Wrecked Read online

  Trying to sound casual, he asked, “Has Father been concerned?”

  Her lips tightened into a forced smile. “We have all been very concerned.”

  Mathew absently plucked at the frayed edge of the sheet, wishing it wasn’t so easy to read between the lines of her carefully worded reply—and that the truth didn’t hurt as much as it did.

  “I made sure to thank the man who saved your life, Matty.” The squeeze of her hand distracted him from negative thoughts. “I told him we would name our first son after him, but then he said his name was Rief. Like the coral, but spelled with an ‘i’. What sort of name is that? Why, it’s not a proper name at all! Of course I didn’t tell him this. I just smiled politely. Naturally, we won’t be naming our child after a lump of rock in the ocean. I don’t really even like children. They smell terrible and are so fussy and demanding. And women die all the time having them, which would be most inconvenient, so we might not be naming anything at all. But that sort of gesture is often expected when someone saves your life, so I thought I would at least say it on your behalf.”

  His whole body flushed. “Is he on the ship?”

  She looked up in question, lost to the music of her own words. “Who?”

  Throat tight, Mathew was pleased his voice didn’t tremble like his insides. “The man who saved me? What did you say his name was? Rief?” A peculiar name, for sure, but masculine and exotic—just the way Mathew recalled him to be. “Is he on board?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so. Why?”

  “I would like to thank him for saving my life.”

  “We are sailing back to Key West soon with the cargo,” she said with an encouraging pat. “But perhaps you will get a chance.”

  Hope flared inside him at the notion of seeing his rescuer. He wanted to know if he had imagined the man’s bewitching eyes or merely conjured them from a sexually deprived imagination.

  Guilt swamped him. What was the matter with him, fantasizing about a man while holding his fiancée’s hand?

  After repeated assurances that he was quite sound, and that, yes, he would shave, Maggie left him to dress, climbing up the stairs to the deck with the agility of a seasoned sailor. Once alone, he shifted to the edge of the hard bed, his body more tired than he wanted to admit. The cabin was cramped and stale, but clean. He needed fresh air, no matter how exhausted he felt. Slowly, he dressed, then combed his blond hair with a high part, the natural waves falling easily into place. Fingering the back of his head, he found a bump the size of a goose egg.

  He’d been lucky. He could’ve died if not for the hazel-eyed wrecker.

  “Bloody hell, stop thinking about the man’s eyes,” he scolded himself.

  Mathew had hoped to forget his fascination with men in college, but nothing could curb it. He resigned himself to finding a measure of relief by playing out a few innocent fantasies while he pleasured himself, content that no one would ever know what went on in his head. Though his urges felt perfectly rational, he needed to learn how to better control himself.

  Men did not lust after other men. It just wasn’t normal.

  Everyone said so.

  Yet despite this ongoing argument within himself, he was attracted to other men. It didn’t matter that it was a sin and a crime. He could not help how he felt.

  No matter what others thought, to Mathew, being this way was normal.

  Chapter Two

  “You will naturally inquire how we live, and the reply is very simple, by and through wrecks. Stop that and we cease to live.”

  —Unknown wrecker, 1840

  Rief Lawson’s lungs tightened as he dove deeper, the rope around his waist cinching. The wreck surrounded him like a tomb, the peace of the sea calling to him with the promise of no pain or guilt. No judgment. No one to shy away as he passed them on the street. Underwater was the only place he could find solace from the world around him and the images that forced their way into his mind.

  The storm-tossed water was a dirty cream color, a product of the norther’s waves pummeling the reef and breaking up the coral. Though it made it difficult to see and lured sharks, there was no time for the water to clear enough to dive without damaging one’s eyes, or the cargo would be unsalvageable.

  After rescuing the crew and passengers, the wreckers had tried to kedge the Lucky Clipper off the reef, but the storm had forced them to abandon their efforts and seek shelter in the nearby harbor. Upon returning to the wreck when the barometric pressure leveled and the winds died down, they discovered her prow had lodged on the coral in about six feet of water at low tide, her stern completely submerged. The sounding showed her about a ship’s length away from deep water, but Rief doubted she’d sail again on her own.

  They’d straightened her with a series of hawsers and anchors, and now focused on salvaging cargo. The merciless beating of the waves had caused the ship to bilge. Reverberating in the water above him, the steam-powered pump was not dewatering her hull as fast as they would’ve liked. About an hour ago, with the captain’s permission, they cut a few holes in her hull to remove the precious rum, ale, and sugar from the lower holds before the seawater damaged it beyond repair.

  Sixty seconds.

  As he rounded a corner, his chest tightened, but not from a lack of air.

  The moment Rief had fished the man out of the sea, his blood had tingled, as if something he’d lost had finally been returned. His name was Mathew Weston—his fiancée told Rief that while Rief had carried the man’s semiconscious body aboard the Mirabella.

  Rief had never named him before, not even in his mind. There had been no need. The man had been a part of him for so long that he knew every inch of his alabaster skin better than a lover. Those crystalline blue eyes had watched him from every mood imaginable.

  At one time, he’d assumed he painted the man as a way to make sense of his sexual attractions, but time had rendered the image into so much more.

  His muse. His solace. His personal fantasy.

  And now, he was a real man named Mathew, living and breathing aboard their ship.

  Had he awakened yet? Was he still in a fever? Only years of concealing his desires and knowing how closely others scrutinized his actions, had given Rief the willpower not to sit vigil at his bedside.

  Eighty seconds.

  Wriggling his lithe body through the companionway of the Lucky Clipper, he used his hands to propel himself farther into her belly for a second barrel of rum. His fingers were losing feeling faster than usual. The water moved, hazy and clouded in swirls of white and green before him. How would he paint that? His fingers? A brush? His mind began to wander with techniques heard of and not yet invented. His thoughts lighted on the masters. Michelangelo, Rembrandt. DaVinci. He’d had a book of them once. Where was it? Had Dad destroyed that too?

  No. No! Don’t get distracted!

  He hesitated, holding on to the wall to remain in place as he squinted into the darker water below and tried to get his bearings. Where was that rum stash again?

  Dammit!

  Frustrated, he turned around and kicked hard. He would have to surface. He couldn’t afford to get lost.

  A minute and a half was not a good dive, but one could easily get turned around underwater. Rief’s head was not on the job, and with each dive, his time had progressively gotten worse. Diving used to be something he never disappointed with, but today his mind was stuck on blond hair and a crooked nose. A masculine, wet body in his arms. Small but firm with muscle, and skin like a clean white-washed canvas, untouched by the hands of an artist or man.

  And a face he’d known for so long he couldn’t recall life without him.

  Rief grabbed the doorframe and launched his body through the submerged companionway. When he saw lighter water ahead, he pushed through the hole they’d cut in the hull. His heart thudded hard against his ribcage. With two powerful kicks, he broke the surface. He gulped air feverishly, choking out a mouthful of seawater. His lungs were so tight he winced when ai
r filled them. The sounds of the other wreckers shouting and hauling goods out of the sea felt unnaturally loud after the muffled peace of underwater.

  “Yas up too soon, Rief,” Jonas chided, his voice barely audible with the pump pounding nearby. “Sumting wrong?”

  “No.” He gave the black man a weak shrug. “I’m just beat.”

  The best divers in Key West could hold a single breath for nigh close to six minutes. Today, he could barely find the strength or the willpower for half of that. Usually he didn’t care how long he held his breath, because who would care if he came up anyway?

  Well, Sully would probably care.

  Pathetic, really, that a mangy old cat was the only thing he had worth living for.

  The sounds of salvage filled the air, men shouting and ships creaking as goods were tossed on decks. Animals rescued earlier bawled in protest aboard one of the sloops.

  Men stood by in quarter boats to retrieve the cargo Rief and the other divers brought up, all the while the wind and waves making everything more hazardous and uncertain. Crates and barrels littered the water’s surface. It would take days to get all of it back to port. The ship closest to the wreck, the Sara Ann, was almost loaded and would head to Key West at the next high tide.

  The chaos of a wreck that usually intrigued Rief today seemed merely a burden, hectic and stressful. He waved to one of the divers from the Josephine to take his place. The island man dove off her gunwale and swam over.

  Saying no more to Jonas, Rief floated his way toward the quarter boat waiting to take the rum back to the Mirabella. Dragging one of the barrels he’d retrieved with him, he used its buoyancy to rest. The morning was calm, but this close to the reef, the waves persisted in pushing. He kept his ears under the water, only exposing his mouth to breathe, and let the waves rock him, the tension in his body uncoiling. Partially submerged, he lulled into relaxation.

  Of their own accord, his fingers began to sketch a form he knew so well. The roundness of a shoulder, a curve of ass. Shining golden hair. That unique nose with its crooked little bend on the bridge. A nose of character and wit. A nose Rief had drawn a hundred times before and never tired of seeing. And since the moment he’d felt the owner of that nose in his arms, he’d been powerless to stop imagining more erotic images....

  A wave splashed over his face.

  Coughing, he jolted upright.

  “All right, Rief?” Dennis called from the quarter boat.

  Spent, he rolled over and pushed the barrel forward. In the boat a wrecker Rief didn’t know used a grappling hook to retrieve the rum while Dennis tossed out a line. Arms like lead, Rief needed help as he climbed from the water, but Dennis released him hastily once he was inside, not wanting to touch Rief any longer than necessary.

  Words burned on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t bother. He was sick of explaining himself when people had already made up their minds about him long ago.

  The other sailors shifted to make room in the boat, deliberately avoiding getting too close to him while glancing among themselves, their faces all but saying aloud, “What short straw did we draw?”

  A hand brushed Rief’s but was gone so quick he thought he imagined it.

  Damn, how long had it been since someone had really touched him? Hugged him? When had he last experienced the tender caress of someone who loved him? Years ago? Longer?

  Maybe never?

  Sticky hands, warm seed dripping from a sore ass, and an ache inside his heart had been the mementos of his last sexual encounter. It had been a hurried affair, only satisfying a carnal need. They hadn’t even bothered with names. After a few drunken kisses Rief tried to prolong, the man had been anxious to get to business. In five minutes it culminated with Rief bent over a barrel in a back alley while the man rutted him with hard, clumsy thrusts. He’d finished quickly, pulled out, and left Rief to finish himself. An hour later Rief had seen the man cuddled up to one of the whores at the Bloody Hog. Watching the man kiss the woman tenderly had left him feeling dirty, more unwanted than usual. The urge to weep or break something with his bare hands had consumed him.

  Instead of doing anything foolish, he’d returned home to be with the one man who always eased his loneliness.

  The man from his art.

  And now that very man was alive aboard the Mirabella.

  His heart skipped and his eyes locked on the sloop, anticipation nearly making him dizzy. The overloaded quarter boat sat low in the water as they carefully rowed toward the sloop and Mathew. Waves sloshed over the sides, jostling the passengers and salvaged cargo. If he weren’t already wet, he would’ve been soaked in a matter of moments. Chains extending from the anchor windlasses aboard the Mirabella loomed above them when they reached her. The chains and thick ropes called hawsers kept the wrecked vessel semi-upright so the still choppy sea did not do further damage to her hull, and so the cargo could be removed safely. Immense anchors held the wrecking sloops in place, and if just one loosed, they could be shoved into the coral and become another wreck themselves.

  Sun glaring in his tired eyes, Rief squinted up to the deck of the vessel named for his mother. Cole leaned over the Mirabella’s gunwale, the almost black hair he’d inherited from her shining in the sun. Looking troubled, his brother flicked the butt of his smoke into the water and called for lines to be cast so the barrels in the quarter boat could be hoisted up. After helping secure them, Rief used a rope ladder to climb aboard.

  Once on deck, a crewman handed him a thin blanket, and Rief muttered “thanks” before the man slipped away. The air felt cold on his wet skin, and he shivered, hunching into the dry fabric while Cole greeted Dennis.

  “We’re getting one helluva haul,” Dennis told him, grinning wide, his sun-weathered skin a permanent shade of pink.

  “Aye,” Cole said, surveying the salvage with a proud smile. Since the Mirabella had been the first ship to reach the wreck, Cole had been named wreck master, which meant he would oversee the entire salvage and take the largest award from the wrecking court. He’d brought six other vessels into his consortship, and they had been working tirelessly since the weather broke.

  “How much cotton so far?” Dennis wanted to know.

  “Just a few over two thousand bales.”

  He whistled in approval, and Rief’s brow’s shot up at the number. Cotton was one of the quickest and most profitable items to sell at auction. The haul was not as big as the Isaac Allerton, but it was the biggest one they’d ever been charged with.

  “Might be getting enough for a ship of our own,” Dennis said with a playful nudge in Cole’s side.

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” Their shared smile offered a glimpse of the camaraderie and trust they’d cultivated from over a decade of sailing these waters together.

  Trying to ignore the spines of jealousy he’d spent years attempting to bury, Rief plopped onto a sodden bale of cotton. A bucket of water sat beside him, and he took the ladle and drank deeply. It had been awhile since he’d dove for more than sponges, and he was dead tired.

  Rief used to go out on patrol all the time, working wrecks side-by-side with his father and Cole, but nowadays he preferred to take care of the business side of their family enterprise from shore with Uncle Richard. When he’d joined the crew on this patrol—the first time since Dad’s death—Cole’s reception would’ve frozen a breath on the hottest Florida day. Especially after three of his best wreckers opted to stay in Key West.

  Though Rief had grown used to such reactions to his presence, it never failed to stab his heart with an aching loneliness. The men crossing themselves as he passed wounded now as much as they had when it first started. Whispers he’d been unable to block out had moved through the Mirabella crew: “Rief must know something and it’s probably bad for us all.”

  They had been correct, at least partially.

  No matter his embarrassment or the weight of their judgment, the premonition that told Rief he needed to be on this patrol had superseded everythin
g else.

  He’d felt such urges as long as he could remember. In the rare moments Mother dared to discuss it before her death, she had called it the sight. Stronger than a hunch and deeper than instinct, it was as if someone were whispering to him, telling him where to go, what to do. There was no actual voice, but the urge to be on the reef had driven him to board the Mirabella, frightening him with its intensity.

  Never in his wildest dreams would Rief have imagined that this premonition would culminate with him rescuing the man he’d been painting most of his life.

  His thoughts alighted once more on the frantic rescue. Mathew had fought him—a common occurrence among drowning victims, not knowing which way was up—rolling against Rief with that warm, firm body. What would it feel like if they wrestled like that again, but this time naked and in bed?

  Powerful desires to find Mathew, to speak to him, touch him, and paint him, accosted Rief. Heart skipping a beat, he glanced around the busy deck. To his great disappointment, however, the man was nowhere to be seen.

  Rolling his jaw where Mathew had landed a punch in their underwater struggle, Rief frowned.

  Just what did he plan to say to the man anyway? Did you know that I’ve been seeing your image and drawing you since I was a boy? Would you happen to know why? And by the by, do you fancy a poke?

  What a daft fool he was!

  He could never confess the truth about his artwork. And Mathew was probably just another red-blooded male, only interested in what was under a woman’s skirt, not playing with something he had in his own britches. Not even in this untamed world, where the winds of change were shifting the face of the Americas, could a man love another man. Rief’s best chance at affection was an occasional whore or a man passing through town who liked to suck cock.

  Accepting that harsh reality, however, never stopped the wanting for more.

  “All done for the day, then, boy?” his brother asked, startling him.

  At twenty-four Rief was hardly a boy, but six years his senior, Cole often forgot that. It was both irksome and familiar. A long time ago, Dad had called him “boy” with an affectionate pat on the back, but such endearments had ended years before Rief stopped being a boy.