Heart of the Storm by Mary Burton Read Free Book Online Page B

enveloped her. For an instant, time stopped. She was aware only of him…and the beating of her heart. “No, I don’t believe you are.”
    Rachel imagined that this was what a lover’s touch must feel like. Tender. Soft. Gentle.
    This man, she realized, was doubly dangerous.
    Not only did questions lurk behind his gray eyes, but he had her dreaming of kindness and lover’s touches—things she’d given up on soon after she’d married a monster. If only she’d never met Peter.
    She met Ben’s direct gaze. “Don’t worry about me. I will be fine.”
    His eyes narrowed a fraction. Once again he was trying to peer into her soul.
    Finally he withdrew. “If you’re not wanted by the law, I guess that means you’re a runaway. The question now is, who are you running from?”
    Her skin itched with fear. “Stay out of my business, Mr. Mitchell.”
    Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. “I wish that I could.” He rose and left the room.
     
    Ben couldn’t put Rachel out of his mind.
    He spent the better part of the next half hour brewing Yaupon tea for her.
    Rachel Davis had secrets.
    He’d be wise to leave her to her demons. She wasn’t his problem or his concern. And his days of taking on other people’s battles were over.
    Still, he’d been glad when the kettle had hissed and the dried leaves had turned the water to tea. Returning to her room with the tea was an excuse to see her. And he liked being close to her.
    He carried the tin cup filled with tea to her room. The brew would help her fever and it would also give him another chance to talk to her.
    However, to his disappointment, she’d fallen asleep. She lay curled on her side, her small hands fisted in front of her as if she would wake up fighting if he startled her awake.
    Trouble. She was trouble.
    He set the mug of tea down on chest beside the bed.
    His gaze trailed over her full breasts, past the gentle curve of her hip and down her slender legs.
    Aye, she had a siren’s body.
    But she was more than that. Intelligence lingered behind her blue eyes. And she possessed strength. It had taken guts to board a vessel like the Anna St. Claire and courage not to crumble when the freighter had started to sink.
    Rachel mumbled something in her sleep androlled away from him. He saw her bruise. A fist had made that bruise. And the marks on her arms were clearly finger imprints.
    Annoyed, he turned and walked to his dresser. From the second drawer, he pulled out a clean cable-knit sweater. The one from last night was still damp and smelled of seaweed.
    He tugged the sweater over his head. Like everything else he owned, the black garment was practical—anything that wasn’t functional had no place in his life.
    As he smoothed the sweater over his flat belly, Rachel started to speak.
    “I know what I need to do,” she said.
    “I’ve tea,” he said, annoyed that his veins sang with anticipation.
    “I know.”
    Adjusting the sleeves around his wrists, he turned. She still lay curled on her side, facing him. Her eyes were closed. She was talking in her sleep.
    Her feet pushed and kicked under the sheet and blankets. Her face was knotted in a frown.
    “Peter, no!” she wailed.
    Ben moved to the bed and sat on the edge. He laid his hand on her shoulder. She started, as if defending herself. She swung her fist wildly, catching him squarely in the chest.
    Recoiling, he inhaled a breath, biting back the jolt of pain and an oath. For a tiny woman, she packed one hell of a punch.
    She was having a nightmare. “Rachel, wake up.”
    This time he grabbed her wrists. He noted she felt hotter than before, yet she still fought harder, kicking her legs like a hellcat.
    Ben could feel her pulse in her wrist pounding furiously against his fingertips.
    This was the kind of strength borne of fear.
    “Rachel. It’s all right. It’s Ben. Peter isn’t here.”
    Her thrashing slowed.
    “Peter is not here,” he repeated. “You are safe. Peter is gone.”
    She whimpered