Wrecked Read online

  “That last dive was downright impressive,” Cole went on dryly when he didn’t answer. “You were down, what? A whole thirty seconds?”

  He opened his mouth to tell his brother to pound sand but an accented voice cut off his reply. “You see here! I won’t have it, do you hear me?”

  It was Lord Pembroke again, one of the owners of the Lucky Clipper. The tall man had brown hair, streaked gray at the temples, and his posture smacked of entitlement and arrogance.

  Rief had disliked him immediately.

  While the rest of the passengers would head back to Key West as soon as the Sara Ann was loaded, Lord Pembroke—damn limey bastards and their titles—and his fat business partner, Mr. Kirkwood, intended to stay behind with Captain Torino to “supervise” the salvage operation. Torino was a captain for hire, and well-known in the Keys to have a scurrilous reputation but an excellent knowledge of the Straits. During the storm he’d apparently mistaken the Carysfort Reef Light for the one at Gun Cay on the edge of Bahama Bank some forty-five miles away.

  It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last such a mistake was made, but Rief was more than a little surprised such an experienced captain had run his ship aground. If he hadn’t seen it happen with his own two eyes from aboard the deck of the Mirabella, he would’ve sworn the man was spinning a yarn.

  “Where is Torino?” Lord Pembroke shouted. “I won’t be cheated!”

  “What now?” Cole grumbled as he went over to handle the situation. Rief was too tired to follow and knew better than to interfere anyway. “What seems to be the problem, Lord Pembroke?”

  “I just saw you enlist a fifth diver. I’m not paying for that.” He turned an accusatory finger on Rief. “What’s the matter with him? Why isn’t he diving?”

  Cole shot him a look that only Rief could read—one which spoke of years of seeing him as a thorn in his flesh. He could pretend all he wanted, but it killed him every time.

  When would his brother forgive him?

  “Never you mind that,” Cole told Pembroke. “Our intention is to make quick work of salvaging all your cargo, like we agreed. So far, everything is going good.”

  The Englishman looked like he might have an apoplexy. “This is preposterous! You’re cheating me by adding more cost!”

  Divers were paid higher than anyone else on board because of the risks involved. They damaged their vision from the coral debris and salt, and injured their lungs and organs while depriving themselves of air in the interests of salvaging more cargo per dive. They died frequently, too, which was unfortunately why most of them were black. Apparently some asshole along the way deemed their lives were more expendable than whites.

  Then again, that was what Rief’s family thought of him.

  Expendable.

  Before that sad reality could consume him, however, Rief directed his thoughts to the one thing that always held the power to soothe. His hand itched, searching for a brush, while his mind began working, mixing colors, sweeping through the thick paint and caressing, moving it into images. He could already feel the coolness of the paint beneath his nails and staining his fingers with the colors of Mathew.

  How would he paint Mathew’s mouth as he climaxed? Would he use red or pink on the soft wet insides of his lower lip? His heart skipped, and the oppression of desire wrapped around him, stirring an arousal. What would Mathew’s pearly essence look like on his hands and across his belly? Was it thick and white, or clear and slippery?

  He’d never painted Mathew in that way, and to do so felt like blasphemy to an image he’d long associated with the Divine. Sure he had done nudes, but they were nothing compared to—

  Fighting a growl of frustration, Rief clenched his treacherous hands into fists before the images could go any further.

  How could he even think about painting Mathew now?

  What if he saw it?

  Worse... what if Mathew discovered the truth?

  Clean shaven and as presentable as he could be with nothing but a white linen shirt and light gray trousers, Mathew hobbled up the stairs to the main deck. The sway of the ship and the cumbersome crutch made the journey difficult. Cool air greeted him, easing some of the dizziness he’d experienced inside the cabin and cooling the sweat. He was glad he hadn’t bothered with a necktie.

  Clouds filled the sky, not dark or threatening, just overcast. He leaned heavily on the crutch and shuffled over to the ship’s railing.

  The sight that greeted him was awesome indeed.

  Six other wrecking vessels moored around them, the broken, battered Lucky Clipper at the center of the activity. She had been heaved a bit straighter and lines sprawled out from her deck like a spider’s web. Though the waves still rocked the large ship, she appeared to be stable. Almost lost over the sounds of the sea and shouting voices of men, the distinct hiss of a steam pump running purged water from her hull. The ordinarily clear ocean water around the wreck appeared white and cloudy. When a wave broke, the shadows of coral lurked beneath.

  A shiver went down Mathew’s spine.

  He could’ve been thrashed to death so easily.

  If Rief had not been there....

  “It is quite a sight, isn’t it?”

  Startled out of such dire thoughts, Mathew turned, the crutch digging painfully into his armpit.

  Maggie’s heavy-set father joined him. Looking disheveled, Mr. Kirkwood did not have on his customary black frock coat, the rings of sweat on the underarms of his shirt the obvious reason.

  “Indeed,” Mathew agreed. “They appear quite competent.”

  “Have a closer look.” Mr. Kirkwood withdrew his spyglass from inside a broad gray vest and handed it to Mathew.

  Balancing, he used one hand to hold the spyglass—or bring-’em-near as some of the sailors called it.

  A system of tackle and blocks hoisted the five-hundred-pound bales of cotton out of the main cargo hold. A ship with the name Sara Ann painted on her hull moored on the lee side of the wreck, away from the wind. Thus protected, she didn’t crash into the Lucky Clipper or the reef as the bales lowered into her hold. Several quarter boats transported the smaller cargo, like the rum and whiskey. The efficiency with which the men worked spoke of great skill and determination.

  “Our goods will be transported to Key West?” Mathew clarified.

  “Yes. That’s the closest US port of entry, and their customshouse acts as a transshipment port for foreign cargo.” He sighed, twiddling his fingers as he surveyed the operations. Then he smiled at Mathew. “I am glad to see you up and well. We were all very concerned, and Margaret has been in a near hysterical state worrying.”

  “Thank you.” Grinning, he held out the treasured spyglass. “But I am heartier than I look.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” Mr. Kirkwood said, not taking the spyglass. “Keep it. I know you will take care of it. I trust you.”

  Those words warmed him inside. Mathew’s mother had died long before he’d been old enough to retain a memory of her, and Father, too interested in gambling and sport, had hired nurses to rear him, then later sent him away to school. Before her death, his great Aunt Elaine had doted on him, but he’d always imagined himself to be just another one of her pet spaniels.

  Not for the first time, he wondered if he would’ve been a more confident man if fortune had blessed him with a father like Mr. Kirkwood, one who offered kind words instead of insults and aggression. Had such negligence been the source of his timid nature? Or had his inclinations, with their echo of womanly desires, made him this way?

  “Any word on the state of the ship itself?” Mathew asked, not wanting melancholy to consume him. The Lucky Clipper had a busted keel, but from where he stood, the damage to her port side was not visible. “Will she sail again?”

  “We won’t know until the insurance adjusters can look at her. Your father and Captain Torino are convinced she is a total loss, but we don’t know quite yet. She took on so much water during the storm we feared the cargo would be ruin
ed if we didn’t leave her where she was. I gave permission for the wreckers to cut a hole in her starboard hull to retrieve as much as possible. Once the first vessel is fully loaded, it is returning to Key West. I want you to be on it, Weston. Without a ship, we will need to sell our remaining goods, and I need a man I can rely on in port.”

  “Of course,” he said, liking how his father-in-law trusted him and treated him as a proper gentleman, not a foolish boy. “Have we agreed to a fee yet?”

  “That will be decided by the court.”

  Mr. Kirkwood then explained how wreckers received licenses from the American government. The night of the storm, there had been official papers signed hiring the wreckers and they agreed to go to Key West for adjudication. Naturally, they would pay something for the extensive labor, but he hoped it would be fair for all involved. He listened politely, making note of the numbers to determine if they would have a total loss on their first business venture, however, he knew it would not make a dent in his own purse.

  Though still surreal, Mathew had recently become an extremely wealthy man.

  Upon her death ten years ago, Aunt Elaine had left him a fortune more than five men could spend in a lifetime. Widowed at a young age, she’d valued the independence her merchant husband’s fortune and death afforded her and had never remarried. Her only heir, Mathew had received the inheritance this past spring, after completing his studies from the college of her choosing—Cambridge.

  Unfortunately, all the money in the world couldn’t buy the things Mathew really wanted.

  His inheritance had long been a thorn in Father’s side, burning a proverbial hole in his empty pockets. As the Baron of Pembroke Manor, Father should’ve had an ample income, but as numerous fiancées had discovered before breaking their engagements, he’d squandered most of it long ago. Over the years he’d hired solicitors in an attempt to name himself trustee of Mathew’s inheritance, but much to his ire, Aunt Elaine had never liked her niece’s husband, and Father had been unable to touch a shilling. Anticipating the long-awaited funds, he’d been pushing Mathew to start a new company with Mr. Kirkwood, an already successful merchant. At first Mathew had suspected it to be just another one of Father’s schemes to get rich, but mathematically going into business with Father and his soon-to-be father-in-law had been a sound decision. So he agreed to the partnership and fronted Father’s portion of the investment. This trip to the Americas was the first venture for Pembroke & Kirkwood Trading, and the cotton alone should’ve provided all three men with a sizeable profit.

  Mr. Kirkwood chuckled, drawing him out of his thoughts. “The wreck master suggested arbitration, rather than appearing before the federal courts. But we will do this all very properly, through the correct legal channels.”

  “What are we estimating the fee to be?”

  “Between fifteen and thirty percent possibly,” he answered with a vague gesture. “But it will be up to a judge to determine the exact percentage, depending on how much work is done to recover our cargo.”

  The massive endeavors of the wreckers seemed altruistic, but Mathew hoped it wasn’t just to incur more cost to inflate the salvage award.

  “Kirkwood!”

  Mathew jumped at the sharp sound of Father’s voice.

  Though properly dressed with vest, coat, and a cravat tied in a soft ascot, an air of wildness lingered about “The Right Honorable Lord Pembroke.” He had not shaved this morning, and his ordinarily handsome appearance was decidedly marked with deep shadows beneath his eyes and dark stubble to match his windblown hair.

  “Good morning, Father.”

  Standing over six feet, he had a poise that evoked self-assurance and regal birth. A posture at one time Mathew had tried to imitate, to no such avail, for he’d inherited more than his mother’s fair skin and hair. He’d also been blessed with her petit stature.

  He offered Mathew a nod. “Finally out of bed, eh?”

  “Yes, my lord,” he replied, squashing the childish hope that Father might greet him with the same affection Mr. Kirkwood had shown. Doubtless he was annoyed that Mathew had not used his title in the presence of others. “Thank you for—”

  “Do you see that, Kirkwood?” Father demanded, pointing toward the salvage operations.

  “See what, Pembroke?” he asked, ignoring Father’s rudeness or being used to his partner’s impoliteness, Mathew couldn’t be sure.

  Looking where indicated, Mathew saw a block had broken under the weight of a cotton bale. Several wreckers aboard the Sara Anne were trying to keep it from plunging into the sea.

  “Every time I look around, I see incompetence. Torino warned us not to trust the wreckers. Lawson even hired another diver without my permission,” Father spat, fussing with the cuffs of his coat. “Driving the cost up, no doubt. I will not allow these scoundrels to lessen our insurance claim. We do not need five divers.”

  Though Mathew found it odd Father was concerned with a yet to be made claim rather than salvaging their cargo, he was more interested in the wrecking operation. “Why have we hired divers?”

  “Yes, the way she sits, the lower holds are still flooded, and the pump isn’t keeping up, so men swim down to get the cargo by free diving,” Mr. Kirkwood explained.

  “Sounds heroic.”

  Father scoffed and raked him with a sneer. “What would you know of heroics, Mathew? When you’re needed to see to the safety of two ladies, you fall overboard like a fop, then take ill. Come, Kirkwood. I want to find Lawson and give him a piece of my mind.” He paused to give Mathew an arch of brows. “I trust you will be returning to port with the other women?”

  He spoke so loudly a few crewmen of the Mirabella chuckled as they passed.

  Mathew felt his face burn and could not think of a suitable reply.

  What would he say anyway?

  A terrible marksman and an even worse equestrian, Mathew often chose the company of women over his own sex. As a child it had been the opposite, he couldn’t get enough of being around the other boys, especially the older, athletic ones. But things changed when his body had begun to mature. He shied away from them, preferring female companions though he had no attraction to women outside of a general appreciation of their aesthetics and their more accepting natures. At one time, he had attributed this propensity to never having a mother and thus he craved female attention. But now he understood that certain men made him nervous because he found them attractive, sensual—just the way a woman should view men.

  Snickering to himself, Father walked off.

  Mr. Kirkwood hesitated to follow. Glancing at the sailors still chuckling, he offered an apologetic pat to Mathew’s back. “Excuse me, Mr. Weston. I’ll be back in a moment.” After a wan smile, he followed Father.

  The respect and subsequent pitying gesture caused Mathew’s humiliation to increase, and along with it, his temper. Angry at himself, he gripped the railing tight once they left, the pain of his crutch digging into his armpit and making him even angrier.

  Damnation!

  The last three years at Cambridge, where his friends and peers treated him as an equal, Mathew believed he’d come into his own. Successful in his studies and well-liked, his gait had improved, walking as tall as his short stature allowed. He’d even found an athletic activity he excelled at for the first time in his life, the rowing team, and he’d passed his Tripos with first-class honors. He’d actually felt like an adult.

  Like a man.

  Yet the second he returned to London, one word from Father had reduced Mathew to the same pathetic child he’d always been, yearning for sympathy and love, but finding only scorn and resentment instead.

  He gritted his teeth in frustration.

  “Going back with the other women,” he muttered to himself in a haughty baritone version of Father. “Other women, indeed!”

  Just because he had feminine fantasies, did not mean he was a woman!

  “Annoying isn’t it?” a husky voice said.

  Startled, Mathew’s
head jerked back, and he almost fell over in shock when he looked up into eyes he had not imagined.

  Oh dear God....

  Bare-chested, and looking every bit as wild as the storm that had wrecked their ship, stood the man who had rescued him.

  Rief.

  Mathew’s heart skipped, and his body flushed.

  Rief was even more handsome than he recalled!

  Damp, sandy-brown hair brushed Rief’s neck and brow, the whisper of sunlight peeking out of the heavy clouds revealing hints of copper and gold where it had dried. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot and tired, but the color of them Mathew had been unable to recall turned out to be a bit of everything that was the tropics. Gold of the sand at sunset. Blue of the deepest parts of the sea. Green of the shallows catching the sunlight. Whatever way he moved, they picked up the colors reflecting around him.

  This was a man born of the sea, a child of this restless land.

  Mathew had to look like a fool talking aloud to himself!

  How could he possibly be so absurd?

  “Pardon?” he muttered, tugging on the edge of his shirtsleeve to cover his embarrassment and overly aware of how the sun glistened on the hairs dusting the man’s tanned muscular body—and the way the air felt much hotter than before.

  “Annoying when they talk to you like you’re a child. My brother does it to me all the time,” Rief said. His soft brown curls luffed in the wind.

  “Y-yes, I suppose so.” Transfixed by how much wider and taller than him Rief was, he felt like a child looking up at a giant. And why wasn’t the man wearing a shirt? Positively distracting, that was what it was!

  “Makes you want to plant a fist right in their throat,” he said, with a sideways smirk that Mathew wasn’t sure was humor or serious. “Glad to see you’re up and well. How’s your leg?”

  “I-it’s fine, thank you,” he managed.

  When Rief grinned, a solitary dimple on his left cheek undid Mathew completely.