Sea of Christmas Miracles (3 page)

He also wished he were back in Charleston,
tying down the deal with Rhett. The boat flopped into a wave trough
and sea water sprayed up over him. God, while he was making wishes,
maybe he should ask for the wind to die down. But Thomas didn’t
think that was any more likely to happen than any of the others. By
the looks of the sky and the feel of the air, they were in for a
major blow. And as competent as Miss Margaret Howe Lewis appeared
at dressing sails, she wasn’t going to be able to handle this boat
much longer.

The cut on his temple was bleeding again.
Margaret tried to ignore the crimson stain darkening the cloth
she’d wrapped around his head while he was unconscious. But she
couldn’t. Why had he jumped on her like that? She hadn’t meant to
hurt him. All she wanted to do was take him to the school. Surely
if he could see for himself... Margaret let that thought drift away
on the wind. She wasn’t at all certain that knowing firsthand about
the Freed Negros’ Orphanage and Boarding School would make a
difference to the man before her.

“What are you doing?” Thomas followed her
with his eyes as she approached. She’d tied off the sail and
clutched the sides of the boat. She had a no-nonsense way of moving
that he admired despite himself.

“I’m going to change your bandage. You’re
bleeding.” She barely hesitated before reaching out toward his
head, apparently convinced he was too securely bound to cause her
any trouble. Which to Thomas’s chagrin was true. He’d spent the
last half hour pretending to doze as he tried to work his hands
free.

“Is nursing another of your accomplishments,
Miss Lewis?” Her fingers were cool and efficient as she worked.
Only her expression indicated she was annoyed with him. Though she
had to stop frequently to brace herself against the rocking of the
boat, she stripped away the bloody bandage and dabbed gently at the
cut on the side of his head.

“You will be less likely to chide, Mister
Blackstone, when women are treated as your equal.”

“Oh!” Thomas’s laugh was loud and sharp. “We
have ourselves a radical here.”

“I prefer to consider myself a progressive
thinker. Besides, there is nothing radical about women’s suffrage.
Women have been voting in Wyoming for twenty-six years.” Margaret
bent forward and tore another strip of cloth from her petticoat,
oblivious to the way Thomas arched his neck to catch a glimpse of
her booted ankle. “I hope to see suffrage for us all in my
lifetime.”

Thomas straightened his head. “Then I
suggest, Maggie, that you give up your kidnapping career. It could
prove to shorten your life. Or is this some suffragette plot to rid
the world of men?” He really could rile her easily. Thomas found
himself almost enjoying the verbal sally.

“Hardly.” Margaret began to wrap the bandage
around his head. “My disagreement with you is personal.”

Thomas could smell that tart, citrus scent
from before and realized it was hers. He found himself taking a
deep breath.

“Does that hurt?”

Was that concern he read in her expression?
Thomas shook his head. “Why should you think that? An arrogant man
like me can’t feel pain.”

Her look was sharp, but Thomas thought he
noticed the corners of her full mouth twitch in amusement. “I never
implied...” She sighed, lifting her shoulders slightly. “It was not
my intent to hurt you.”

“I’d have an easier time believing that if
you’d untie me.”

“That’s not possible just yet.”

“But it will be at some time?”

He had a way of lifting his brow that made
Margaret feel as if her stomach dropped. She straightened her
shoulders. “Yes, I will...” She swallowed. “Release you.” Margaret
tried not to think about what he would do when that moment came. If
only she hadn’t had to knock him over the head. Maybe then he
wouldn’t be so angry. But she had. And Margaret was just going to
have to accept her punishment. Besides, he seemed a civilized man,
though at the moment he looked like the pirates that were supposed
to be his ancestors. The worst he could do to her was foreclose on
the orphanage. And he was going to do that even before she
kidnapped him.

Her proximity as she worked on his head gave
Thomas a chance to examine her closely. Her skin was clear and
smooth, except for the slight wrinkle between her curved brows as
she studied the cut. He could see her eyes more clearly. They were
a smoky gray that looked both serious and calm.

“Do you think I’ll live?” Thomas’s gaze met
hers. She pursed her lips and Thomas had the irrational urge to see
what that full mouth would look like if she smiled.

“I doubt this wound is mortal.” She hesitated
a moment, then took a deep breath which lifted her breasts. He
could see them outlined by the wind that pressed the coat against
her. With quick, efficient motions she tied off the bandage.

“I suppose hitting me over the head was just
part of the kidnapping.”

“Yes.” She raised her chin, leveling him a
look through her lenses. “You did attack me.”

“I apologize. My assumption was that any
attempt to gain my freedom was acceptable behavior.”

She only stared at him, her expression
cool.

“I imagine even old Jack Blackstone, the
bloodthirsty pirate, had to deal with such from his captives,”
Thomas said.

Margaret had heard the story of Thomas
Blackstone’s ancestor while she was in Charleston waiting to see
him. It had helped give her the idea to kidnap Thomas.

“Of course if family lore is correct he only
kidnapped his wife. My great, great grandfather did the same,”
Thomas continued. “Are you turning the tables and trying to kidnap
yourself a husband?”

Her eyes shot to his, her jaw dropping
slightly when she noticed his grin. “Certainly not.” With crisp
movements she straightened her skirt. She tried to sit on the seat
opposite him, but the crash of a wave against the boat sent her
plopping back. Thomas caught a glimpse of slender calves and ankles
before she jerked up, red-faced. The hat was gone, and a cascade of
chestnut brown curls fell from the small, twisted knot of hair atop
her head.

Thomas’s smile deepened.

Goodness. Margaret stared at her captive as
she tried to pull the bruised edges of her pride back into place.
She certainly could believe the blood of pirates ran through his
veins. His dark hair was tousled above the bandage she’d wrapped
about his head, his grin was wicked, and she wished he weren’t so
sinfully handsome. She almost expected to see a gold hoop glitter
in his ear. There was just one thing she wasn’t sure of. Did
pirates have dimples? Because Thomas Blackstone certainly did.

She never noticed them before. But then she
never saw his smile before. Remembering that his humor now was at
her expense, Margaret tried to ignore how he looked. She must think
of the children.

Margaret grabbed hold of the tiller, trying
to keep their course straight down the Carolina coast. “I don’t
think kidnapping is acceptable, you know,” she said when he
continued to stare at her. Margaret ignored his cocked brow. “It’s
not as if I didn’t try other means of getting in touch with you
first.”

“The letters.”

“Yes, the letters.” Margaret didn’t care for
his skeptical tone. “I sent more than a dozen over the past two
months and received
no
reply.”

Thomas shrugged. “Your name isn’t the least
familiar to me.” She gave a snort that he would have found
amusing—if he weren’t being kidnapped. He turned his mind toward
serious arguments against what she’d done. “Regardless there are
other ways of communicating with someone, Maggie.” Thomas couldn’t
explain why he continued calling her that, except that he enjoyed
needling her. “Ways that do not involve a gun or ropes.” Thomas
gave the cords binding his hands a frustrated tug.

Margaret straightened her shoulders, and
lifted her chin. “I tried other ways. Getting an appointment with
you was nigh impossible. A Mister Wilson refused to schedule me
before February.” She bundled her coat more tightly around her as
the wind licked at her hair.

“That would be the same Mister Wilson you
sent home last night.” His voice was more skeptical than
before.

“Yes, it is. Apparently, Mister Blackstone,
your secretary expects you to have your share of lady visitors.”
Her tone was disapproving. “He was only too happy to leave you
alone with me.”

“I see.” Thomas cocked his head to the side
and gave her a thorough examination, wondering what Wilson thought
when this particular woman entered his office. “Tell me, Maggie,”
he began, smiling slightly. “Were you wearing those spectacles when
you spoke with Wilson?”

Margaret looked away, concentrating on
keeping the small craft on course. She didn’t want to think about
using her questionable feminine wiles to bamboozle the secretary.
She liked to think herself above such things. But she
had
removed her glasses,
and
her coat before approaching Wilson.
It had seemed preferable to tying him up.

Margaret waited until the boat lifted out of
the watery trough it had splashed into before changing the subject.
“I also tried to speak with you on the street one day. But you
passed by so quickly there was no chance.” She lifted her hands as
if that settled that.

Which in Thomas’s mind it most certainly did
not. True he avoided those who tried to conduct business with him
on the sidewalk. Most of them were soliciting funds. And it
certainly wasn’t as if he didn’t give his share to charities. He
had Wilson make regular contributions to the Ladies Benevolent
Society and the Associated Charities Society of Charleston. He
certainly couldn’t be expected to get personally involved. He was
much too busy. Which led him to the next question.

“If you wished to see me so desperately, why
didn’t you simply wait until February? I’m sure we could have
conducted whatever business we might have then... in much more
civilized surroundings.”

“Because February is too late, Mister
Blackstone. After I accepted the fact that you didn’t have a heart,
I realized more drastic measures had to be taken.”

Didn’t have a heart? Hearing that irked the
hell out of him. But before Thomas could open his mouth to tell his
kidnapper exactly what he thought of her a wave crashed over the
bow. Cold water slapped at his face, thoroughly soaking his hair
and clothes.

The only consolation was that she appeared as
wet as he. She blinked at him over droplet-covered spectacles. “We
need to get to shore and find some shelter.”

“No!” Margaret held on to the tiller with all
her might. She wasn’t about to beach the boat in the middle of
nowhere and be stranded with him. Damn the storm anyway. “It’s just
a little farther.” If she could only stay on course for another two
hours she could sail up Morgan Creek. When she reached the school,
Grace could help her with Mr. Blackstone. Except Grace didn’t know
what she’d done, and despite the Negro woman’s undying devotion to
the orphanage, Margaret feared she might have a problem with
kidnapping.

But Margaret didn’t have time to think about
that now. The wind was getting worse, and her captor was becoming
more agitated as the waves dashed them about. “We won’t make it
much farther. Hell, it’s not like we’re staying on a straight
course, anyway.”

Margaret had to admit to herself she had very
little control over the shallop’s erratic motion. She bit her lip,
tasting the salt from the incessant spray of seawater, and tried to
decide what to do. Her plan had seemed so simple when she’d
conceived it. So simple and so necessary. Now...

“You’re going to get us killed.” Thomas had
done his share of defying weather when he was younger, and he’d
always found it risky business. After one hair-raising episode he
learned to trust his instincts when it came to the squalls that hit
the coast between Charleston and Royal Oak. And his instincts told
him it was past time to get to shore.

But damn it, he was tied, hand and foot, and
he had an uncomfortable feeling Margaret Howe Lewis
couldn’t
navigate the boat to shore.

“Untie me!” Thomas had to yell it twice
before she heard him over the roar of the wind. A cold, icy rain
had started, and was slanting into them like frozen needles.

“Noooo.” She let the word trail out as she
shook her head. What would he do to her if he were free?

“I’m a dead man if we capsize.”

Margaret stared at him, trying to calm her
breathing. Good Lord, he was right. And regardless of what he did
to her, she couldn’t risk killing him. He might be despicable. But
she couldn’t be responsible for his death. She wasn’t such a coward
as to let him die because she was afraid of what he might do to
her... at least she told herself she wasn’t. Besides, she would
have to contend with him sometime regardless. That is, if they
survived this storm at sea.