Lost Lady (6 page)

“When I was a boy,” he said, “I shipped out on a whaler for three years. Terrible experience, but at least there were some interesting stops, such as China, where I learned to do this.”

Wherever he'd learned it, she was grateful. His hands dug into her and sometimes even hurt her, but she soon found that when she relaxed the pain stopped. Fingers massaged along her spine, kneading out the soreness from crouching in the alleyway for hours. Cramps in her legs and calves relaxed, and when he started on her feet new areas of her body sank deeper into the soft mattress. It amazed her that even her arms could be tense, but Travis's hands loosened knots of tight muscle and made them limp.

Since Regan was too relaxed to move, he turned her over as if she were a heap of rags and began on her front. From the feet up, he rubbed, pummeled, stroked, gouged, caressed every pore of her body. When he reached her face, his thumbs gently touching the muscles in her cheeks, and around her nose, she was near senseless.

Feeling so relaxed, she wasn't aware of the sensuality of the massage, that the feel of Travis's strong hands, his eyes on her nude body, had awakened her passion. She felt like a big cat stretching in the sun, every muscle quiet, awaiting the adventures that lay ahead.

When Travis's hands returned to her thighs, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. A sweet, knowing smile curved her lips as she kept her eyes closed, preferring only to feel, to give her mind over to her senses. The change of pressure in Travis's hands, perhaps his own lust coming through his fingertips, was subtle, but she understood it.

“Yes, love,” he growled throatily, his breath extraordinarily deep.

He didn't use his lips or any other part of his body except his hands—those marvelous, big, hard hands that she'd seen used to toss grown men about as if they were weightless. Wide, callused fingers were artfully agile, deliciously provocative as they reexplored the skin they'd just touched.

Regan felt a deep hum inside her, some primitive piece of machinery beginning to work. Arching slightly, rhythmically, she gave herself over to him. “Please,” she whispered, her hands rising up his arms, fingers tracing the muscles. “Please.”

Travis lost no time in obeying her, as he was close to the breaking point. The sheer sensuality of their lovemaking and the beauty of her slim young body had fascinated him, and when he entered her it was slowly, very slowly, never once relinquishing the gentle, ethereal quality of their pleasure.

Regan had learned enough about lovemaking to know to prolong their movement, and she followed his lead as if they were two heavenly bodies joined in a union that would last through eternity. Yet she could not hold off long, and soon she began to breathe quicker and to dig her hands into Travis's flesh. Within seconds their gentleness turned into ferocity, their hunger equal, greedy, starving.

When at last their passion peaked, Regan cried out and felt tears coming to her eyes at the violence of her release.

For some minutes she lay still, afloat in a sea of nothingness, sated and happy, relaxed and deeply quiet.

Slowly, Travis rolled off her, propped his head on one elbow, and looked down at her. His brown eyes were dark, and she noticed the thickness of his short lashes.

Who is this man? she wondered. Who is this man who makes my body sing to some heavenly music? He didn't say a word, and she felt she was seeing him for the first time. He held her prisoner, yet he took care of her, acted as if he valued her, and even a few times seemed remorseful about enslaving her. What sort of man could be so gentle and so strong at the same time?

Studying him, she thought how little she knew of him. What thoughts went through his mind, who were the people he loved, and, yes, who loved him? She put her hand to the side of his face, running her fingertips along his cheek. Could this man, who seemed to think the world was his for the taking, ever be made to love? Could a mere woman ever make a slave of this man, hold his strong, pounding heart in her small hands?

She moved her hand to his bare chest, felt his heart under her palm, twined her fingers in the hair on his chest, and then on impulse gave it a sharp pull.

“Stop that, you little imp,” he growled, then kissed her fingers. “I'd think you'd be more grateful after the way I just made you squeal.”

“Grateful!” she gasped, but concealing a smile. “Since when does a slave thank her master?”

Travis refused to take the bait but merely grunted and gathered her to him. He seemed to give no thought to the fact that he twisted her body into an impossible position.

Regan started to protest that she could not possibly sleep entwined about him in such a way, but even as she formed the words they disappeared. Feeling rather like a vine twirled about the trunk of a great oak, her body relaxed, and she drifted into a deep sleep.

R
EGAN'S LANGUOROUS, CATLIKE MOOD DISAPPEARED ASTOUNDINGLY
quickly the next morning when Travis roughly pulled her out of bed and then dashed a handful of cold water in her face. Gasping for air, she finally managed to open her sleepy eyes just in time to see a towel flying at her.

“Get dressed,” Travis tossed over his shoulder as he jammed clothes, hers included, into the too-full trunk.

Seeing her torn velvet dress further mutilated as he wadded it into a tight little ball, Regan flung herself at him. “Stop that! I will not have you treat my beautiful dress like that,” she said, taking it from him and smoothing it lovingly.

Pulling back, Travis eyed her with interest. “It's torn anyway. What good is it except for a dust rag?”

“It can be patched,” she said, folding the dress carefully. “I'm very good at mending my own clothes, and, besides, the nap of the velvet will hide the repair work.”

“Since when have rich young English ladies had to patch their own clothes?”

She whirled on him. “I never said I was rich,” she smiled smugly.

“There must be money involved somewhere, or you wouldn't have been thrown out on your ear.” Eyes twinkling, he caressed her bare buttock. “Or should I say thrown out on your pretty little rear?” Before she could give him the scathing reply he deserved, he smacked her smartly. “Now get dressed before we end up back in bed and the ship leaves without us.”

Thoughtfully, she began to dress; then on impulse she turned back to him. “Do you think I really could tempt you to…to do something?”

Travis had no idea what she was talking about, but the sight of her, half-dressed, the silk making her eyes brilliantly blue, her skin still glowing from last night's lovemaking and his head still dazzled by it, he felt that she could persuade him to do anything. “Stop tempting me and get dressed. You'll have months on board ship to play the seductress, but for now there's work to do.”

Blushing because he'd misunderstood her, Regan concentrated on dressing. Perhaps, she thought dreamily, perhaps this American could be…. Glancing at Travis, tossing boots into the trunk on top of clean white shirts, she smiled. Maybe he could never be a gentleman, but he did have possibilities. Her eyes widened as he locked the trunk, bent, grabbed the leather handle, and rose with it hanging down his back.

“Ready?” he asked, seeming not to notice his enormous burden.

She nodded and preceded him out of the door.

Downstairs, a breakfast the size of which she'd never seen before was hot and waiting for them. “You've made me miss more meals than I ever have before in my life,” Travis informed her.

She coolly glanced up at his great height, then pointedly at the thickness of his chest. “Perhaps you could stand to miss a few meals.”

Travis laughed, but a few minutes later she saw him glancing at a mirror as if he were inspecting himself. His reaction made her smile, feeling a touch triumphant.

The food was delicious, and Regan was ravenous. She was pleased to see that Travis's table manners were quite good, perhaps without the delicacy of Farrell or another gentleman of his quality, but he would pass in decent society.

“Have I grown horns?” Travis asked, teasing.

Ignoring him, she looked back down at her food and wondered at her own lack of spirit. Perhaps it was yesterday's terrible experience on the docks and Travis's rescuing of her, but, truthfully, she was beginning to feel some excitement about the idea of going to America. People said that, since the people of America were free, you could get rich there. Maybe she could make her fortune in the primitive country and return to England—and Farrell—in triumph.

Travis's hand under her chin brought her out of her dream. “Were you leaving me again?” he asked quietly. “Or perhaps planning to murder me in my sleep?”

“Neither. I wouldn't waste my time.”

Chuckling, Travis stood, offered her his hand, and helped her up. “I think you're going to do quite well in America. We need more women with your spirit.”

“I thought you considered all American women the epitome of grace and courage.”

“There's always room for improvement,” he laughed, taking her arm. “Now, stay close to me and you'll be all right,” he said seriously, his eyes warning her.

She didn't need a second warning, and as soon as they left the inn she found herself clinging to Travis's arm. The fishy smell and the noises peculiar to the waterfront hit her hard, and for a moment she was transported back to the time when the men's hands had clawed at her.

Travis was watching her thoughtfully, aware of the fear in her eyes. He threw the heavy trunk onto the waiting wagon and told the driver which ship to take it to. When it was gone, he turned back to Regan. “There's only one way to lick a fear, and that is to face it straight on. If you fall off a horse, you have to get right back on immediately.”

Regan barely listened to this confusing bit of advice but instead moved even closer to Travis, her fingers digging into his arm. “Will the carriage be here soon?” she whispered.

“We're not getting a carriage,” Travis said heartily. “You and I are going to walk to the ship. By the time we get there, you won't be so afraid. I don't want you cowering every time we get near a wharf or you smell rotten fish.”

It took several moments for his words to reach her brain. Pulling away from him, she looked up in astonishment. “Is this some sort of American logic? I do not want to walk through this…this place. I demand you get me a carriage.”

“Demand, is it?” Travis smiled. “From what I've learned in life, people shouldn't make demands unless they can carry them through. Are you prepared to walk to the ship by yourself?”

“You wouldn't do that, would you?” she whispered.

“No, love,” he said quietly, grasping her hand. “I won't even leave you in this country alone, much less in this slimy place. Now, come on and smile at me. We'll walk to the ship, and you'll see how safe you are with me.”

In spite of her misgivings, Regan soon began to enjoy the walk. Travis pointed to buildings, warehouses, and taverns, and told her a humorous story about a fight he'd seen in one tavern. Before long, she was laughing and had stopped clutching so desperately at his arm. Several sailors lounged against a brick wall and made remarks about her that she couldn't quite hear but certainly understood the essence of. Calmly, Travis excused himself and went to say a few words to the men. Within seconds they doffed their caps and came to murmur good mornings to Regan and to wish her a pleasant trip.

Bewildered, then as pleased as a cat with cream, she looked up at Travis as she took his arm again.

His eyes bright, he bent and kissed her nose. “Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and we'll never make it to the ship. We'll have to stop at one of these inns.”

She looked away from him, but her shoulders went back, her chin up, and she walked as if her feet could hardly touch the ground. And best of all, her fear left her. Her fingertips never left Travis's arm, but now she knew that even this slight touch was enough to keep her safe. Perhaps it wasn't so bad being with this great American and having these men, as low as they were, nodding their heads respectfully at her.

Sooner than she wanted to be, they were at the ship, and Regan was awed by the size of it. Weston Manor could have been set on the open deck.

“How do you feel?” Travis asked. “Not scared, are you?”

“No,” she answered honestly, taking a deep breath of the cleansing sea air.

“I didn't think you would be,” Travis said proudly as he led her up the gangplank.

She didn't have a chance to see much before he pulled her toward the pointed front end of the ship. There were tangles of rope as big around as her leg, and overhead was a spider web of cables. “Rigging,” Travis murmured as he maneuvered her between sailors and boxes of supplies.

Quickly, he pulled her down narrow, steep stairs and into a little cabin that was neat and tidy. The walls were raised, arched panels, painted in two shades of blue. Against one wall was a large bed, a table was anchored to the middle of the floor, and two chests were on the opposite wall. A skylight and a window gave the room ample light.

“Nothing to say?” Travis asked quietly.

She was surprised at the almost wistful quality in his voice. “It's very pretty,” she smiled, sitting down on the seat in front of the window. “Is your room as nice?”

Travis grinned. “I'd say it's exactly as pretty as this one. Now, I want you to stay here while I see to the loading of my supplies.” Pausing at the door, he turned back. “And I'll go through the passengers and find that seamstress I hired and send her to you. You might want to look through those trunks and decide what you want to make first.” His eyes twinkled. “And I told her to forget the nightgowns, that I had my own way of keeping you warm.”

With that he was gone, and Regan was left to gape in puzzlement at the closed door. Passengers! He'd told the passengers she was to be sleeping with him? Were these passengers American friends of his, people she hoped would someday respect her?

Before she could even contemplate the horror of this new situation, the door opened, and a tall, thin woman entered.

“I knocked, but no one answered,” she said, eyeing Regan with interest. “If you'd rather, I could come back later. It's just that Travis said there was so much sewing to do, it would take the whole voyage. There's another woman on the boat—oh, no, Travis said it was a ship. Anyway, I think I can get her to help out. I don't know if she can do fancy work or not, but she can probably at least do the straight seams.”

The woman was quiet for a moment as she seemed to be contemplating Regan. “Are you all right, Mrs. Stanford? Are you getting seasick, or maybe you're homesick already?”

“What?” Regan asked blankly. “What did you call me?”

The woman laughed as she moved to sit by Regan. She had lovely eyes, a full, pretty mouth, but in between was a sharp, long nose. “Neither you nor Travis seems used to being married yet. When I asked him if you'd been married long, he looked at me like he didn't think I was talkin' to him. That's a man for you! It takes them ten years before they admit they've given up their freedom.” Glancing about the room, she didn't stop talking. “But if you ask me, marriage was made for men; they just get another slave when they get a wife. Now!” she said abruptly. “Where are your new clothes? I reckon we'd best get started.”

There were about a hundred thoughts whirling together in Regan's head, all of them confusing. In the turmoil of the last few days she'd completely forgotten about the clothes.

The woman patted Regan's hand sympathetically. “I guess with you being a new bride with a husband like Travis and all, and going to a new country, it's just too much for you. Maybe I should come back later.”

New bride, Regan thought. She was a bride in a way. At least it was pleasant to imagine that she was a bride rather than facing up to the reality of the situation.

The woman was already at the door before Regan recovered herself. “Wait! Don't leave. I don't know where the clothes are. No, Travis said they were in the trunks.”

Grinning broadly, the woman held out her hand. “I'm Sarah Trumbull, and I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Stanford.”

“Oh yes!” Regan sighed, liking this woman very much in spite of her extraordinary manipulation of the English language.

Sarah was on her knees in seconds as she threw open the lid to the first trunk. Perhaps the best indication of her admiration was her complete silence as she gazed down at the riot of colors and soft, silken, finely woven fabrics. “These must have set Travis back a bit of gold,” she finally managed to whisper.

A sharp wave of guilt passed over Regan as she remembered how she'd purposely chosen many more clothes than she needed just to embarrass Travis when he found he could not pay the bill. Yet, obviously, he had paid the bill, and she wondered how much it had cost him—mortgages perhaps, selling what he owned?

“You're looking a little green again. Are you sure the ship's rolling isn't bothering you?”

“No, I'm all right.”

“Good,” Sarah said, looking back at the trunk. “Travis wasn't exaggerating when he said this was going to take months. You think that other trunk is as full as this one?”

Swallowing hard, Regan glanced at the closed lid. “I'm afraid so.”

“Afraid!” Sarah laughed, pulling a leather portfolio from the trunk. “Look at this!” she said, emptying it onto her lap. Several pieces of heavy paper fell out, and on each one were four delicate watercolors of women's gowns. “These the dresses you picked out?”

Taking them, Regan smiled. They were beautiful dresses, and the sketches themselves were works of art. As Sarah and Regan began exploring, they found that each dress and coat had been carefully cut, and the trims for the particular garments were wrapped inside.

“It looks like I have my work cut out for me,” Sarah said, then laughed at her own pun. Gathering drawings and fabrics, she said she'd like to get started, and as abruptly as she had appeared she left the cabin.