Lost Lady (11 page)

With trepidation, she opened her eyes, still afraid to look to her left where Travis might or might not be.

Later, no one could remember who was the first to start laughing. Perhaps it wasn't a laughing matter, but the sailors were so relieved to have finally left the storm behind them, the last two waves having knocked the ship out of its path, that the sight above them was hugely entertaining.

Regan, ten feet above deck, was practically sitting in the rigging, clad only in a very wet muslin dress, her bare legs through the knotted rope squares wrapped tightly, hugging her own body, as were her arms. In one hand was an enormous rope attached to the leg of Travis, a man twice her size, who now lounged in the rigging as if he were sleeping. For all the world she looked like a little girl leading some sort of strange animal.

“Stop your yammering and get them down!” the captain bellowed.

Encouraged by their laughter, Regan dared to look toward Travis, and at this close range she could see the blood seeping at the side of his head.

When three of the sailors had climbed to her and saw Travis's condition, they no longer laughed.

“You saved his life,” one of them said, awe in his voice. “He's not even aware we're here. He couldn't have hung on without you tyin' him.”

“Is he all right?”

“He's breathin',” the sailor said, but would say no more.

“No,” she said when he touched her. “Get Travis down first.”

Now that the seriousness of what Regan had done reached them, the sailors glanced up at her in amazement for a moment before turning away and respectfully not looking openly at her fine, bare legs.

With some dignity, Regan was able to descend the rigging with the help of a sailor. She was startled at how high up she'd gone and at the difficulty she had in getting down.

Finally on a solid surface again, she followed the men carrying Travis to their cabin. As they passed David's cabin, one of the men murmured that the young gentleman was sleeping. Regan only nodded as her thoughts were completely with Travis.

The ship's doctor came to Travis quickly and examined his head wound. “The maintop must have hit him when it broke away.” The doctor turned appraising eyes toward Regan. “I hear you kept him from being washed overboard.”

“Will he be all right?” she asked, not caring about his praise.

“No one can tell with these head wounds. Sometimes they live, but their minds never work again. All you can do is try to get him to drink water and stay quiet. I'm sorry I can't be of more help than that.”

Regan only nodded as she smoothed Travis's wet hair from his forehead. The ship was still rolling frantically but seemed calm after the last several hours. Turning, she asked one of the sailors still in the room to get her some fresh water.

When she was alone with Travis, she started to work, undressing him first, which was no easy task considering the weight of Travis's inert body. Wrapping his naked body in dry, warm blankets that she got from a trunk, she stopped to answer a knock at the door.

Sarah Trumbull stood there. “One of the sailors came to get me, told me some wild story about you tying Travis to the sail. The man said Travis was hurt and you might need help. And he sent this.”

Regan took the water she offered. “I don't need help,” she said, her voice tight. “Maybe you can help the other passengers.” She gave a brief nod toward David's closed door.

Sarah had only to look at the fear apparent on Regan's face to know that something was dreadfully wrong. “You have the prayers of everyone on board,” she whispered, giving Regan's hand a quick squeeze.

Alone again with Travis, she began to bathe his head. The cut wasn't long, but it seemed to have been a hard knock as Travis was completely unconscious. Once he was clean and warm and he still didn't move, she stretched out on the bed beside him and cradled him in her arms, hoping to bring him back to life by sheer force of will.

Hours later she awoke, having fallen asleep from exhaustion, and her teeth were chattering with cold. She'd been unaware that she still wore her wet clothes. Travis lay still, deathlike, his skin pale, his vitality gone.

Rising quietly, she peeled away her sodden, cold dress and noticed absently that somewhere she'd lost her new wool cape and that the muslin gown was torn in several places. Poor Travis, she thought with a smile. He was going to have to buy her a new wardrobe before the first one was even finished.

The thought sent her hand to her mouth and tears to her eyes. Perhaps Travis wouldn't live to see her new clothes; perhaps he'd never wake up from his death-sleep. And all because of her! If she hadn't flirted with David, the young man wouldn't have felt compelled to show Travis that he was indeed a man. If only…she thought again but made herself stop.

Going to the chest, she pulled out a dress of heavy maroon corded silk, piped about the waist, neck, and cuffs with pink satin. Once dressed, she went to Travis again, bathing his cool face and washing the cut on his head which still seeped blood.

At midnight he began to move and thrash about on the bed, and Regan tried hard to restrain his flailing arms to keep him from hurting himself. Her strength was no match for his, so all she could do was throw herself on top of him, using her body weight to hold him.

By morning he grew tired again and seemed to fall asleep, although for the most part he kept his eyes closed. As the sun was entering through the window, Regan sat on the edge of the bed, her head on Travis's shoulder, and fell into a deep sleep.

What woke her was Travis's hand stroking her hair gently, calmly touching her hair and her neck. Instantly, she was fully awake, her head coming up to look at him and see if there was some lucidity in his gaze.

“Why are you dressed?” he asked hoarsely, as if that were the most important thing in the world.

She had no idea how rigidly she'd been holding her body for the last several hours, but now so much tension left her all at once that she was shaking, trembling. Great fat tears rushed to her eyes and glided down her cheeks. Not only was Travis going to get well, but his mind was unharmed.

He put a finger to her cheek, touched a tear. “The last thing I heard was the maintop breaking away. Did it hit me in the head?”

All she could do was nod, and the tears came harder. “Was that yesterday or the day before?”

“Before,” she mouthed, the lump in her throat so large she couldn't speak.

Travis began to smile, winced once with pain, and then the smile returned. “So those tears are for me?”

Again, all she could do was nod.

His eyes closing once again, he kept smiling. “It was worth a little bump on the head to see my girl shed tears for me,” he whispered before falling asleep.

Regan put her head back down on his chest and gave herself over to tears. She cried for all her fear at seeing Travis climbing after David, at having gone after Travis herself, and for the last several hours when she hadn't known whether he was going to live or die.

 

Travis was a wonderful patient, so wonderful in fact that Regan was exhausted within forty-eight hours. He took to being spoiled and pampered more easily than a new colt takes to walking. He wanted every meal spoon-fed to him by Regan, constantly needed her help in dressing, and wanted a sponge bath twice a day. Every time Regan suggested he try walking in order to regain his strength, Travis suddenly developed an even more severe headache than the one that plagued him constantly and needed Regan to run cool cloths over his forehead.

On the fourth day, when Regan was about to tell Travis she wished he had been washed overboard, she answered the door to find David Wainwright standing there.

“May I come in?” His arm was still bandaged, and there was a fading greenish bruise on his jaw.

With more strength than he'd shown in days, Travis sat up in bed. “Of course you can come in. Have a seat.”

“No,” David said quietly, not looking directly at Regan. “I came to thank you for saving my life.”

Travis studied the young man for a moment. “I only did it out of shame because you made the rest of us look like cowards.”

David's eyes widened, and he was well aware of the way he'd been paralyzed atop the yardarm and how Travis, patient even in the midst of the storm, had gotten him down to safety. Yet he also saw that Travis had no intention of repeating the story to anyone. David's shoulders straightened a little, and he gave a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes telling more than his words. Quickly, he left the cabin.

“How kind of you,” Regan said, bending and kissing Travis's cheek.

His arm flew out and caught her about the waist. “Your aim's off,” he growled, pulling her across him and kissing her on the mouth.

Regan's arms went around his neck, responding to him fully, her body well aware of the many days since she'd touched him in any way except an impersonal one. Pulling away from him, as his teeth gently chewed on her lower lip, she gave a deep chuckle. “An hour ago you were too weak to get out of bed.”

“I still don't want to get out of bed, but it has nothing to do with weakness,” he said, his hand at the back of her dress.

Instantly, she jumped out of bed. “Travis Stanford, if you tear another one of my lovely dresses, I'll never speak to you again.”

“I don't care if you do speak to me,” he said as he threw back the covers and showed her that he was more than ready for her.

“Oh my,” she breathed, her hand unbuttoning buttons faster than anyone's hands ever had before or since.

Gleefully, naked, she sprung into bed with him, running her legs up and down his body, her face buried in the soft skin of his neck. She had waited quite a long time for him to return to her bed, and she was as ready as he was. Yet, when she tried to pull him on top of her, he wouldn't budge.

“No, my little nurse,” he chuckled, and put his hands about her waist, lifting her like a doll and setting her on top of his manhood.

Gasping in surprise, it took Regan a moment to recover from her first sense of shock, but as Travis pushed her forward and took her breast in his mouth, her surprise gave way to delight. His hands ran up and down her back as his mouth teased the front of her. Never had she felt so many sensual areas touched at once. His strong hands moved back to her waist and lifted her, slowly, before setting her back down.

Regan did not think twice before she caught the rhythm herself. Her strong legs, muscled from walking about the constantly moving ship, moved her body up and down. She soon learned that she liked controlling the rhythm, fast or slow, bending to rub her breasts across Travis's chest, leaning over him, watching his handsome face turn to an angelic expression.

But her interest in watching him faded quickly, and as her passion mounted she began to move faster and faster. Travis grabbed her in a hard clasp and, never leaving her, rolled her onto her back, where he thrust hard and deep until the wave of release and delight swept over both of them.

Weak, he collapsed on top of her, his body coated in sweat, every muscle relaxed. Under him, Regan smiled and hugged him close. It added to her pleasure to have control over him, to be able to take someone as strong as Travis and turn him into this pliable, calm man atop her.

Still smiling, she fell asleep.

R
EGAN LAY BACK AGAINST THE CUSHIONS ON THE NARROW
bunkbed, weak and trembling, while Travis pressed a cold cloth to her forehead. Looking up at him in gratitude, she smiled as best she could. “What a time to get seasick,” she murmured.

Travis said nothing as he picked up the chamber pot containing the contents of Regan's stomach and went out on deck to empty it.

Regan was quiet, too weak to move as she lay there in the bed. Personally, she felt that this new sickness had something to do with what was going on in her mind. Of course she couldn't mention it to Travis, but she was quite scared of arriving in America, of being on her own in a strange country with people whose language she sometimes had to strain to understand.

It had been nearly a month since the storm, and since then she'd done little except help Sarah sew on her new clothes. There were no more flirtations with David Wainwright, no more attempts to make Travis jealous. Instead she'd spent her time with Travis, eating with him, making love with him, and talking to him. She found he was a wonderful storyteller, entertaining her with long narratives about his friends in Virginia. There were Clay and Nicole Armstrong, of whom Travis told an extraordinary story of how Clay had been married to one woman, a French aristocrat, and engaged to another woman. The way Travis told the story made Regan laugh until she cried, especially at the antics of Clay's niece and nephew.

He told her about his little brother, Wesley, and it took Regan days to figure out that Wes was a young man and not a child. Silently, she offered a prayer of support for any person who had to live under Travis's thumb. Then there were the Backes and all the other people up and down the river.

Regan listened with interest, adding to his stories with her imagination. Picturing these people, she conjured small, crude houses; the women in their simple calico gowns, even smoking corncob pipes; the men plain farmers hard at work in the fields. Smiling confidently, she hoped the people would not treat her as royalty merely because of the beautiful, expensive clothes she wore.

All of Travis's stories, and her own fantasies added to them, had made the long journey fly past, and it wasn't until this week that she'd begun to worry. She didn't know if the worry caused her vomiting or the other way around. All she knew was that suddenly she'd become very ill and weak, lying on the bunk, idly watching the ceiling, her stomach rolling.

Travis had been wonderful since she'd become ill, watching her quietly, holding her head over the pot, washing her face, and seeing that she rested. He'd even stopped working with the crew, not leaving her alone for more than a few minutes.

And Regan knew that all his attention was a way of saying goodbye to her. The pretty clothes and the last-minute attention were his final reward for the pleasure she'd given him on the voyage to America. Now he could be free of her, go back to his family and friends, and never have to see her again. No more would he have to put up with her flirting with other men, or her uselessness.

Tears began to trickle down her face. Why couldn't he have left her in England where at least she knew the customs of the people? Why did he have to force her to come to this strange place and then abandon her like so much rubbish?

She planned to tell him what she thought of him, but as soon as Travis returned to the cabin her stomach started heaving again, and her anger was abandoned.

“We've just sighted land,” Travis said, holding her in his arms, her head cradled against his warm, comforting chest. “By this time tomorrow we should be docked in Virginia Harbor.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Perhaps I won't be seasick once we're on land.”

This statement seemed to amuse Travis, who hugged her quickly and stroked her hair. “I think your seasickness will be over very soon.”

The next few hours were a frenzy of activity. Sarah put the last of Regan's new clothes in the trunk, and Travis paid her and the other women who'd helped with the sewing. There were tears shed as Sarah and Regan said goodbye. Sarah planned to stay on the ship and travel north to New York to be with her family. All of the many women whose heads Regan had held got together and presented her with a gift of a child-sized quilt done in the Rose of Sharon pattern.

“We figured you'd need it soon,” one woman said, her eyes teasing and glancing up at Travis.

“Thank you so much,” Regan said, pleased more than the women could know, there being no way of telling them that they were her first friends.

That night she lay awake in Travis's arms, looking at him in the moonlight. She wished he hadn't come to mean so much to her, that she could hate him as she had once done or even find him contemptible, but now all she felt was an overwhelming loneliness that she was losing so much—this big, overpowering man whom she'd come to depend on, as well as other women who considered her a friend, who didn't think she was useless.

By the next morning she was deathly quiet. Doing her best to smile, she stood on the quarterdeck and waved goodbye to her friends, all of them glad to be off the ship, excited about coming home or entering a new land.

Travis had left her alone while he ordered the unloading of goods. When she'd awakened this morning, after sleeping very late, she'd found the ship already docked and some people already disembarked. After a quick kiss, Travis said he'd be busy until afternoon, explaining that the storm had blown them closer to America, and since they were several days earlier than expected no one was there to meet them.

Them! Regan thought with disgust as she watched Travis ordering some sailors in the stacking of crates.

“Mrs. Stanford?”

Turning toward the timid voice, she saw David Wainwright behind her. He looked thinner than she remembered, and his eyes darted to gaze at a space somewhere to the left of her head.

“I want to wish you and your husband the best of everything,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” she said. His face showed all of the fear she felt, and she only hoped hers didn't look the same. “I hope we both like America more than we thought we would.”

He wouldn't take her hint at the conversations they'd once shared; his embarrassment was too deep. “Tell your husband….” He didn't seem able to finish but grabbed her hand, placed a hard kiss on it, met her eyes for a moment, gasped “Goodbye,” and then was gone, hurrying down the gangplank.

Warmed by David's sentiments, she leaned over the rail and saw Travis frowning up at her. Raising her hand, she waved gaily at him and thought for the first time that perhaps she could make it alone in this new country. After all, she'd made friends on board ship. Perhaps….

Travis gave her no more time to think, because minutes later he was telling her to hurry up and eat, to wear something sturdy, to finish putting her clothes in the trunk—in general, running her life.

He couldn't wait to get rid of her, she thought, obeying him but with a slowness Travis found maddening.

“Either you finish that in two minutes or I carry you out of here,” he warned. “I have a wagon waiting for us, and I'd like to get there before sundown.”

Her curiosity won out over her resentment. “Where are we going? Did…did you find me employment?”

Pausing, the trunk across his back, Travis grinned at her. “I found you a great job! One you're especially good at. Now, come on, let's go.”

Using all her strength, Regan tried not to let his words upset her but followed him down the gangplank, her head held high.

He tossed the trunk into the ugliest, most dilapidated vehicle she'd ever seen.

“Sorry,” he laughed at her obvious disgust. “I told you we were early, and this was all I could get. We're driving to a friend of mine's tonight, and tomorrow I'll borrow a sloop.”

Nothing Travis said made sense to Regan. She knew a sloop was some sort of ship but didn't have any idea why Travis would want to borrow one. Grabbing her waist and plunking her down on the half-rotten wagon seat with as much ceremony as he'd used with the trunk, he climbed up beside her and clucked for the two tired-looking horses to go.

The country they traveled through looked wilder, more forbidding than England, and the road was atrocious, really little more than a rutted path. As her jarring teeth attested, Travis hit all of the ruts.

Chuckling, he watched her. “Now you see why we travel mostly by water. Tomorrow we'll be in a smooth little sloop, with no holes to fall into.”

She had no idea where she'd be tomorrow as Travis seemed to want to keep her employer a secret—and she wasn't about to ask him for details, not when she knew her questions would earn that infuriating look of his.

The sun was just setting when they stopped at the first house they saw—a neat, clean, whitewashed little clapboard. Early spring flowers graced the front path, a warm breeze gently bending the colorful petals. It was a plain house but certainly of a higher caliber than Regan had expected in America.

Travis's knock was answered by a plump, gray-haired woman wearing a calico apron over her muslin dress. “Travis,” she said. “We thought something was wrong. The man you sent said you'd be here hours earlier.”

“Hello, Martha,” he said, kissing her cheek. “It just took us longer than I thought. The Judge here?”

Martha laughed. “You're as impatient as ever. I take it this is the young lady.”

Possessively, Travis put his arm around Regan. “This is Regan, and this is Martha.”

Gulping once at Travis's crude manners, Regan held out her hand. “I am happy to meet you, Mrs.—?”

“Just Martha,” she smiled. “You're in America now. Come into the parlor. The Judge is waiting for you.”

Swept forward by Travis's arm around her, Regan was propelled into a pleasant room with clean, well-worn furniture covered in a soft green, the windows draped in a fabric of the same color. Before she could say any more, she was introduced to the Judge, a tall, nearly bald man who seemed to have no name besides Judge.

One moment Regan was shaking hands, and the next she heard the words, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of our Lord….” Bewildered, thinking her hearing was faulty, she looked at the people around her. Martha was smiling angelically at her husband, who had a book open in front of him and was reading a marriage ceremony. Travis, holding her hand, had an astonishingly solemn look on his face.

It took Regan several minutes to realize what was going on. Without having been asked if she agreed, she was being married to Travis Stanford! She was standing in front of these strangers, wearing a dark green traveling dress of heavy linen, her face dirty, tired, her brow creased with worry about her future—and she was going through a marriage ceremony! Glancing up at Travis's solemn profile, she thought that for once he'd gone too far. When she got married, she was going to be asked, and she was going to wear her prettiest dress.

She realized that everyone was watching her. The Judge smiled and said, “Regan, wilt thou take this man for your husband?”

Looking up at Travis with the sweetest, most lovesick smile she could muster, she whispered, “No.”

It was a moment before anyone reacted. Martha gave out a giggle that showed she knew Travis's domineering ways well, while the Judge hurriedly looked at his book. His face aflame with anger, Travis grabbed Regan's upper arm and half dragged her into the entrance hall, closing the parlor door behind him.

“Just what the hell was that little display supposed to mean?” he growled, his face very near hers.

Involuntarily taking a step backward, Regan tried to keep her courage up. She was in the right, and she had that on her side. “You never even asked me if I wanted to marry you. You didn't ask if I wanted to come to America either. I'm tired of your making all my decisions for me.”

“Decisions!” he gasped. “There are no decisions to be made by either one of us. Fate has made them for us.”

At her look of consternation, he groaned. “I'd try to shake some sense into you, but I'm afraid it'd hurt the baby.”

“Baby?” she whispered.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Travis seemed to be praying for strength. “You can't be so damned starry-eyed that you didn't realize that what we do in bed creates babies.” At her silence, he continued in a quieter tone. “You didn't really think you'd been seasick these last few weeks, did you?”

Gently, he caressed her cheek. “Sweetheart, you're carrying my baby, and I make it a rule always to marry the mother of my children.”

Stunned, Regan could form no coherent thoughts. “But employment,” she whispered. “And I can't get married in this dress, and I have no flowers, and…and…oh Travis! A baby!”

Gathering her in his arms, he held her tightly. “I thought you knew. I thought you were just trying to keep it from me. I wouldn't have known either, except my friend Clay's wife threw up right in front of me one day. She told me a lot of women did that the first few months. Now, love,” he said, lifting her chin. “Will you marry me?”

When she hesitated, he continued. “You can do all the work you want at my place,” he smiled, “so you can satisfy any need you have to earn your keep. And as for your dress, I like you better wearing nothing, so whatever dress you wear is fine, and, besides, it's only Martha and the Judge here. For flowers I could pick some from Martha's garden.”