Sea of Christmas Miracles (2 page)

Thomas trudged along, hands tied behind him
and came to the conclusion that Louise had nothing to do with this.
Not because his captor denied knowledge of Thomas’s former
mistress, but because this wasn’t Louise’s style. If one was to
believe her words to him when he ended their relationship—offering
a very generous settlement—she would sooner gouge his eyes out as
look at him. If she were pointing a gun his way, the target would
be several inches lower than his back. Thomas shuddered just
thinking about it.

She’d said more, of course. Accusing him of
being callous. Of loving no one. That wasn’t true. He loved his
mother, and his father, his sister Merry. Hell, he even loved the
passel of nieces and nephews Merry and her husband, Andrew, added
to almost every year.

But he didn’t love Louise, and never
pretended to. She’d been his mistress for six months, until the
passion waned. Actually the liaison lasted longer than the passion,
but by last month it was obvious even habit wasn’t enough to keep
him visiting the house he’d bought her on Calhoun Street.

In an angry fit she insisted upon knowing who
her replacement was, spouting off the names of several Charleston
beauties. Thomas denied taking anyone new as his lover... that’s
when she called him a liar and threatened revenge on that part of
his anatomy she’d always professed to adore. But the fact was, he
hadn’t lied to her. There was no one else then, nor in the month
since. Thomas told himself there hadn’t been time to establish
another entanglement. But he wondered if the truth didn’t go deeper
than that.

Five mistresses in the past two years. They
were all beautiful, voluptuous women eager to do anything at all
for him. And he’d been bored silly by each and every one. If it
hadn’t been for his need for sexual release—

God, what in the hell was thinking about
that
for?

“Down that way.”

They’d come to the river, the scent of pluff
mud thick in the air. Not surprisingly instead of heading toward
the docks, his captor steered him right toward the marsh and mud
flats. His shoes squished into the soft soil with every step,
slowing his movements. Which meant the man with the gun had the
same problem.

Thomas wasn’t certain what made him decide
that enough was enough. But he was tired of trying to figure out
why he was being held captive. Tired of being a captive. Tired
period.

The lonesome call of an owl served as his
signal. Thomas twisted about, his shoulder lowered to ram into his
kidnapper. He heard a muffled cry.

The slippery ground saved her. Margaret’s
feet slid out from under her, sending her sprawling on her back in
the mud, just as she noticed Thomas Blackstone turn on her. The
bone jarring thrust of his shoulder only glanced her. That turned
out to be little comfort, as she tried to scurry to her feet. But
Thomas was quick. Before she could even pull her arm from the
sucking mud, and aim the gun, he threw himself atop her.

Air whooshed from her lungs.

Margaret wriggled and squirmed, writhing in
the gooshy marsh mud. He pinned her arm, rolling onto it and
pushing it further into the muck. His body was like a vise, and she
couldn’t get loose. But in the darkness, he didn’t see that he’d
pinned the wrong arm. The revolver had grown so heavy she’d
switched it to her left hand moments before she fell. Margaret shut
her eyes.

With all her strength she heaved her free arm
from the mud and slammed the revolver into the side of Thomas
Blackstone’s head.

His dead weight buried her deeper in the
mud.

Margaret lay beneath him a moment, garnering
her strength, before trying to roll him off. When she finally
managed, he lay sprawled on his back in the slime. Margaret pushed
to her knees, and leaned over him, her breath coming in shallow
gasps. His silk shirt was dirty and torn. Her hands shook as she
yanked off heavy gloves and slipped her hand beneath the fabric.
Her fingers tangled in a thatch of curling hair as she searched for
his heartbeat.

Relief washed through her and she let out a
shattered breath when she felt the steady rhythm. Thank God she
hadn’t killed him. But her joy was short-lived. He was unconscious.
And though that certainly lessened the chances of his attacking her
again, how was she supposed to get him across the mud flats and
into the boat?

After nearly an hour of trying to drag,
shove, and prod him through the muck, cursing his size over and
over, she gave up. She wiped away the blood on his forehead,
stuffed her hat over the wound and untied his hands. The Negro she
found near the docks ten minutes later didn’t question her story
about getting her drunken husband home. She wrung her hands,
mentioned waiting little ones and lamented that he had passed out
so close to their boat.

“Strong drink never did nobody no good,” he
said as he heaved Thomas over his shoulder.

The man seemed embarrassed by the coin that
Margaret offered, but she pressed it to his palm and hurriedly
climbed into the shallop.

She retied Blackstone’s hands, this time in
front. After wrapping the cord around his feet she tied the excess
to the oarlocks. Confident that he couldn’t escape even when he
regained his senses, Margaret took back her hat, cleaned him up as
best she could, then covered him with a wool blanket. She unwrapped
the scarves and coveralls she wore for disguise, and bundled into
the coat she left on the boat earlier. The night was growing colder
with a northeasterly wind that caught the sail as soon as she
unfurled it.

Margaret let out a sigh of relief as the
shallop sailed down the Ashley River toward the open sea.

His head hurt like hell.

Thomas slitted open his eyes, grimacing with
the pain that small movement caused and quickly shut them again.
The cry of a gull overhead and the clean salt air reminded him of
the time he and Natee had camped out near Morgan Creek. The memory
brought a smile to his lips, despite the throbbing ache in his
head. Those had been the days, when he sailed the creek and fished
and hunted with the ancient Indian. He’d been happy and free.

Free.

Thomas’s arms twitched and were immediately
caught by the ropes that bound him. His eyes shot open, pain
exploded on the side of his head and he stared straight ahead. He
could tell it was morning, though the clouds were dark and billowy.
But there was enough light to make out the other occupant of the
boat. “Who in the hell are you?”

The woman turned from her study of the sky,
and stared at him from beneath a battered felt hat. Her lips
thinned slightly. “You’re awake,” she said in a voice that sounded
oddly familiar. She also sounded annoyed.
She
sounded
annoyed.

“Hell, yes, I’m awake.” Thomas tried to
straighten his back as memories of the previous night flooded back.
The ropes stopped him. “Untie me!”

For a moment she looked as if she was
considering his demand, but then only shook her head. A tangle of
curly brown hair spilled from beneath the wide-brimmed hat. She
absently tucked it back. “I think not,” she finally answered.
“You’re too angry. And I’m tired of holding the gun.” She glanced
down to where a revolver rested on the wooden seat beside her.

Thomas’s gaze followed, then shot back to
meet hers. “Holding the gun!” Color drained from his face as
realization set in. “
You’re
the one who came to my office
last night?” Thomas didn’t need her clipped acknowledgment to
confirm it. “I was captured and trussed like a Christmas goose by a
woman.” And a little slip of a woman at that.

“You find that difficult to accept?” Margaret
lifted her chin and stared down at him.

“Frankly, yes.”

“Well, women can do many things, Mister
Blackstone. You’ve no idea what we’re capable of.”

“Oh, I think I do.” His eyes narrowed, as
Thomas decided to dwell on his indignation rather than the
uncomfortable sting of embarrassment. “Who are you?” He didn’t
think he’d ever seen her before, though he could be wrong. He
couldn’t see her face very well. The hat was pulled low and the
light was dim. But she seemed rather ordinary looking except for
the spectacles perched on her nose.

“I’m Margaret Howe Lewis,” she answered in
that low voice that he would have found sensual had the
circumstances been different... a lot different. “You needn’t act
as if you don’t recognize the name,” she continued, anger coloring
her tone. “Even
you
should be able to remember something if
you’ve seen it often enough.”

What did she mean, even he? He’d never heard
the name, of that he was certain. And Thomas prided himself on his
excellent memory and quick mind. They were important assets in his
business. If he’d heard of her, he’d remember. Thomas considered
telling her so, then decided against it. Why should he care what
Margaret Howe Lewis thought of him? Except that she had him bound
hand and foot, and captive on a boat, heading God knows where.

“My letters,” she said by way of a reminder,
turning her back to him when his expression still registered
bewilderment. Feigned bewilderment, she told herself. She had sent
him more than a dozen letters trying to make him understand the
error of his decision. He’d answered none of them.

“I demand you untie me!” Thomas resisted a
strong urge to yank at the ropes... a gesture he knew was futile.
But his hands and feet were numb beneath the blanket; the small
boat was bobbing around, tossed by the wind-whipped waves; and he
was getting damn tired of this. Wilson would be wondering where he
was, and at ten o’clock this morning, he was to call on Sander
Rhett at his town house on Meeting Street. Ostensibly a holiday
visit, Thomas planned to stay until he had Rhett’s financial
backing for a textile mill he planned to build on Morgan Creek.

But he’d never make his call, even if she let
him go this minute.

Because the moment she loosened the cords he
planned to wrap his hands around her neck. He stared at the object
of his itchy fingers as she slowly turned back to face him. Peeking
out of a dark, severely cut coat he could see a high lace collar,
starched and stiff looking despite the streaks of dried mud that
blemished the pristine white. Above that her neck appeared slender
and pale, vulnerable. Thomas ruthlessly shoved that notion from his
mind.
He
was the one who was vulnerable.

She waited until his eyes met hers—though he
couldn’t quite distinguish what hers looked like behind the
wire-frame spectacles. Then she stared at him down the short length
of her straight nose. “You are just as arrogant as I expected you’d
be,” she said as if she were the wronged party.

“Lady, you have a hell of a lot of nerve
doing this to me. When I get back to Charleston,” Thomas stopped in
midsentence. It was obvious she wasn’t listening. After calling him
arrogant she moved to the far end of the boat and was now deftly
trimming the sail. While he worked himself into a lather yelling
his head off, twisting at his binding and generally making his head
hurt worse, she coolly ignored him. With a grunt of disgust, Thomas
settled back against the stern.

They were sailing south, hugging the
shoreline. It may have been a long time since he’d captained a
boat, even a small one like this, but he knew that much. He also
knew that she was doing a pretty good job with the sails, despite
the inclement weather that seemed to worsen as the morning wore on.
Thomas took a deep breath and tried to come to grips with what had
happened to him.

This woman—who he did not know—had taken him
at gunpoint and was now sailing down the South Carolina coast. She
thought he was arrogant, mentioned letters, and had him tied so he
could barely move. Not much to make sense of there.

Thomas shook his head and tried again.
Whatever she’d hit him with... the gun he assumed... was making his
thinking fuzzy. Maybe he did know her. Could he have spent the
night with her and not remembered? Perhaps she considered herself
spurned by him. Thomas studied the lithe body, at least as much as
he could see of it beneath the shrouding coat. She was slender, he
could tell that, small breasted and hipped. Not the type of woman
he usually chose, even for a single encounter. And he certainly
never made love to a woman who wore spectacles. Any woman he knew
would be too vain to be caught dead wearing the unbecoming things.
Perhaps she didn’t usually wear them.

“Maggie,” Thomas called out, and had the
satisfaction of noticing her head jerk around, her lips purse. She
obviously didn’t like him calling her that. “Do you always wear
those spectacles?”

“Only when I wish to see,” she said, lifting
her head elegantly before turning back to fight with the sail.

Thomas stifled a smile. Smart-mouthed woman.
He could only see her now in profile. Her short nose, the stubborn
chin. He wished he could drag off the hat and spectacles for a
better look.