Sea of Christmas Miracles Read online

  Sea of Christmas

  Miracles

  a novella

  by

  Christine Dorsey

  First published by ZEBRA BOOKS, 1993

  Copyright 1993 and 2012 by Christine Dorsey

  Digitally published by Christine Dorsey at Smashwords, 2012

  Cover Design by Hot Damn Designs

  Ebook Design by A Thirsty Mind

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Table of Contents

  Sea of Christmas Miracles

  Reader Letter

  Excerpt: My Savage Heart

  Titles

  Christine Dorsey

  Sea of Christmas Miracles

  December 22, 1896

  Charleston, South Carolina

  “Wake up.”

  The muffled words coupled with a sharp prod to his ribs jerked Thomas Blackstone from the sleep he’d drifted into while working at his desk. He squinted into the darkness. “Wilson?”

  “It’s not Wilson.” And again something jabbed hard into his side as Thomas tried to swivel about. “I’ve a loaded gun and won’t hesitate to use it.”

  “What the hell...?” Hands flattened on the polished wood Thomas pushed to his feet, stopping only when he heard the unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked. With forced calm he sank back into the cushioned leather chair. “Who are you? What do you want? And where the hell is Wilson?”

  “For a man two minutes from eternity you ask a lot of questions. Now put your hands behind your back.”

  “What for?” Thomas concentrated on the voice, trying to place it. Wondering, too, if he could knock the gun away before it blew a hole the size of South Carolina in him.

  “What for?” The voice rose in aggravation. “So I can tie your hands, of course.”

  “If I’m headed for eternity, I’d just as soon do it with my hands free.”

  “You only take the journey if you don’t do as I say. Now lean forward.”

  Thomas hesitated only a moment before complying, crossing his arms at the wrist behind him. Whoever was holding the gun to his back sounded desperate and more than a little edgy. With the gun cocked, it would be so easy to gently nudge the trigger. “What’s this all about?” Thomas was used to knowing what was what. Identify the problem and find a solution. A philosophy he lived by.

  “Certainly with your family history you should recognize what I’m doing.” The barrel was held firmly against his ribs as a cord circled his wrists. “I, Mister Blackstone, am kidnapping you.”

  “Kidnapping!” Thomas twisted his hands but they were already tied firmly. “You’ll never get away with this, you know. I have a great deal of influence in Charleston and...”

  “I know who you are. I know all about you.”

  “Then you’re aware that you’re in big trouble when I get loose.” Thomas realized how stupid his words were even before he heard his captor’s throaty laugh. What could be a better motive to pull the trigger than the fear of unrelenting revenge. Thomas decided to soften his approach.

  “Listen, Mister... What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. Stand up.”

  “I’m sure we can work something out. If it’s money you want...” Thomas pushed to his feet when the gun poked into his spine.

  “Outside.”

  The tone effectively halted Thomas’s attempts to negotiate. He used his thigh to feel his way around his desk. The room was dark; Wilson had already shut the drapes on the cool Charleston night. And someone, his kidnapper, he assumed, had turned off the gaslights. But his eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. Now if he could only...

  “Don’t think about trying anything. I’ve only to squeeze ever so slightly.”

  His captor left the consequences unspoken, but Thomas could fill in the obvious. He took a deep breath, frowning when he caught a whiff of something citrusy. It reminded him of the oranges his mother used to decorate Royal Oak’s parlor at Christmas. The wrinkle between his dark brows deepened. It was two days before Christmas, probably the reason he thought of it. Or maybe it was the threat of death that made one remember such things... regrets and broken promises.

  Like the letter he had Wilson post last week to his parents. For the second year in a row he wasn’t returning to the family plantation for Christmas. Duty called. The duties of making money.

  Merry and Andrew will be at Royal Oak with all the children. They were so disappointed when you couldn’t be home last year. We all were, his mother wrote to him last month. Can’t you please fit a trip home into your schedule this year?

  Last December he was in London arranging a very lucrative sale of phosphates. He didn’t like it that he couldn’t be with the family, but someone had to remember how important it was to rebuild the family fortune.

  And this year...? Work had piled up. Which was why he was at his desk late tonight. Why he was currently being held at gunpoint.

  A none-too-gentle nudge directed Thomas to stand aside. A hand whipped around and opened the door to the anteroom used by Wilson. The small office was brightly lit, but empty. “What did you do to my secretary?”

  “I sent him home.”

  There was just a touch of humor in the voice and Thomas started to twist around, stopping only when the gun gouged deeper into his side. “Wilson wouldn’t just leave.” Wilson was loyal to the marrow. Even if it was almost Christmas. Thomas paid him to be.

  “Well, he did,” the voice assured. “Now out the door. Not that one.” Annoyance deepened the intruder’s tone as Thomas headed for the door that fronted on Tradd Street. Even from inside Thomas could hear holiday revelers moving about on the newly built concrete sidewalk. “The back door,” came the order and Thomas turned down the narrow hallway that ran the length of the building.

  The hand shot around him again and the door opened onto the dark, deserted alley. “Where are we going?” Thomas questioned, not surprised when he received no answer. The night was cool, but not too uncomfortable even in his shirtsleeves, though there was a brisk wind off the bay. The weather was one thing Thomas liked about Charleston. Soft winters, hot summers. With a hurricane or earthquake thrown in to shake off complacency.

  Maybe he didn’t spend as much time at Royal Oak as he should, but unlike most others who’d made their fortunes in phosphates, Thomas didn’t follow the exodus to Atlanta or Nashville. He stayed in Charleston. Where his family had lived for generations. It was not as if he deserted his loved ones.

  Annoyed with the maudlin turn of his thoughts, Thomas concentrated on trying to figure out who was holding a gun on him. The voice, though muffled, didn’t sound familiar. And money didn’t seem to be the motive, at least not the easy money the man could have taken from the safe in his office.

  Of course, there was always the chance that one of his enemies had hired someone to kill him. Thomas began mentally listing the people who might like to see him out of the way, stopping when the number exceeded the fingers on one hand. Hell, anyone would step on some toes while building an empire. Besides, most of his enemies knew how to play the game... and it wasn’t by brandishing loa
ded guns.

  They headed west behind Tradd Street toward the Ashley River. The moon hung low in the sky, only occasionally peeking through a blanket of clouds. But it offered enough light so that neither Thomas nor his captor tripped over the piles of trash that fouled the alley, giving off an unpleasant stench.

  “You realize, I won’t be able to hand over any money this far from my office.” After eliminating most of his enemies from suspicion, Thomas concluded that the kidnapper’s motive must be lining his pockets. But his reply contradicted that theory. In fact it sent his mind racing in another direction.

  “I’m not interested in your money, Thomas Blackstone.”

  He’d heard those words before... and recently. Of course they were insincere then. When push came to shove she was more than willing to settle for cold cash. “Did Louise put you up to this?” Thomas turned, catching a glimpse of his captor, short and bundled beyond recognition. The man moved quickly, jumping behind him and slamming the gun into his back.

  “Do that again, and I’ll shoot you. I swear I will.” Margaret Lewis held her breath, hoping she was convincing enough to keep him facing forward and moving. Apparently she was for he started down the alley, continuing to ask questions about someone named Louise. So there was another woman who wouldn’t mind seeing Thomas Blackstone strung up by his heels. That didn’t surprise Margaret, though she imagined Louise had a different motive.

  “Did Louise send you? Because if she did, you’ll never see the money she promised. Or maybe she plans to pay you with her favors. I wouldn’t trust her there either.”

  “I don’t know any Louise,” Margaret said, hoping to put an end to his relentless questions. She didn’t want to hear about Thomas Blackstone’s love life. They were nearing the river, and she was worried about keeping control of him while they boarded the small boat she’d left there.

  Thomas trudged along, hands tied behind him and came to the conclusion that Louise had nothing to do with this. Not because his captor denied knowledge of Thomas’s former mistress, but because this wasn’t Louise’s style. If one was to believe her words to him when he ended their relationship—offering a very generous settlement—she would sooner gouge his eyes out as look at him. If she were pointing a gun his way, the target would be several inches lower than his back. Thomas shuddered just thinking about it.

  She’d said more, of course. Accusing him of being callous. Of loving no one. That wasn’t true. He loved his mother, and his father, his sister Merry. Hell, he even loved the passel of nieces and nephews Merry and her husband, Andrew, added to almost every year.

  But he didn’t love Louise, and never pretended to. She’d been his mistress for six months, until the passion waned. Actually the liaison lasted longer than the passion, but by last month it was obvious even habit wasn’t enough to keep him visiting the house he’d bought her on Calhoun Street.

  In an angry fit she insisted upon knowing who her replacement was, spouting off the names of several Charleston beauties. Thomas denied taking anyone new as his lover... that’s when she called him a liar and threatened revenge on that part of his anatomy she’d always professed to adore. But the fact was, he hadn’t lied to her. There was no one else then, nor in the month since. Thomas told himself there hadn’t been time to establish another entanglement. But he wondered if the truth didn’t go deeper than that.

  Five mistresses in the past two years. They were all beautiful, voluptuous women eager to do anything at all for him. And he’d been bored silly by each and every one. If it hadn’t been for his need for sexual release—

  God, what in the hell was thinking about that for?

  “Down that way.”

  They’d come to the river, the scent of pluff mud thick in the air. Not surprisingly instead of heading toward the docks, his captor steered him right toward the marsh and mud flats. His shoes squished into the soft soil with every step, slowing his movements. Which meant the man with the gun had the same problem.

  Thomas wasn’t certain what made him decide that enough was enough. But he was tired of trying to figure out why he was being held captive. Tired of being a captive. Tired period.

  The lonesome call of an owl served as his signal. Thomas twisted about, his shoulder lowered to ram into his kidnapper. He heard a muffled cry.

  The slippery ground saved her. Margaret’s feet slid out from under her, sending her sprawling on her back in the mud, just as she noticed Thomas Blackstone turn on her. The bone jarring thrust of his shoulder only glanced her. That turned out to be little comfort, as she tried to scurry to her feet. But Thomas was quick. Before she could even pull her arm from the sucking mud, and aim the gun, he threw himself atop her.

  Air whooshed from her lungs.

  Margaret wriggled and squirmed, writhing in the gooshy marsh mud. He pinned her arm, rolling onto it and pushing it further into the muck. His body was like a vise, and she couldn’t get loose. But in the darkness, he didn’t see that he’d pinned the wrong arm. The revolver had grown so heavy she’d switched it to her left hand moments before she fell. Margaret shut her eyes.

  With all her strength she heaved her free arm from the mud and slammed the revolver into the side of Thomas Blackstone’s head.

  His dead weight buried her deeper in the mud.

  Margaret lay beneath him a moment, garnering her strength, before trying to roll him off. When she finally managed, he lay sprawled on his back in the slime. Margaret pushed to her knees, and leaned over him, her breath coming in shallow gasps. His silk shirt was dirty and torn. Her hands shook as she yanked off heavy gloves and slipped her hand beneath the fabric. Her fingers tangled in a thatch of curling hair as she searched for his heartbeat.

  Relief washed through her and she let out a shattered breath when she felt the steady rhythm. Thank God she hadn’t killed him. But her joy was short-lived. He was unconscious. And though that certainly lessened the chances of his attacking her again, how was she supposed to get him across the mud flats and into the boat?

  After nearly an hour of trying to drag, shove, and prod him through the muck, cursing his size over and over, she gave up. She wiped away the blood on his forehead, stuffed her hat over the wound and untied his hands. The Negro she found near the docks ten minutes later didn’t question her story about getting her drunken husband home. She wrung her hands, mentioned waiting little ones and lamented that he had passed out so close to their boat.

  “Strong drink never did nobody no good,” he said as he heaved Thomas over his shoulder.

  The man seemed embarrassed by the coin that Margaret offered, but she pressed it to his palm and hurriedly climbed into the shallop.

  She retied Blackstone’s hands, this time in front. After wrapping the cord around his feet she tied the excess to the oarlocks. Confident that he couldn’t escape even when he regained his senses, Margaret took back her hat, cleaned him up as best she could, then covered him with a wool blanket. She unwrapped the scarves and coveralls she wore for disguise, and bundled into the coat she left on the boat earlier. The night was growing colder with a northeasterly wind that caught the sail as soon as she unfurled it.

  Margaret let out a sigh of relief as the shallop sailed down the Ashley River toward the open sea.

  His head hurt like hell.

  Thomas slitted open his eyes, grimacing with the pain that small movement caused and quickly shut them again. The cry of a gull overhead and the clean salt air reminded him of the time he and Natee had camped out near Morgan Creek. The memory brought a smile to his lips, despite the throbbing ache in his head. Those had been the days, when he sailed the creek and fished and hunted with the ancient Indian. He’d been happy and free.

  Free.

  Thomas’s arms twitched and were immediately caught by the ropes that bound him. His eyes shot open, pain exploded on the side of his head and he stared straight ahead. He could tell it was morning, though the clouds were dark and billowy. But there was enough light to make out the other occupant of t
he boat. “Who in the hell are you?”

  The woman turned from her study of the sky, and stared at him from beneath a battered felt hat. Her lips thinned slightly. “You’re awake,” she said in a voice that sounded oddly familiar. She also sounded annoyed. She sounded annoyed.

  “Hell, yes, I’m awake.” Thomas tried to straighten his back as memories of the previous night flooded back. The ropes stopped him. “Untie me!”

  For a moment she looked as if she was considering his demand, but then only shook her head. A tangle of curly brown hair spilled from beneath the wide-brimmed hat. She absently tucked it back. “I think not,” she finally answered. “You’re too angry. And I’m tired of holding the gun.” She glanced down to where a revolver rested on the wooden seat beside her.

  Thomas’s gaze followed, then shot back to meet hers. “Holding the gun!” Color drained from his face as realization set in. “You’re the one who came to my office last night?” Thomas didn’t need her clipped acknowledgment to confirm it. “I was captured and trussed like a Christmas goose by a woman.” And a little slip of a woman at that.

  “You find that difficult to accept?” Margaret lifted her chin and stared down at him.

  “Frankly, yes.”

  “Well, women can do many things, Mister Blackstone. You’ve no idea what we’re capable of.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” His eyes narrowed, as Thomas decided to dwell on his indignation rather than the uncomfortable sting of embarrassment. “Who are you?” He didn’t think he’d ever seen her before, though he could be wrong. He couldn’t see her face very well. The hat was pulled low and the light was dim. But she seemed rather ordinary looking except for the spectacles perched on her nose.

  “I’m Margaret Howe Lewis,” she answered in that low voice that he would have found sensual had the circumstances been different... a lot different. “You needn’t act as if you don’t recognize the name,” she continued, anger coloring her tone. “Even you should be able to remember something if you’ve seen it often enough.”