Cross looked surprised. “You know her?”
Rourke more than knew Elizabeth Benjamin. He’d spent the last four years dreaming of her soft skin, sun-kissed hair, and deep blue eyes. Whenever he smelled jasmine, he looked for her and was always disappointed. He painfully recalled the day she’d left Key West without a word. But most of all he remembered with absolute clarity the moment when he’d realized that the girl he’d teased for years had grown into a woman he would never forget.
3
He’d appeared out of the mists, like a specter, but Elizabeth knew at once that it was Rourke. The breadth of his shoulders, the cut of his waist, the commanding presence. He’d come for her—for them.
She lifted her arm into the howling winds and called his name.
That moment of incaution cost her. The tempest ripped her from the fragment of roof. She reached for the jagged corner. Missed. Tried again. Her fingertips grazed the edge before the surging water pulled her away from her brother.
“Charlie!” Her cry flew away on the gale.
She clawed at the earth bumping along beneath her and grasped only gravel.
The water was coming up too quickly. Soon it would cover Charlie. Rourke was too far away. She alone could save him.
With her last ounce of strength, she fought the surging sea. One foot found solid ground. The second followed. She tried to stand, but the flood knocked her down and carried her farther from the warehouse. Her next gasp for air brought only water. She coughed and choked while the seas tumbled her farther and farther away.
Then strong arms caught her. She lifted salt-stung eyes. He would save her. He would save them. His hair whipped in the wind, lashing her cheek. He knelt beside her and cradled her to his chest. Then he lifted her from the waters and headed away from the waterfront and away from her brother.
“Charlie!” She pounded on his chest. She pointed. She had to make him return.
But he carried her in the opposite direction. Helpless, she watched her brother’s prostrate form vanish in the mist.
“Bring my trunk,” Aunt Virginia demanded, pulling Elizabeth from her past.
The harried seaman standing in the doorway made no move to obey.
“Over there,” Aunt insisted. “The small one.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but the wreckers’ll get it.”
“Wreckers are here?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes’m.”
Her spine tingled. Could it be Rourke? Like all wreckers, he patrolled the reef, but he was only one of dozens. Most likely it would be someone else, someone who didn’t torment her thoughts and dreams. But it was possible. Caroline’s letters had kept her informed of all the local news, including the fact that Captain O’Malley had not yet married. But her last communiqué had arrived over a month ago.
“Which wrecker?” she asked so breathlessly that her aunt gave her a sharp look.
The man shrugged. “How’m I ta know?”
How indeed. He was from Charleston, not Key West. He wouldn’t know one wrecker from another.
“They’re all a villainous lot,” Aunt grumbled.
“Yer right about that, ma’am.” In one small sentence the deckhand undid all of Elizabeth’s work. “They’ll pretty near strip us clean.”
“Strip?” Aunt gasped.
“He’s speaking figuratively,” Elizabeth said quickly, before her aunt got hysterical again. “He means that the wreckers will claim everything of value, but it’s not true. They are licensed under the admiralty court and must abide by the law or lose their license. You have nothing to fear. I’ve met many a woman saved by a wrecker. Not a one had a word of complaint.”
She took her aunt’s hand and guided her into the slanted passageway already knee-deep in water. Anabelle followed, with the seaman bringing up the rear. His lantern revealed the extent of the disaster. Beyond the missing outer door, strips of sail slapped against the sloping deck. A mast or spar hung at an odd angle. Elizabeth slogged ahead with great care. Bits of wood bobbed in the black water. Any misstep could twist an ankle.
“Step carefully now,” she instructed, “and use the walls for support.”
A sniffle was her only response.
At least Aunt still had her wits. Slowly they traversed the short distance to the gaping doorway. Only then did Elizabeth see the enormity of the challenge. Men clung to the rail, awaiting rescue. Between the doorway and them lay a steeply sloped, wet deck. Earlier in the voyage she’d learned how slippery a deck became when wet. Her incaution had landed her on her posterior. That experience had been humbling. This was impossible. None of them could manage the slope when there was nothing to hold on to.
“What will we do?” she muttered.
“Wait here, miss.” The deckhand handed her the lantern. “We’ll send someone ta haul ye off.” He then scrambled up the deck, reaching the rail with a final leap.