. “I'm so looking forward to it. The last time I was off Bermuda was when we came to visit you on St. Phillippe.”

He had to force his smile, and pulled free of her grasp. He sat upon the sand to pull on his stockings. “I haven't been to New York, but I have been to the Carolinas several times. My advice would be to bring warm clothing. February is bound to be beyond cold.”

Her brow furrowed and the parasol stilled. “I don't think I
have
the warm clothing for such travel. My cold-weather clothes won't be warm enough much farther north. It rarely gets cold enough here to necessitate such things.”

“You might want to speak with a seamstress, then. Have one of the maids bring one from the village.” He finished pulling on his boots and rose, brushing sand from his backside. Much as he liked the beach, he didn't want to bring it back to the house with him. “You'll need something more than silk and linen.”

“Such as?”

“Velvet. Thick, heavy wool. Things of that nature. Warmth is the most important thing you'll need to remember.” This time, when she slipped her arm through his, he didn't pull away but instead led her back to the path winding from the beach, through the trees to the house. He didn't dislike her; he just didn't love her.

However, all hell would break loose when he informed both Sally and Lord Marchand that he would
not
be marrying her.

* * * * *

The windows in the music room overlooked the white expanse of beach and the beautiful turquoise water surrounding Bermuda, and as she polished the harpsichord, Katie couldn't help but gaze out at the lovely view. Much as she loved the island, Bermuda wasn't home. But at times, when she forgot about the work, forgot about the Hamilton family, forgot her position for a few minutes, she could look at the water and it was almost like being back in Jamaica. Perhaps she
was
meant to return to Kingston. Balboa would most likely give her a job. When she had told him she was leaving Jamaica, hadn't he repeatedly told her that she would always have a job waiting for her, should she ever need to take him up on the offer? She wouldn't have to go back to her old ways. Her heart rose more than it had in a long time. She might even be able to stay with him, although she'd have to make it perfectly clear that there would be nothing between them but friendship.