Twice In A Lifetime Read online

  “No. Just take over loading the salvageable cargo. I’ll see to her.” The words came out harsh, but matched the tight anger in his gut. Anger he could not explain and did not want to explore. This woman was injured and a guest on his ship. That made her his responsibility. It was not anger over the image of another man tending to her. Not at all.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Ian wrapped an arm around her waist. “Miss, can you walk?”

  “Yes.” She leaned into his body as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her gaze never left his face. Something inside him sparked as he stared into her dark eyes, something that scared him more than a fifty foot swell. A feeling, a connection, something more than physical appeal, though that was most assuredly present too.

  It was as if his very soul leapt.

  “And lieutenant, tell Edwards to boil some of his medicinal tea for the lady,” he ordered, ignoring the unsettling thoughts.

  “Ian, I know you're angry, but don't act like you don’t know me.” She clutched his hand and heat sizzled up his arm. “You were right. I was wrong. But now I'm hurt and need your help.” Tears filled her eyes, pricking his conscience.

  He patted her hand for reassurance as they walked. “I’ll be glad to assist you.” He smiled. “Why don’t you tell me your name? Then I’ll know.”

  Her shoulders drooped. “Fine. Whatever. Isabella Douglas.”

  “Ah, yes.” My wife. She had a nasty cut on the head for certain and that could explain her confusion about being married. But that didn't explain how she knew his name.

  He led her to the quarter deck and through the door, her wet skirt slapping against his boots as they made their way to the cabin. The cool, dark air of the interior hall surrounded them, and she shivered as they passed the stairwell to the lower deck, her small body pressing closer to his.

  White-blond hair stood out in tufts like a bird with ruffled feathers, exotic, her rich, coffee colored eyes peeked at him expectantly. No, they had never met. How could a man ever forget her?

  “Ian—” She stumbled and with an impatient growl, he swept her into his arms.

  She snuggled to his chest and laid her head on his shoulder, her arms snaking around his neck.

  “Ian, do you hate me? Is that why you’re acting this way?” Her soft lips brushed his throat as she spoke, warm, silky, sending erotic images through his mind. Slow, wet kisses. Her body slick with sweat beneath his. Her mouth—

  Damn the devil, he needed to get away from her. He did not have time for this. He had to find Alicia!

  He increased his pace until they reached his door, then nudged it open and carried

  her inside. “That's the second time you indicated I might be angry. I don't hate you— even though you called me an ass,” he assured and kicked the door closed. “I have not known you long enough to even dislike you.”

  She gasped and struggled in his embrace. “Damn it, we're married.”

  He tightened his grip. “Stop thrashing. You'll further your injury.”

  She stilled at his words but looked up at him with a mournful expression. Hell, now he had hurt her feelings.

  “Isabella—”

  “You only call me that when you're mad.”

  He placed her in a chair beside the bed and squatted to stare into her face. “Fine. What do I call you then?” He kept his voice low, hiding the frustration he felt. Maybe it was best to humor her. He didn't have time for feminine hysterics. Each moment wasted meant another moment Daniel sailed farther away with Alicia.

  “Izzy.” Her eyes were huge, filled with sadness and regret. And pain.

  “All right, Izzy. I am not mad. I do not hate you.” He took her trembling hand in his. “I just want to dress your head. Then I want you to rest. Please?”

  “Okay.” She gave a weepy smile.

  He gave her hand a squeeze and went to dig through his sea chest.

  “Here. This will have to suffice for now. It will at least make a proper night-rail.” He placed a white shirt on the bed. “Let me find something for bandages.” Turning to the cabinet that held a pitcher and wash basin, he took out a long strip of material and doused one end in rum.

  When he turned again, she was face down on his desk.

  “You must sit up so I can attend your wound.”

  “Want to sleep.” Her words were muffled against her arm.

  “I know. I apologize. Just let me apply this dressing and you can change.” He knelt and inspected the cut. Perhaps a piece of wood caught her, but whatever the culprit, the thick wig prevented serious injury. Winding the strip around her head, he surveyed his work. “There. That should hold.” He stood and splashed a mouthful of rum into a cup. “Drink this. It will help with the pain. Then you should lie down.”

  She clutched the drink between shaking hands. “T-thanks.” Her nose wrinkled as she drank. “Jeez, that tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

  “It will help.” He accepted the empty mug. “I have some work to see to on deck, but I will check on you later.” He stepped toward the door. “Get some sleep.”

  “Wait.” She staggered to her feet and presented her back. “I need help undoing the laces.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Had it been so long since he’d stripped a woman that he forgot about the intricate working of a bodice?

  Ian stepped forward, cursing his cock for throbbing to life. She was injured for Christ’s sake, asking for help, not offering her body. Was he so pitifully in need?

  He swallowed hard and forced his shaky fingers to move. The silky skin of her back brushed against his knuckles as he parted the dress. Her scent filled his nostrils, intoxicating, erotic.

  “There.” He jerked away. “You should be able to manage from there.” He had to

  leave. The temptation she presented was too great.

  “Thanks.” She peeled the waterlogged dress and chemise free from her slim body and let them fall to the floor as if her nakedness in front of him was common.

  Ian forgot to breath. Her breasts were small, but round with tempting pink nipples that begged to be suckled. His heart lurched, his cock hardened, urging him to move a little closer. A pull like he’d never felt. Was this woman a siren? A sea witch? Damn, he should just leave her to rest. Let one of the crewmen see to her care from here forward.

  The hell he would.

  “Can you hand me the shirt?” she asked as she peeled cotton drawers from her rounded bottom.

  “Um. . .” He couldn’t move. What she wore under the drawers made his heart stop. A scrap of black lace lay between round, smooth cheeks, a sight that made his ballocks ache. Then she wiggled the lace free. Deuce! His cock lengthened, pressing against the buttons on his breeches. She was smooth everywhere. Smooth and rosy pink and—

  “Ian?”

  “I, um, yes.” He held the shirt out to her, hanging from the tips of his finger, afraid to move any closer lest he forget she was hurt.

  “Thanks.” She tugged the fabric from his grasp and pulled it over her head. The cotton whispered down her curves, settling over her full hips. “Where should I put these wet things?” Her voice was soft, weary.

  “I’ll hang the dress in the galley to dry. But those,” he nodded to her undergarments, “you’ll have to hang in here. I don’t think the men need to see them.” Hell, he had not needed to see them. Now he’d have to walk around with a half-mast in his breeches.

  She nodded, then gasped and touched her temple. “Later. I— I need to lie down.” The gentle sway of her bottom as she walked to the bed made Ian more desperate to get away. “Could you get me some Advil before you go?”

  Her words stopped his trek to the door.

  “Why would you want an anvil?” Maybe she was demented.

  She closed her eyes on a grimace of pain. “Enough pirate, Ian. My head hurts.”

  Rage snapped through him like wind in a crisp sail. “I'm not a pirate. I'm a privateer, commissioned by the British government.” A privateer searching
for his sister. Daniel Roberts. Now he was a pirate— without a doubt the man who had kidnapped Alicia. Possibly the man who had fired on Izzy's ship.

  “Okay. Whatever.” She pinched the skin between her eyes. “Can you just bring me something for pain?”

  She looked small and helpless lying in bed. His gut twisted with sympathy, cooling the anger Daniel provoked. Izzy had no blame in the chaos that black-leg had caused.

  “I'll have Edwards, our cook, send his son with the brew that will ease you.”

  He pulled the blankets over her bare legs, resisting the urge to caress her smooth skin. “After I see to things on deck, I’ll check on you. When you feel better, we’ll talk.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear what you’re going to say.”

  He cupped her cheek. “Don’t worry. Rest.”

  She closed her eyes, a single tear trailing down her face. What had happened to her? Maybe with some sleep she would come to her senses.

  If not… Ian didn't know what he would do with a woman who claimed to be his wife.

  Chapter Three

  “Lady, are ye dead?”

  Izzy tried to open her eyes. Who the hell poked her? How long had she been out? Fatigue weighted her aching muscles like an anchor. She’d been having the strangest dream. An accident on the set, then she and Ian were suddenly in a pirate movie. Except he didn’t recognize—

  “Lady. Wake up. The captain said yer to drink this.”

  Captain? Oh, shit.

  Her eyes shot open. She lay sprawled across a double bed in a ship’s cabin. Polished wooden walls gleamed in the sunlight, a small Oriental rug covered the space in front of a tall, double cabinet and hurricane lanterns lit the wall near a narrow teak desk.

  Ian’s desk. Ian’s walls. Ian’s bed.

  Christ. What was going on? How could he afford this boat— even as a rental. They didn’t have that kind of money! And to carry her off set… What had he said on the dock? “Have it your way. For now.” Damn him, he planned it all along. He kidnapped her.

  “Lady!”

  She bolted upright in bed, then groaned. “Please. Stop. Yelling.” Her freakin’ head felt like a baseball after extra innings. Why the hell had Ian let her go to sleep? She could have a concussion. Did he want to finish her off? Was this about revenge?

  She blinked once, twice, then focused on the blurry image of a curly-haired boy.

  “Here.” He shoved a cup into her hand. “Captain Douglas says drink all of it.” He grinned like someone who just put a frog in his sister’s shoe.

  Izzy eyed the concoction, then sniffed and clamped her mouth shut. The greenish liquid smelled like dirty feet. Sadistic little shit.

  “No way.” She set the cup onto the floor. “What's your name?” Maybe she could pry some information out of this kid. He’d probably overheard some of Ian’s plans.

  “Ben.” He retrieved the cup and held out to her. “Captain’s orders.”

  The boy kept in character, she’d give him that. He’d probably win an Oscar someday. Didn’t bode well though that he was so loyal to Ian.

  “I don’t do well with orders. Besides, it smells horrible. Have you ever tasted this stuff?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma'am. I fell from the mizzen mast last summer. Had to drink

  lots of it.” His small chest puffed out. “Captain said I took it like a real man.”

  Izzy smiled. “Well, I'm not a man.” And she wasn’t drinking this, miracle cure or not. All she wanted from Ben was information. “I’m not as brave as you, that’s for sure.” A little flattery couldn’t hurt.

  A flush crawled up his freckled face as he grinned. “Well, yer a girl. Girls is s’posed to be took care of. They don’t have to be brave.” He took the cup and wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Father said ye claim to be the captain's wife.”

  “I am his wife.” How damned long did Ian intend to keep playing this game?

  Ben shrugged as if it wasn't important, then pulled at a string on his well-worn, cropped pants. “Well, Captain don't want no women on board. ‘Course once we catch that scoundrel Roberts what stole off with Miss Alicia, she’ll be here.”

  Alicia? “Wait a minute.” Izzy swung her legs over the edge of the berth, blood racing through her veins, pounding in her temples, twisting her gut. “You say Daniel Roberts kidnapped Alicia?” Dear God, why would Ian tell such an outrageous lie?

  Ben backed up, eyes wide at her outburst. “Yes, ma'am. That's why we've been all over the Caribbean tryin’ to find her.”

  None of this made sense. Alicia had been dead almost a year. And they weren’t in the Caribbean.

  Izzy ran her fingers over the bandage. Was she losing her mind? Or had the grief driven Ian crazy? Cold fear settled in the pit of her stomach. She needed a dose of reality and Ian needed help. More help than she could give alone. Maybe Celeste could have an ambulance meet them.

  “Ben, I need a cell phone.”

  He frowned. “A what?”

  “Come on. I bet you have a kick-ass Blackberry or Droid. Give it to me.” She wiggled her fingers.

  Ben shook his head and edged to the door. “I think ye better rest, ma'am. The captain will check on ye later.” He clutched the knob, a wary look in his eyes. “Then ye can ask him about foam and blackberries.” The door slammed in his wake.

  Great. No doubt he’d go blab to Ian. She’d have to hurry.

  Climbing from the bed, she ran to the desk. Ian was a creature of habit. The top drawer would hold his cell and truck keys. She peered inside.

  Empty. Okay, so he was a sneaky creature of habit.

  She dug through the desk, pushed aside thick parchment paper, a feather quill, a bottle of ink and several maps. Old maps, dated from the 1700’s. Oh, he was good. She’d seen movie sets with less authenticity.

  She yanked open another drawer. An old-timey picture of Alicia and Ian— one she’d never seen before.

  The next drawer held letters. The first one from Alicia… dated 1768. Her handwriting, her signature, the contents about things that made no sense— a governor’s ball, an afternoon tea, a carriage ride, a marriage proposal? None of this sounded like Alicia. She had been a party girl, drugs, alcohol, a girl whose poor choice in men along with drinking and driving got her— and very nearly Daniel— killed.

  Dead girls did not write letters.

  A ghostly shiver rippled down her spine. How? Even if Ian had hired a crew to play in this hoax, no way could Alicia be a part of it.

  Izzy dropped into the chair. Dear God. I was killed in the explosion.

  No, no. Wait. Maybe it was a dream after all. Yeah, dreaming was so much better than dead. She took another deep breath and pinched her arm until it turned purple.

  “Ouch.” Okay, not dreaming, hopefully not dead.

  Another shiver skated over her skin. The other option was too unbelievable. Celeste didn’t have real magical power. Did she? No. There had to be something here to prove Ian had kidnapped her.

  She raced to the cabinet and dug through it, then to Ian's sea chest, tossing

  everything onto the bed. No jeans, no T-shirts, no wallet, no I-Pod. Damn, he always had his music.

  Next she felt along all the walls, searching for a hidden TV or computer. There had to be a hidden fuse panel or light switch. Something. Anything.

  Several minutes later, Izzy flopped onto the bed, disbelief thrumming through her brain. Ian just planned ahead. That’s all. He knew she’d search for a phone or laptop— a way to let someone know he’d taken her. That had to be it. Had to be.

  Warm tropical air caressed her face, lulling her to the window. The ship slowed as they approached a lush bay. She scanned the turquoise water, turquoise like in the Caribbean, not in the Pacific.

  Okay, okay. That didn’t matter. Any minute a yacht or jet ski would speed by. Maybe she could signal one of them.

  She grabbed a spyglass from the desk and peered toward the shore. Thick nausea crawled up he
r throat. Where was everything? No cars, no skyscrapers, no neon signs, no tourist buses. Not a phone tower or electric pole anywhere. Just rough wooden shanties that didn't look as if they could withstand a strong wind. People walking, dressed in 18th century clothing. The ships around them wore sails. Wooden hulls and masts. Nothing with motors, nothing modern…

  Ian couldn’t do this. He didn’t have that kind of money or connections.

  A sick feeling knotted her gut.

  Oh, Celeste, what have you done? “I said reverse the past— like a year ago. Not two hundred and fifty years!”

  She leaned back on the cabinet, then slid to the floor and hung her head. What the hell did she do now? How did this magic shit work?

  Where the hell was her fairy voodoo godmother to explain the damned rules? And what good did it do to go back in time if Ian didn’t even know her? None, that’s what. Screw this.

  “I’m not staying, Celeste. You hear me?” There had to be a way back to the future. She jumped to her feet and replaced all of Ian’s clothes, then put the desk in order. “Okay, now, bring me back to you.”

  Izzy squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing happened. “Celeste?” She waited. And waited. “I guess that’s a ‘no’?” Damn.

  “Remember, second chances are rare. If you get one, don’t run. Fight for what you want.” Celeste’s words blew in on the breeze.

  Izzy scanned the room as the hairs prickled on her arms. “All right, yes, fine. I get it. I’ve got second chance. But Ian doesn’t remember me. What good is that?” Silence answered. “Oh, sure. Now you’re quiet.”

  Fine. There had to be answer. She started pacing.

  Okay, Ian might not remember her, but surely Celeste wouldn’t send her here without a plan. Think. So he didn’t remember the past…That could be a good thing. It meant he didn’t remember their fights. Izzy stopped pacing. It also meant Alicia was still alive. Maybe. But if she ran off with Daniel— which sounded much closer to the truth than kidnapping— then who knows what they were doing. If it was drinking and partying, then the outcome might be—

  “You're supposed to be sleeping.” Ian’s deep voice rumbled in the quiet room.