If I Wait For You (32 page)

He lay her upon his bed, one knee
pressed into the soft feather mattress, one leg still on the
carpet, his lips moving from her mouth to her neck, and lower,
until his progress was hampered by the delicate material of her
gown. His hand found one full breast, the nipple already hardened,
and he let out a sound of male satisfaction right before he pulled
the nub into his mouth. Sara arched against him and he thought he
would die right then if someone were to drag him away from
her.

“
I want this off,” he
muttered, staring at the lovely gown dark and dampened at her
breast by his ardent kisses.

Sara’s hands moved to her hips where
she gathered up the material in bunches, revealing calve, thigh,
and then the center of her womanhood, that curling golden hair
capturing West’s heated gaze. His breath became even more labored
as he watched the progress of the gown as it slipped and slithered
over her softly pale skin. She lifted her hips and pulled it even
higher. Her gentle rounded stomach, her fascinating navel, the
gentle curve of her ribcage revealed. And then the lush fullness of
her breasts, the material catching slightly on her hardened
nipples.

Sara watched as West’s eyes burned
brighter and hotter the higher she pulled her gown. She reveled in
her female power, and momentarily toyed with the idea of pushing
the gown back down. But his hand was suddenly between her legs,
pressing, an intimate touch that left her breathless.

“
Do you remember Hilo?” he
asked, his voice rough, low.

Sara swallowed, feeling warmth and
liquid between her legs at the mere mention of the passion they’d
shared. “Yes.”

His gaze, pinned on where his hand
pressed so enticingly, flew to her face, and something like a smile
moved his lips. He opened his robe, revealing his gloriously naked
body, hard and muscled, and so utterly male that Sara squirmed
beneath his hand. She knew what he intended, and though excited by
it, was slightly confused. Hovering over her, West captured her
mouth, deepening the kiss when she let out a little moan. Then he
moved to her breasts, loving them with his mouth, before he began
kissing a path lower and lower. Sara frowned and West sensed that
somewhere along his trail of kisses, he had lost his wife. He
looked up, a question in his eyes.

“
Can’t we…” Sara started,
blushing from her neck to the roots of her hair. “Now that we’re
married, I mean, don’t we do...you know.”

West’s only answer was to smile and
nod, and then to kiss her where he intended, low and hot, moving
his tongue against her in a carnal dance. Never could she imagine
allowing such a thing, but with West everything was good, more than
good. Her legs fell open further, her hand rested atop his head,
pressing. Her hips moved as her release came closer, as he moved
his tongue against that nub that always brought her such pleasure.
He kissed her until she was wild with wanting, until she wanted to
beg him to never stop. He didn’t stop, not until she saw stars that
she was too enraptured by to even think of wishing upon them.
Before she had the strength to lift her head and offer him a kiss,
West, his muscles quivering beneath her languid hands, moved
between her legs, his arousal pressing intimately against the place
that still throbbed.

“
I love you,” he whispered.
“Love you, love you.” And then he entered her slowly, his face hard
and beautiful. Sara stopped breathing, wanting to remember this
moment when she’d truly become his wife and he her husband. She
moved beneath him, thinking to help, but he let out a grunt of
protest.

“
Let me, Sara. I don’t want
to hurt you.”

“
You’re not---oh!” It did
hurt, a bit. Sharp pain turning to a burning as he pushed through
her maidenhead. His entire body was bathed in sweat, his muscles
quivering like a race horse after a long run.

He stayed that way a long time, inside
her, not moving, until he finally lifted his head and kissed her,
making her almost forget that part of him was inside her. She
relaxed beneath him, once again feeling that delicious warmth his
kisses always gave her begin to grow. Then he began to move, and
Sara opened her eyes at the wonder of the feeling, the intimacy of
having a man moving inside her.

“
Oh,” she said.

He stopped. “Am I hurting
you?”

“
No. Oh, no, West.” She
brought his head down for a long kiss, thrusting her tongue into
his mouth, raising her hips so that she might feel more and more
and more. He let out a strangled sound, then began moving again,
deeper, harder, faster, until Sara’s mind was gone again, until all
she could feel was a wonderful friction, a growing heat. She arched
against him, calling out his name over and over, mindless of
everything but the glorious thing they were sharing.

When she began to pulse once again, he
stiffened, letting out a moan of pure male satisfaction, before
collapsing in a jellied heap upon her.

Moments later, West pulled back, his
face stricken. “My God, Sara, love, I’m sorry. Are you all
right?”

“
I believe I have never
been more right in my entire life,” she said.

He smiled and kissed her lightly.
“Beautiful, beautiful Sara,” he said on a sigh, nuzzling his lips
against her neck. “It was worth the wait, wasn’t it,
love?”

“
I’d wait forever for you,”
she said sleepily. “But now I don’t have to. Now you’re
mine.”

“
So possessive,” he
growled, but he was smiling.

“
You were always mine,” she
said, yawning. “You just didn’t know it.”

“
Captured me, did
you?”

“
Like a big ‘ol
whale.”

“
Harpooned my heart,” he
said musingly.

“
Mmm.” And she was asleep,
curled up and content, safe in her husband’s arms.

Chapter EIGHTEEN

The letter from Nathan Wright arrived
on the day Sara and West returned from their honeymoon trip to New
York City. It sat in a pile of other correspondence on Gardner’s
desk for three days before he handed it—or rather threw it
unceremoniously—at Zachary.

“
Letter for you, Dawes,” he
spat, before turning away and heading back to the
aftercabin.

Zachary made an ugly face at the
departing back of his surly young captain before bending down to
retrieve the missive. He opened the packet and turned immediately
to the last page to see who the letter was from and frowned when he
didn’t recognize the name. Herbert Wharton. And then a name leapt
from the page, making his heart go cold—Nathan Wright, his parents’
possible murderer.

Zachary raised the flame on his oil
lamp and sat upon his bunk, almost afraid of what he would read.
The further he read, the deeper his frown grew until he reached
nearly the end of Nathan’s confession. “Judge Reynolds ordered the
killings. I know not why.”

Judge
Reynolds
? Zachary shook his head in
disbelief. Why would one of the most respected and richest men in
New Bedford order the killings of a Vermont farm boy and his
parents? It was preposterous, completely unbelievable, and Zachary
felt a stab of deep disappointment that this was the best he could
expect from Nathan Wright. Though he’d been away from home for
years, certainly he would have known if his parents had some
dealings with a man as prestigious a Judge Reynolds. The old man
was so far removed from the Dawes’ social stratus that Zachary knew
it was unthinkable his parents had known the judge in any kind of
social way. Disappointment and confusion filled him.

But then, why would Nathan Wright pen
such a confession on his deathbed unless it was true? It made no
sense. Zachary pulled his pocket watch from his shelf. Seven
o’clock. Certainly it was not too late to visit the judge. Donning
his best suit and slicking back his hair, Zachary tucked the letter
into his jacket and was about to leave before he stopped cold. If
the judge had indeed ordered the killings—as unlikely that was—the
confession needed to be in a safer place. He put it in his sea
chest inside one of his boots.

Feeling foolish, but driven by
curiosity, Zachary made his way up to The Hill, his mind whirling
with questions. When he reached the lanes lined with gracious
houses, he felt even more foolish for going to see the judge. The
man would throw him out on his ear—and with justification. He’d
never even met Judge Reynolds, having seen him close up only at
Sara’s wedding. He had a stately presence and exuded power and
success. Zachary’s hands grew clammy at the thought of accusing the
judge of murder. Ridiculous as it seemed, Nathan’s letter seemed
genuine. Perhaps he had truly thought the judge somehow involved.
Perhaps, Zachary thought with a bit of relief, Nathan had a grudge
against the judge and his final dying wish had been revenge. That
made more sense than any other explanation. Certainly it did not
seem possible Judge Reynolds would have involved himself in
something as ugly and immoral as murder.

Zachary let himself through the
wrought iron gate that separated the judge’s property from the
street, his feeling of unease growing with every step. Flexing his
fist, he grasped the heavy brass door knocker and let it fall with
a resounding bang, wincing at loudness of it in the still evening
air. To Zachary’s surprise, the judge himself opened the door. His
shock grew when a wide smile appeared on the old man’s
face.

“
Mr. Dawes, is it not?
Sara’s brother. Come in. Come in.”

Zachary stood uncertainly on the
stoop, suddenly reluctant to enter the house. The judge stepped
back, all congeniality and politeness, and Zachary stepped through
the threshold shaking off his feeling of unease. He thrust out his
hand, feeling awkward and gauche.

“
Judge Reynolds. I’m
pleased to meet you.”

The judge grasped his extended hand
with both of his, clutching them firmly for a long moment, his eyes
bright with happiness.

“
Come in, my boy,” he said.
Odd man, he couldn’t help but think, welcoming a virtual stranger
into his home as if he were a long-lost friend.

“
Why don’t we step into my
study and visit.” The words seemed fraught with some deeper meaning
Zachary couldn’t begin to understand. He was here to confront the
judge with Nathan Wright’s confession and damned if the old man
wasn’t making his distasteful business even more unsavory. If he’d
been stand-offish or belligerent, it would have been a far simpler
matter to tell him his business.

“
Brandy?”

Zachary nodded, oddly flattered the
judge was treating him like an equal. He forced his mind back to
the business at hand as he watched the judge make his way over to a
side table near the fireplace. Zachary looked about the room, noted
the rich furnishings, and tried to stop himself from being awed by
all that he saw. He knew a single candleholder in this room was
worth more than all his worldly possessions. The hiss of a lamp
drew his attention back to where the judge was standing by the side
table. He was raising the flame high, making his face appear oddly
gruesome, half shadowed, half lit by the brilliant light. With
little interest, Zachary noticed a painting above the
mantle.

His heart slammed, suddenly and
painfully, against his chest as he looked at his own face in the
portrait. “Sir,” he choked out. “That is an interesting portrait.”
Zachary somehow knew he had to keep a grip on emotions that were
raging through his blood as his mind raced for a rational reason
for his portrait to be hanging in the judge’s study. And when the
answer came, brutal and stunning, it took all his resolve to
remain—at least outwardly—calm in front of the judge. The
confession tucked into his sea chest had taken on a larger, and
more ominous, importance. He had the connection—the deadly
connection between the judge and his parents.

“
You knew my mother,”
Zachary said, resisting the urge to flee.

The judge smiled at him. “Oh, yes,
yes. Quite well, as you can see,” he said, looking up at the
portrait. “She wouldn’t allow me to see you, of course.”

“
No. She never told me who
my father was. Sir, this is all very distressing.” It was more than
that. This man had killed his parents, killed the man he’d loved as
a father, killed his mother. He’d nearly killed Sara.

“
Distressing? My boy, I
assure you it’s nothing of the sort,” he said jovially. “I’ve
wanted to make your acquaintance for years.” He looked at Zachary’s
untouched drink. “You’re not drinking, son.”

Heat engulfed Zachary. “Do not call me
that you murdering son of a bitch.” Even as he said the words, he
knew he was being foolish. Now that he knew, beyond a doubt, that
the judge had murdered his parents, he realized he should have left
this house and gone straight to the police with Nathan Wright’s
confession. But he was standing in the presence of the man who’d
cold-bloodedly killed his parents and the rage he felt could not be
contained.

The judge looked taken aback. “Such
harsh words,” Judge Reynolds said thoughtfully, taking a sip. “Just
what is it that brings you here, in my home, to say such a thing to
your father?”

Zachary’s distaste for this man grew.
“I have Nathan Wright’s confession in which he named you as the man
who ordered the killings.”