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  WRECKED

  By Deanna Wadsworth

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Wrecked

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Naughty Cupid

  The Naughty North Pole Series

  Welcome Home, Soldier

  Easy Ryder

  WRECKED

  © 2020 Deanna Wadsworth

  Edited by Desi Chapman

  Cover art by Katy Souders

  KatherineSouders.com

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment.

  Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  As always, to my soul mate.

  Introduction

  “Key West is a little village of hardy seamen undisturbedly reaping a rich harvest from the enormous losses of commerce on the Reefs.”

  —Gov. William P. Duval; 1st civilian governor of Florida, 1832

  “Wreck ashore!”

  Such a fabled warning did not issue from atop one of the four merchant lateen towers in Key West, nor did it echo across the islands, as romanticized stories have often told. Neither did a magnificent rush of fishing smacks and spongers begin sailing out from the harbor when a vessel wrecked along the two hundred miles of coral reef on the eastern coastline of the new American state, Florida. When word that a ship had met trouble eventually reached the mainland, men kept it quiet, whispered among merchants and ship captains wanting to stake their claim before their competitors.

  For in the Florida Keys, one man’s loss was the gain of another.

  With nearly one wreck a week, despite all the efforts to build lighthouses and update charts, the wreckers patrolled the Straits by sailing back and forth between wrecking stations. They were on the lookout for vessels caught on the coral or beached in the shallows so they could hire out their services. While some of the old Bahamians had earned their reputation as pirates, the American wreckers were licensed by the US Federal Courts, offering a much needed service to misguided seafarers. Although these brave seamen knew the dangers that lay beneath these waters all too well, wrecking was in their blood. Months could pass idly at sea while waiting to find work during a wrecking sloop’s watch. And when it did come, the seamen worked blue blazes, because if a wrecker didn’t salvage, he didn’t get paid.

  Yet more than merely salvaging valuable cargo, the heroic Florida wreckers had another, nobler reason to patrol the Straits.

  They saved lives....

  Chapter One

  “There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes his whole universe for a vast practical joke.”

  —Herman Melville; an American novelist, 1819-1891

  I am going to die.

  Choking on saltwater, Mathew Weston fought the violent heave of the sea, the constant waves thrashing him. He tried to stay near the surface, but the water was merciless in its assault, tumbling his body as if he were a mere toy in a rowdy child’s bath. Bile he’d been fighting since the storm hit rose in his throat, and though he looked everywhere, the waves were so tall and so fast that he couldn’t see the Lucky Clipper anymore.

  He couldn’t believe that this was how he would die.

  Falling overboard from the deck of his own ship.

  Every powerful wave, every raindrop on his face, felt larger and harder than the last. The more he fought, the more fruitless his endeavors became, for this was no calm English river. This was a violent enemy, intent on dragging him to his death.

  Another huge wave crashed over him—the weight and power more than his body could withstand—swallowing him and pulling him under.

  The storm disappeared, hushed by the sea engulfing him. The water was warmer than the air, and the wave ebbed, releasing its hold. As he reached out, trying to fight, he felt nothing but a great expanse of water.

  A fair swimmer, Mathew kicked to reach the surface, knowing it was his only chance for rescue—that is, if anyone had noticed him fall overboard in the chaos. The pressure against his head increased as he swam, making it almost impossible to move. His leg struck something sharp in his exertions, and his cry came out in an explosion of bubbles.

  Desperate for air, he fought the insane desire to open his mouth and suck in a breath as the pain in his lungs increased, burning and tight. The muffled sounds of waves crashing on the coral along with the distant shriek of wind seemed to be growing faint. He had to break the surface before it was too late.... Was the sound above or below him?

  Out of nowhere, something grabbed him, pulling him down.

  Shocked, Mathew fought wildly, but whatever had taken hold of him was powerful, tugging him into a watery grave.

  He opened his eyes, but only darkness and pain met him. The pressure of the water intensified, and he struggled to break free from his captor, wet bodies writhing and tangling against each other. A leg wrapped over Mathew’s flailing ones and, in that moment, he realized that the strong arms around him belonged to another man, not a creature of the deep. When he felt the soft bulge of groin pressed to his thigh, real terror seized him.

  Dear God, why is he trying to drown me?

  He screamed for the man to release him, that he was swimming the wrong way, but when he opened his mouth, his lungs instantly filled with water. The pain was more intense than the suffocation had been. Lashing out rebelliously, he struck the man with a fist.

  But the more he struggled, the harder his captor swam.

  Suddenly he was coughing, hacking up saltwater.

  The storm screamed overhead, and waves splashed against his face.

  “Come on,” a deep voice said in his ear. “Don’t give up on me now!”

  A violent shudder of relief went through him. The man had been trying to save him!

  His rescuer continued to whisper assurances, some of them lost under the gale of the storm, and it struck Mathew what a lovely voice the man possessed. Like liquid velvet, sultry and soothing. A bedroom voice if he ever heard one....

  Head spinning, he buried an insane urge to laugh.

  The man gripped Mathew’s chest, embracing him tight. Then legs kicked against his as his rescuer swam, hauling them through the rough sea.

  The storm had grown quieter, and men yelled, but it all seemed so far away now. Mathew felt weightless, like in a dream. Spent, he clung to his rescuer, clutching the solid body, a chest firm with muscle.

  A funny sensation stirred inside him at the feel of those manly arms holdi
ng him close.

  “Gimme a hand!”

  Lifted from the water, he was unceremoniously rolled over something hard, and then dropped onto a rough surface. He winced, rain pelting his skin and his head aching. Hands grabbed at him.

  Then someone slapped him.

  Angry, Mathew struggled to open his eyes, but they would not obey, too heavy to work. Hands cupped his face, and he tried to sit up, but the cramped quarters didn’t allow room to move.

  Then there were lips on his.

  Strong, confident lips prodding at his own and rousing something akin to desire within Mathew. Logic told him someone was breathing for him, but he couldn’t stop the joy of feeling a man’s mouth on his. Lips so full and soft. The scratch of stubble against his chin. Breaths that tasted like salt and something else. Ale? Sugar?

  Whatever it was, Mathew wanted more.

  In his fogged mind, he reached to touch the face of the man giving him life’s kiss. His tongue slipped out and met with something warm and wet....

  Then water gorged up in his throat.

  Mathew bolted upright, forgetting the sinful feel of those lips and their decadent flavor.

  Pushed onto his side, coughing seawater, he puked violently.

  Once empty, the sounds of the storm amplified and stabbed at his ears, sensitive after the blissful silence of the sea. His head spun, and someone caressed his back, whispering words of comfort and encouragement. It felt like heaven to have a man touch him like this. Soothe him so kindly after kissing him.

  Well, he hadn’t really been kissing Mathew.

  But the comfort of the man’s touch could not be denied. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced such succor... if ever.

  “It’s all right,” that lovely voice whispered. “Just breathe. You’ll be all right now.”

  Head still reeling, he turned toward the sound just as a bolt of lightning cracked through the sky. In that burst of light, Mathew saw his savior’s face and nothing else.

  The man was luminescent, almost unsubstantial. Angelic.

  He had to be seeing things. No man could look like that....

  Water dripped into Mathew’s eyes, and he blinked back the stinging sensation. His vision whirled in confusion, and the whole world slipped from his grasp.

  The last thing he remembered before everything went black were wide eyes that glowed gold, green, and blue in the shadows cast by the storm, and the whispered words, “My God, you’re real!”

  “Matty?”

  Head throbbing, Mathew pulled the blanket over his face, ignoring the insistent female voice at his ear. He’d just been allowed to sleep and longed to fall back into his dream so he could pinpoint the exact shade of his rescuer’s jeweled eyes when the lightning had illuminated him.

  Green? Brown? Blue?

  Like a wisp of smoke, the image slipped from his fingertips, dancing on the edge of his thoughts like the words the man whispered before Mathew passed out: My God, you’re real.

  A peculiar thing to say, for sure.

  Perhaps Mathew had imagined it, much like he imagined mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to be a kiss. Traumatic experiences could cause delusions.

  Ah, but in his dream, those delusions had been magnificent!

  His rescuer had carried him from the sea, strong arms holding him close, rocking him like a mother with a babe. Lifting him up, as if he weighed nothing, and placing him in a bed, then kissing him deep and slow. When that mouth had begun to move lower, down his neck and abdomen, toward his... oh God! His heart thudded and his erection throbbed for attention.

  A boney finger jabbed him in the back.

  “Oww!”

  “Are you awake?”

  With a groan, Mathew curled into a ball. His dream had been so vivid he’d awakened with a powerful erection he could do nothing about while surrounded by sailors and the survivors of the Lucky Clipper. They had been brought aboard a wrecking sloop during the storm, Mathew in his rescuer’s arms—that much he remembered, though the rest of the night had been a fog. The storm had stopped, but the sea still felt rough, the persistent rock and sway of the ship making his head spin.

  “Matty, are you awake?”

  “Go away, crone,” he growled.

  “Is that any way to speak to your wife?”

  Though his eyes were closed, Mathew could imagine Maggie Kirkwood standing in the small cabin, face pinched in a superior scowl, arms crossed as she tapped her foot.

  “You’re not my wife yet.” Until the independent girl set a date, they would continue this perpetual engagement, a prospect that did not bother him as it ought to.

  “And thank goodness for that.” She huffed and pulled on his blanket.

  “Margaret!” He grabbed at the sheet in an attempt to regain some level of dignity—something she had denied him since they’d been six years old and she’d bested him at archery, then tried to drown him in the fountain on his own family property.

  The tiny woman scoffed. “Believe me, you in a state of undress is the last thing I want to see. I came to check your leg.”

  “My leg is fine.” In truth, his calf throbbed painfully. He could feel the bandage wrapped around it.

  Visions of a man hovering over him and tending the wound filled his mind. Just out of reach, memories teased him, leaving him with the sensation that he’d forgotten something important.

  Something horrific and painful.

  Turning to face Maggie, he adjusted the sheet to hide any below the waist indecorum, the movement emphasizing his weakened state.

  Why am I so bloody tired?

  His fiancée wore a blue dress with layers and ruffles like a tiered cake he’d once seen at a winter ball, her mass of riotous black curls pulled into a chignon. He shouldn’t know the name of her hairstyle, but she did like to talk incessantly, and some of it was bound to stick.

  “Where did you get that dress?” he asked, both to distract her from fussing and because he would’ve imagined all their belongings to be at the bottom of the ocean.

  She gestured to a large pile of trunks piled in the corner. “One of the wreckers retrieved our personal things. Wasn’t that thoughtful? I took out a pair of shoes for you, trousers and a shirt, and fresh underthings, for when you were well enough to get around. They’re a bit stiff with salt, but they shall do nicely,” she said, seeming quite pleased.

  The aforementioned clothing had been laid out on a chair, his boots and a wooden crutch beside them. The girl was anything but inefficient. “Thank you, dearest.”

  “You’re welcome. I even have your shaving things,” she added. “We can’t have you sporting that silly beard those Cambridge boys talked you into again.”

  Mathew rather liked the beard, but didn’t feel like arguing.

  “Now let me see your leg.”

  He moved out of her reach. “I’ve only just been allowed to sleep. Why must you pester me?”

  “I am not pestering you.” She chewed her lower lip, a habit that portended bad news. They had been best friends for longer than memory reached, and he knew her tells well.

  “Out with it,” he ordered.

  “You have not just fallen asleep, Matty. You’ve had a fever for two days! Some coral can be poisonous, did you know that? Thankfully the ship’s doctor knew what to do, scraping it clean of debris.” She shuddered. “It was horrible to watch.”

  He rubbed his jaw, surprised at the growth of hair on his face. Images rushed back—of him thrashing on this bed, screaming as they cleaned his leg with a knife, pouring boiling water on it... his heart skipped. Hastily, he pushed the memory away, evoking the face of his rescuer instead. His pulse calmed as he allowed the more pleasant image to soothe him.

  “We’ve been checking on you every hour to make sure you hadn’t died,” she went on dramatically. “You’ve been babbling as well and I feared the worst.”

  “Babbling?” he repeated, heat pulsing under his skin. What he could’ve revealed in his delirious state scared him
more than any fever. “What did I say?”

  “Nonsense, mostly. You did keep mentioning hazel eyes, and I’m deeply flattered. Everyone has told me that my eyes are just plain brown, but I’ve always fancied they have a bit of hazel.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Leave it to you to notice. You’re so observant of details.”

  “Of course,” he said, sending prayers of thanksgiving he’d said no more, especially in light of his explicit dream.

  Maggie sat beside him, placing her palm on his forehead like a mother with a sick child. Polite but firm, he took her hand and pressed it into her lap. “I am fine. Please do not coddle me.”

  Her tiny hand covered his and her eyes began to water. “I am sorry, but I’ve been so worried about you. And during the storm, I was convinced everyone would die and I would be the sole survivor, left adrift at sea, floating atop a coffin until another ship found me.”

  Though his stomach knotted with a real sense of fear, he managed a smile. “I never should have given you The White Whale. All of that is just fictitious drama.” He waggled his fingers in the air. “See? Nothing so fantastic happened. I may have been sick, but I am fine now. Please don’t cry.”

  Bravely she pursed her lips and nodded. “I shall try.”

  “How is everyone else? Mrs. Cohen? Your father?”

  “Father is quite well. Poor Mrs. Cohen is so exhausted from the ordeal she’s abed in the other cabin,” she said, eyes still watery.

  “Leaving you to your own devices, which surely has left you most inconvenienced.”

  “She is a lovely old woman, and I enjoy her company,” she said with a superior arch of brows.

  He chuckled at the lie. Mrs. Cohen was the widowed sister of Mr. Kirkwood’s head housekeeper. When Maggie insisted on traveling with them—even her father couldn’t tell her “no”—the hearty old woman had been asked to accompany them for propriety’s sake. Though Maggie had thrown a fit, complaining that she didn’t require a nanny, eventually she’d come to her senses. Even aboard her own father’s vessel, it wasn’t proper for a young woman to travel unattended. He felt bad that Mrs. Cohen had gotten more than she’d bargained for, both with independent Maggie and the storm.