Scarlet Butterfly (6 page)

“Why didn’t you send me with Harry?”

Rogan looked startled.

“In a flat-bottomed boat in a fast current? Not safe. Look at you, you’re getting soaked.”

She was. The soft cotton shirt hugged her slim body as water dripped down her forehead. A silence fell between them, and she didn’t know what to say. The raindrops no longer bounced off the deck, but fell gently on its polished surface. The wind was gone, so that the trees hung heavy with water, the limbs bending down and being dragged by the current.
Its swiftness had abated, but it was still powerful and still carried debris, slamming it against the hull of the ship and off again in a furious chase.

Rogan set his lips sternly. He stood opposite her, waiting for her to speak, studying her with regret and confusion. He wished he had sent her with Harry. It would have been a smart move. Lucy could have taken her in until they could reclaim her car. Or she could have gone back to Ida’s in town. But he hadn’t, and he recalled with a jab in the gut that for one second he had considered it, then had deliberately closed off the thought, further saddling himself with this half-starved woman-child who’d boarded the
Butterfly
and sought refuge in his bed.

Her hair was wet, plastered to her head like a cap. Her eyes seemed more blue, a silvery blue. They were opened wide, watching him with childlike innocence and trust. At the same time she was waiting as if she expected to be censured and was willing to take his rebuke. Something about that trust caught him off guard and made him want to draw her close and comfort her. She shivered.

“Oh, hell!”

Rogan swept her into his arms and carried her to his quarters. “What were you thinking, standing out there in the rain like some water sprite?”

He took a thick towel from behind the door and began to dry her hair, to blot the moisture from her face. To Rogan the cabin was warm, very warm, but her skin was cool. “You’re soaked, and I don’t think you’re strong enough to take this kind of chill.”

She nodded as he knelt down, drying her legs and ankles.

“You’ve been ill, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” He swore and began unbuttoning the shirt. “I want you back in that bed, under those covers.”

“Will you come too?”

The implication of her question took his breath away and stilled his hands.

“No. You’ve already had a sample of what can happen. I might not have been conscious of what I was doing then, but I know better now. I’m going back on deck. You get in bed and cover up. I’ll bring you some hot coffee later.”

Abruptly, he left the room, climbing the steps in one long stride. Inside the cabin Carolina finished unbuttoning the shirt, draped it across the bureau, and climbed into the bunk. Clearly, he’d come to his senses, and he didn’t want her. She could understand that, but the knowledge hurt. Men had never been more than a teenage fantasy—except once, when she’d learned just how far her father’s money could go.

But Rogan was different. She sensed that beneath his gruff exterior he was hiding a man who could care. For a moment she allowed herself to remember the safety of his arms, the way he smelled, and the texture of his bare skin against hers. Suddenly she felt as if her skin were encased in a moving blanket of electric impulses. She clenched her teeth, pulled the covers over her, trying in vain to stay awake until he returned.

As she fell asleep, she breathed in the smell of lemon oil, the smell of rain, the smell of pipe tobacco.

•   •   •

When Sean brought the coffee to the cabin, she was sleeping peacefully. He studied her for a long time, then placed the cup on the table beside the bed and left the cabin. He didn’t trust himself not to touch her.

And he vividly remembered the last time he had.

It was late afternoon when Sean Rogan followed the gangplank down into the water until he found the dock and walked to shore. He plunged through the palmetto palms at a rapid pace toward the remains of the old house. He didn’t know why he was so angry, but he wanted to break things. Using a fallen limb, he swept the brush aside with a violence that would have served him well in a sword fight.

For the two years since he’d walked away from the Rogan empire, he’d lived on this land. At first he’d planned to restore the house. It was because of another storm and the accidental capsizing of his own small boat that he’d discovered the
Butterfly
in the lake. From the moment he’d realized what he’d found, he’d been obsessed with the thought of raising and restoring it. After months of research he’d brought in men who knew how to pump out mud and pump in air. And finally, they’d brought her to the surface.

The men had warned him that the ship wouldn’t be intact, that warm water and worms would have rendered it unsalvageable. They’d been wrong. The
Butterfly
had survived for two reasons: It had been built from cypress, and some long-ago flood had encased it in protective mud. It wasn’t totally without damage, but it was in much better shape than anybody had expected.

His plans to live in the house were quickly shelved
in favor of living on the boat. Storage quarters became his cabin, with a small toilet just off the bedroom. The original galley built on deck had been refurbished and served as his kitchen. There were no sails yet. The masts needed replacing, as did one section of the deck that had been destroyed by some unknown object or person.

At the house, Sean climbed the steps and entered the foyer. Mold and spiderwebs draped the remaining walls. Large holes in the roof let in the rain, and some intruder had built a fire in the middle of what was once the parlor floor.

None of the present Rogans knew much about the house, only that early ancestors had built the house on the river they had used to move their goods to market. Years later they’d planted the pecan orchards and moved to Savannah, leaving the house to fall into ruins. Sean’s brothers and sisters were only too happy to let him claim the swampy acreage as his part of the family real estate. None of them wanted it. There was no money to be made in the marsh, and rice farming was a thing of the past.

Sean had felt as if he’d come home. There was something peaceful about the ruins. If he had been into spiritualism, he could have seen himself meditating in this place. Holding seances even, opening himself to the spirits of the people who’d once lived there. The original deeds for the house and land probably carried the first Rogan’s name. But courthouse records with dates and names had burned long ago.

He looked around. The once-proud walls were broken, like the woman on his boat. Both needed new life. They’d both come under his care. But the
house was a thing, and things could be picked up and discarded. The woman was different.

The rain stopped, leaving only the constant sound of water dripping from the tree limbs through the holes in the ceiling. The air was heavy, humid. Now tiny biting insects began to swarm, and Sean regretted not having grabbed a shirt.

A shirt.

His shirt.

The woman wearing his shirt.

Carolina had hoped she was through needing so much sleep; instead, it seemed that she needed more. Once sleep had been a welcome escape from pain, from boredom, from the sameness of her illness. But this sleep was different. It came in gentle contentment. It was late afternoon when she opened her eyes and saw him standing just out of range in the doorway.

“You’re always in the shadows,” she said quietly. “Where you don’t look quite real.”

“I am not real, lass. I fear none of this is. I should not be able to converse with you.”

“You’re not Rogan, are you?”

“No. I’m—I’m not quite sure who I am.”

“Does Rogan see you?”

“No. I think not—not yet.”

“Well, you’re very real to me.”

“I know, and I don’t like it, lass. This is all wrong—your presence here—alone—now. You’re part of a
future to which I do not belong. And I will not watch you suffer again. Go back where you belong.”

“Do you really want me to go?”

“Do I want? I want—no, in truth I don’t wish you to go, but it’s best. There can be no purpose served by any of this. It was all settled long ago. Raising the schooner was a mistake. Trust me, Carolina. This isn’t right.”

“But you love the
Scarlet Butterfly
.”

“Yes—that, and more.”

And then he was gone, and she couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t dreamed him. Was the man Rogan? Something about him was different—his speech pattern, the way he kept his distance. He moved so softly. The stairs hadn’t even creaked as he’d left.

Trust him, he’d asked. He didn’t have to ask. For she knew that she already did. But he wanted her to go, and that was something she couldn’t do—not yet.

His shirt was still damp from the rain, so when she dressed she donned her own clothes. The tailored skirt and blouse hung loose on her body. She looked at them and frowned, trying to imagine why she’d ever bought anything so tacky. The answer was that she hadn’t. Her father had bought all her clothes, or he’d had someone else do it.

It hadn’t always been that way. There’d been a time, once, when she’d been able to do her own choosing—her last two years of college. She’d reveled in the freedom. After two years of attending a small nearby college while she’d lived at home, she’d transferred to a university in Dallas. For two years she’d lived in the dorm like an ordinary student, taking art classes from a renowned instructor. She’d even met
someone, someone who had seemed content with her.

But that was as long as the dream lasted. Just before graduation she’d come down with a headache that wouldn’t go away. She’d thought it was the flu, or that maybe she was simply overworked, but it had intensified, until one day she had a seizure and awoke in the hospital. The rest was a blur of pain and disappointment.

After she’d been released from the hospital, Carolina had continued to live at home so that her doctors could monitor her condition on an outpatient basis. Void of energy and inspiration, she’d given up her art. She hadn’t picked up a sketch pad in over a year. She’d been sick and so very tired for so long. Who wanted to sketch hospitals and sick people?

But suddenly, on the
Butterfly
, she could feel a spark of creative yearning come to life again. The huge live oak trees with their branches curtsying to the ground, the cypress knees, the river, the birds. She knew there’d be birds when the rain stopped, for she’d heard them calling to one another. Yes, her fingers itched for a piece of charcoal and a sketch pad.

The weather had cleared while she’d slept. But clear weather was a mixed blessing. It meant she had to leave.

Bully was squawking loudly when she entered the empty galley. A pot of something that smelled wonderful was simmering on the gas stove. The sun was shining brightly, and the air smelled fresh and clean. Carolina stepped out on the deck and looked around. The setting sun cast pink and purple shadows across
the marsh as the huge orange ball slid out of sight behind the trees. As if on command, a white egret rose from the marsh and swept regally across the river to the other side, disappearing into the tall grass.

Yes, there was something peaceful about this place, something welcoming. She wished she didn’t have to go.

Then she saw him, at the back of the boat, squatting down as he studied something intently. His body, caught by the sun’s rays, glowed in a golden hue. He was so sleek and strong, with the graceful moves of some jungle savage. The sight of him brought an odd quiver to her body, and she caught her breath. The tendons in her knees weakened and her blood seemed to stop, refusing to move through her veins. If she hadn’t leaned against the galley, she would have swayed.

She must have made a sound, because suddenly he looked up. Their gazes met, and she felt that same powerful feeling arc between them.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I guess I’m not as strong as I look.”

“You don’t look very strong.”

“I know. I look dreadful.”

He decided she was wrong. She didn’t look dreadful. She looked ethereal, delicate. Even in the stiff little skirt and simple blouse, she seemed wrapped in a dreamlike quality that prickled his nerve endings.

She returned his stare for a moment, then said, “It’s stopped raining.”

“Yes. The water has already started to recede.”

“I’ll be able to leave tomorrow.”

“Perhaps, but not in your car.”

“Why?”

“You won’t be able to drive it out of the mire. It was too light to withstand the current and it got washed off the road. The same thing might have happened to my truck, if you hadn’t forced me to leave it so far back.”

Sean knew he probably could have hooked a rope to the car and pulled it back on the road with his truck. But the wet ground might not provide enough traction, and for some reason he was reluctant to try.

“There’s more bad news,” he went on.

“Oh?” She didn’t tell him, but the news that she probably couldn’t leave yet didn’t dismay her.

“You left your windows open. The flood swept right through the car and took your suitcase with it.”

“And probably my purse as well. I must have left it behind.” Carolina looked down at her skirt and blouse and frowned. “I suppose it could have been worse. At least I still have this suit.”

“I think I liked you better in my shirt.”

Sean hadn’t meant to say it, but it was true. The skirt made her a real person, not his private dream. Now there was an awkward moment of silence, of awareness, of confusion.

“So did I,” she said softly, then added more hurriedly, “What are you doing?”

“I’m preparing my bed for tonight.” He lifted the end of a heavy white corded object that looked like some giant crocheted doily. “It’s a hammock.”

“You’re going to sleep out here? Won’t the mosquitoes eat you alive?”

“Nope, I have a mosquito net.” He attached the hammock to the far mast and walked it forward to
hang it on a nail on the back wall of the galley. Next he took a fine, gauzy net and set it up. Suddenly the hammock was covered by a waterfall-like tent of webbing.