Storm of the Heart

By Anna Small

Searching the beach for washed-up treasures, Abigail Quinn never expects to rescue a mysterious stranger. It's 1814 and war with England rages on the land and sea. With her husband a victim of the British invaders, Abigail fears the stranger’s arrival can only mean danger to the people of Lobster Cove. Spy or traitor, William Bennson has no memory of his past. But seeking his true identity may bring the end of his future with Abigail. Or, worse--the end of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628306835

Anna Small

Anna wrote her first romance novel when she was 16. Her mother's only criticism was not to have any love scenes. Anna was sorry to disappoint her. Several books and years later, she is happily writing heartwarming, sensual historical and contemporary romances which capture the imagination of her readers. She loves reading Jane Austen and Shakespeare, as well as modern authors. Sharing the journey are her husband of 15 years and their two children, who support her dreams.

Book preview

Inc.

He sighed, reveling in the ticklish sensation as he swam like an otter, naked and unashamed, in a clear blue stream crossing through a forest lush with flowering trees and green foliage. The grasses wove around his legs and torso, silky and smooth, leaving a cooling touch in their wake. He stretched his arms to run his hands through them as he passed, but they slipped through his fingers like wet ribbons.

The sun warmed his body. He knew he’d been very cold before; so cold he thought it would kill him, but the chill was gone. He heard strange sounds for a forest. Clinking of metal and scissors cutting through cloth. A woman’s voice from far away murmured sounds he’d never heard before. He tried to turn his head to look for the source of the voice, but his head felt caught in a vise.

The fog vanished. A vision of exquisite loveliness appeared. He gasped in delight, reaching for the angel who hovered above him, her face wreathed in a mass of golden hair. He forgot the river grass and wanted to touch her instead. Her eyes blazed in a blurry, dizzying shade of green. A memory of rolling hills echoed in her eyes, and he recalled the place of his childhood. Her lips, pink and full, moved in silent words. More than anything in the world, he wanted to feel those lips on his skin. They looked so cool and soft, and his body burned with an increasing ache from the sun overhead.

Her hands were on his body. He couldn’t see them but knew they were there. Such a light touch; he could barely stand the shiver running through his very bones, making him weak-kneed and helpless. He wanted to keep her there with him and tried to speak, but no sound came out of his mouth. He tried to touch her, but she moved away until she vanished from sight.

Praise for Anna Small

IN THE ARMS OF AN EARL was a finalist in the Historical division of the Launching A Star Contest.

~*~

"[IN THE ARMS OF AN EARL is] romantic and sweet, yet hot at the same time."

~5 Stars from Dylan Newton, author of DESPITE THE GHOSTS (available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.)

~*~

"This book [HOW TO MARRY A ROGUE] is simply a delight to read. It’s comical, serious, and sensual all rolled into one."

~My Book Addiction and More (4.5 Stars)

Storm of the Heart

by

Anna Small

Lobster Cove Series

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

Storm of the Heart

COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Anna Small

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First American Rose Edition, 2014

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-683-5

Lobster Cove Series

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Norma Murphy,

my aunt, friend, and constant cheerleader.

With all my love.

Author’s Note

The idea for this story evolved when I uncovered my husband’s American Revolution ancestry. His six-times great uncle, Andrew Palmes, was a young Connecticut sailor whose ship was captured by a British warship, the HMS Lion.

Andrew was pressed to serve the rest of the war fighting against his countrymen. One night, with the ship anchored a few miles off Cuba, he and four others made a desperate escape into the sea. While three of the men drowned, Andrew and another sailor made it to shore, where they were eventually rescued and sent to Baltimore.

Two years later, with the war over, Andrew arrived on his mother’s doorstep. He told his story to a local newspaper in 1846 as an old man, the memory of his courageous escape as fresh in his mind as the day it happened.

Chapter One

Atlantic Ocean off Lobster Cove, Maine

May 22, 1814

The cold water hit him like a thousand knives stabbing every inch of his body. The shock froze his voice mute. Men shouted from the ship rails, and the alarm bells clamored. His head throbbed with a fiery pain. He touched above his ear and felt a pulpy mass on his torn scalp. He’d been shot but didn’t remember how or why. No effort was made to rescue him. No lifeboats lowered into the wind-churned sea. The ship continued on its way, and the men at the rails gradually abandoned their posts, except for one. The lone sailor remained a few more seconds until he, too, left.

He treaded water and struggled to keep his head above the waves exploding around him. The ship faded into a shadow on the horizon until its lights were yellow pinpricks, and then they disappeared. He was alone.

The roaring wind whipped the waves, and he bobbed like a cork, struggling against the pulsing ache in his head. His legs pumped the water until cramps tore a scream from his cracked lips. He fixed on a distant light from what he assumed was a ship or, God have mercy, a lighthouse. He didn’t know anything except he was swimming for his life in the inky waters of the cold Atlantic during a howling storm.

The light remained steady in the distance. Not a ship, then. It vanished for a few seconds and flickered through the rain in random bursts until he feared it was his imagination casting a wicked trick. Realization dawned, like the sun emerging from rain clouds. A lighthouse. If he could only reach the shore and the light, he would be saved. His chest strained with each labored, gasping breath. His hands turned raw and puffy from the icy water. Each down stroke plunged his arms into water so cold it burned.

The saltwater seared his throat and stung his eyes. It assaulted his nose and chilled his ears. His gut churned at an accidental swallow. He held back the urge to retch, fearful of losing fluids before the need to quench his thirst overpowered him. He focused on the light and what he imagined and hoped was the shore. He kicked until his shoes and stockings slid from his feet. Kicked until the buttons came off his breeches, which flapped about his calves. The fabric twisted around his legs, stifling his movements, so he tore them free. Moving like a man possessed, he ground his teeth against the pain in his head and the freezing water and pressed on.

He lost track of time as the minutes blurred into hours. The waves drowned him one second and lifted him the next. He clung to memories of his family to stay alert. His mother’s face appeared in his thoughts for a scattered second, vanishing in the next instant. The same went for his father. Had he brothers and sisters? A home? A wife? Children? He could not remember any of them. Didn’t care that he could not. The desperate swim for shore had taken on a life of its own, and he was helpless to fight it.

Something long and slick tangled around his legs. Likely, a fisherman’s net, forgotten by a distracted crew. He was closer to the light now. Closer to shore. He kicked free only to become caught again. He sank beneath the waves for a sickening moment, thrashing and hitting at the thing. The idea it was a shark caused his bowels to cramp. He expected death. How could he not, with a bleeding head and no end to the chilling water? He braced for impact, almost welcoming the sharp tear of teeth. Anything to escape the sea and the nausea and pain.

Nothing happened. A gasp of relief sputtered out of him. Long, flowing tendrils of seaweed, like a malicious mermaid’s hair, caught his legs and knotted around them. They tightened the harder he fought.

He didn’t know how he broke away, but somehow, he swam freely through the water that grew warmer the more he moved. His mind erased in a quick moment. All that remained was kick, stroke. Kick, stroke. Breathe. Remember to breathe. He lifted his head to gulp a lungful of air. The icy rain pelted his face until he couldn’t wait to submerge again. He made the mistake of opening his eyes underwater and panicked at the all-consuming blackness. Head rearing, he coughed and sputtered until a sense of calm returned.

His foot struck something hard. He’d long ago lost sight of the blinking light. If there ever had been a light. Perhaps it had been an illusion, and he’d swum in a circle, no closer to shore than when he’d fallen overboard. Fallen, or shoved? It made no difference now. His legs seized with cramps, and his ribs protested each burning intake of air. His arms flailed in the water, almost paralyzed from the cold. A loud, final groan tore from him with his last ounce of energy. He cursed the sea and the sky and his life and the storm. The wind continued to howl and stir the waves.

A sense of peace overcame him. Resignation to his fate eased the pains of his body. Fleeting words of a prayer he vaguely remembered came to him in static verses. Jumbled words and pleas mingled into a blur of supplication. For an instant, he wondered about heaven and hell, or if he would spend eternity in Davy Jones’ Locker. The idea distracted him for a moment. No, not in the Locker, or Fiddler’s Green, or any such afterlife reserved for sailors. He was no sailor but didn’t know how or why he knew this. Nor did he care.

His legs stopped resisting their fate. Giving in to the storm and the powerful sea was so much easier