The Dragon Tamer

By Jane Bonander

A young sea captain’s widow feuds with a ruthless marine naturalist until their fireworks ignite into passion in this enthralling historical romance.
 
Boston, 1860. A sea captain’s widow at twenty-one, Eleanor Rayburn is devastated to learn that her late husband sold his shares of the ship St. Louis just before he died. Desperate to take back what she believes is rightfully hers, Eleanor sets out to fight the handsome but arrogant owner of the well-traveled whaler.
 
Marine naturalist Dante Templeton survived a hard life, and has found success as an activist against the killing of whales or any marine animal for profit. But it’s his own personal grudge against Eleanor’s husband that drives his determination to keep her from reclaiming her share of the ship.
 
As the feud heats up between Dante and Eleanor, so does the blaze of passion. But is Dante’s love for Eleanor enough to smother his fiery hatred for her late husband?
 
“Ms. Bonander writes with an easy style that brings her characters and timeframe to vivid, entertaining life.” —RT Book Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626815001

Jane Bonander

Bestselling author Jane Bonander has published over a dozen full length novels and four anthologies, all dealing with the perils and passions of romantic historical fiction. She currently lives in St. Paul, Minnesota with her husband.

Book preview

Prologue

This is the journal of Eleanor Rayburn, nee Simmons, aboard the whaler St. Louis, 1859 expedition to the Sandwich Islands from New Bedford, Massachusetts.

Eleanor stopped writing, briefly lifting her gaze to the porthole. So many emotions twisted inside her. She hoped she could separate them long enough to write a coherent sentence.

NOVEMBER 18, 1859

Six years ago today Mama died. I still miss her so! In my heart I know I always will. I think of her daily, but on the anniversary of her death, I am especially mindful of her capacity for love and her great endurance and unflagging sense of humor through the trials in her life. Oddly enough, I rarely think of Papa. I was so young when he died, I don’t remember him at all. But thoughts of Mama will keep me strong in the months ahead.

Today I leave New Bedford to embark on a new portion of my life with my husband, Captain Amos Rayburn. I packed some books, and am hoping I won’t get through them all, but I fear that normal conversation will not be an option, as Amos and I rarely discuss anything, and he has already informed me that I will not mingle with the crew!

As I begin this journey. I dare not look back at the land, for I fear I might throw myself into the drink and swim ashore. But it was I who strong-armed Amos into letting me accompany him on this voyage. After four years as a whaling widow. I had decided I needed to know this complex man I married. He stands in the bow, his back to me. I have never been sure of this marriage, but now I shall learn what it is all about. And I dare not complain, for I told him in no uncertain terms that I would stay alone no longer!

I am not at all sure I made the right choice, however. My stomach churns and my head throbs, and we have barely left the shore. A fine sailor I shall make. But I must believe that my condition has something to do with it, and I also know that Amos is eager to keep an eye on his heir. Naturally he hopes for a son. I shall just be happy to have a healthy child.

An easterly wind takes us out of the bay into the wide ocean, which will be my home for many months to come.

NOVEMBER 20

The Sabbath. I think about home, about the churches and their stark white steeples that jut into the sky, and the neighbors who wend their way to its welcome doors and I feel a bit homesick for New Bedford.

Although I am a free thinker and believe each has his own way of practicing his faith (not a popular point of view, I must admit), church steeples have always drawn me, no matter to what faith they belong.

I’ve been abed since we sailed, sick with the vile stomach heaves that plague landlubbers such as myself, although I chalk much of it up to my condition.

NOVEMBER 22

Finally feel more fit and have taken tea on deck. This is the first time I have witnessed Amos and how he handles the crew, especially the young cabin boys. I am not pleased with how severe he is, but he insists he must be if discipline is to be maintained. If they do not obey and respect him and the officers, there would be mayhem. I understand this.

Weather is pleasant; good eastward wind.

NOVEMBER 23

Today I witnessed a side to Amos that I wish I had not. I will not go into detail, but will condense the scenario as Mama always asked of me when I would regale her with a story that appeared to have no end.

Amos is a hard taskmaster, but not usually a cruel one. But today he whipped the steerage boy for what seemed no reason at all. I was so shocked at his behavior, that I ran on deck screaming, Amos! What are you doing?! He stood over the boy, a pillar of darkness, pierced me with a hard look and told me to return to the cabin.

Later, when we were alone, he admitted that he drives the boys hard, for otherwise they will not survive the voyage.

He told me of an incident many years before, when he’d repeatedly whipped a boy who would not work, a boy whose older brother had fallen from the vessel and drowned. He acknowledged that disciplining too hard has always been a problem for him.

Would wish for just a bit of rain to keep my plants alive, my geranium is especially needy. I shall miss my garden and the sweet singing birds that live there.

NOVEMBER 24

Thanksgiving day of peace. We all pray that the problems between the northern and southern states are resolved without bloodshed. Unfortunately, there is no one aboard with whom I can discuss the subject, and although I truly believe in abolition of slavery, I do not believe that war, pitting Americans against each other, is the answer. But I don’t know what the answer is, so I guess the country is fortunate not to have me at the helm!

Cook outdid himself at dinner. We had roast chicken, a stuffed pumpkin (the seeds removed through a round hole at the top, then stuffed with seasoned bread stuffing and cooked with the pumpkin cap in place), turnips, stewed cranberries and plum pudding. I lost my appetite when I learned the rest of the crew got salt junk and hardtack. I don’t understand this separation from the crew. It seems that those who physically work the hardest have the least to eat.

DECEMBER 1

Had thought to dry my freshly washed hair on deck as there was a warm breeze, but Amos forbade it, explaining it was not good for the crew to see me in such a casual state. Clearly, since our marriage nearly five years ago, I have dressed more like a matron than a young woman, mainly because other whaling widows dressed that way.

I do wonder if I will ever take pride in my appearance again, wear bright colors, fine hats, for I have a chest full of lovely clothing stored at my brother Calvin’s that I may never again be able to wear. I have been a bride for less than five years and am barely one and twenty, and I’m already tired of scraping my hair back into a tight bun or braid and hiding it beneath a dismal cap that all but covers my face. I am tempted to try something more flattering, but do not wish to annoy Amos.

All of this leads to thoughts of Calvin and his wife, Willa. What’s done is done, and was done years ago, but I often wonder what changes my life would have taken had they agreed to take me in on a more permanent basis, rather than marry me off after Mama’s death. In time, I could have found a way to support myself, for I am not without the ability to do so.

DECEMBER 3

Warm, sunny day. Stayed on deck and tried to be as invisible as possible as I watched the cook’s assistant feed the lively pigs and chickens that will eventually become food for our table. I have named the pigs Honey and Vinegar. They are adorable and smart. I don’t wish to eat them. Ever. Unfortunately, in my enthusiasm over the pigs, I made the mistake of removing my bonnet and waving it in their direction, and Amos inevitably chased me back to my cabin. I do try to obey him, but sometimes I am filled with such exuberance that I want to race along the deck and shout at the wind. I cannot hold back a smile when I imagine Amos’s reaction to such antics. But he has a full plate as captain of this vessel, and as much as I sometimes feel the urge to expel energy, I would only be adding to his burden.

DECEMBER 7

Even though I am not allowed to go where I wish or speak with the crew, I am not bored. I have decided I love the sea! No other emotion makes sense, for after all, I am here, I insisted that I be here, and here is where I shall stay until the voyage is over. Not even Amos can make me sulk, although he often treats me like a bothersome child, especially when I ask what he thinks are foolish, unimportant questions.

For instance, when I discovered that they greased the masts with leftover cooking grease. I asked him why. He acted as though it was the most foolish question ever posed. I still do not know the answer, although I suspect it has something to do with treating the wood, keeping it supple so that it won’t break quite so easily in foul wind and weather.

DECEMBER 10

Have yet to see a whale. Crept to the galley where Cook eyed me with suspicion. I promised I was there only to watch, that I would not interfere. (I secretly think he imbibes in wine before lunch, because he has a great red nose and bloodshot eyes, and his breath has all the sweetness of fish rotting on deck.)

I have often heard Amos tell Cook to keep his galley as neat and clean as a farmer’s kitchen, and that he should clean his boilers daily and to wash out the entire galley every day but Sunday. I must admit that I am surprised at the cleanliness and order I find there.

I asked if I could help in any way, and he shoved a pan of potatoes and a knife at me, requesting that I not be stingy with the peelings. I later discovered the peelings went into the crew’s stew, while we, the officers and the boatsteerers, dined on the potatoes. This separation of officers and crew makes me very uncomfortable but I rather doubt I could go about changing things all by myself, and to try would only incur Amos’s wrath.

DECEMBER 14

Am feeling poorly, and I am quite certain the movement aboard the ship has something to do with it. Now and then the wind and the waves remind me of my delicate condition. I will deliver in April or May. We will be in Lahaina in April. I hope to stay until after the birth. I speak of having this child so casually, when inside, I’m so excited! What a gift it shall be!

CHRISTMAS DAY

The weather is more like July than December. A fine meal, including porpoise, which I demurely declined. Although Slater, the first mate, informed me it is much like beef once they boil out the oil in the skin. (Ugh!) I kept a tight jaw, as the thought of it pressed my stomach up into my throat.

Went on deck while Amos was below and looked at the foreign shore, for we are near Cape St. Roque, South America. The cape juts out into the water, so I watched them beat—or tack—back and forth in a southerly direction to gain distance against the wind that wanted to pull us toward shore.

Amos arrived and to my surprise didn’t hustle me off to my cabin. I was allowed to stand near the wheel with Second Mate Galvin. Hardly dared express my pleasure for fear that I would be hurried below, but I so thoroughly enjoyed myself, that I will attempt to be near the wheel as often as possible from now on.

Mr. Galvin, a crusty gent of perhaps fifty years of age, is a fine teacher. He has allowed me to take the wheel when Amos is not in sight. I have learned much from him regarding the sails, and I store each piece of information neatly away into my memory. As a storyteller, he is quite entertaining.

He informed me that the reason most seamen wear one tiny gold earring is that years ago, probably in the last century or before, they had to have enough gold on them to bury them should they meet their demise at sea or anywhere else, for that matter. The story sounded like something a Portuguese pirate might tell after a night of too much rum, but I said nothing, for it was amusing. Afterward, I did, however, catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, and I could swear he was fighting the urge to smile at my apparent gullibility.

DECEMBER 30

There she blows! The boats were lowered and we took two whales, although they were not very big. The captured whales were towed to the ship and fastened to the vessel by chains. Soon after, the cutting began, then peeling away the thick blankets of blubber. With Amos so engrossed, I was rather free to watch, which I did without much stomach distress.

DECEMBER 31

Boiling has begun, the try pots filled, the stench often overwhelming.

JANUARY 1

Portions of the animal have begun to decay, and the men track what looks like black tar all over the ship, and the decks are oily and splattered with gobs of black blood. Unfortunately, in my condition, I had to retire to my cabin and press a damp cloth over my nose and mouth to keep from retching. Needless to say, I had no dinner tonight, nor was I even tempted to set foot in the dining quarters.

As I watched the men raise their harpoons against the beasts, I thought of how grossly unmatched they were. Should I ever see a larger whale, I shall wonder at it, for even now I can believe that the whale is truly the brute of all beasts.

We have sixty barrels of oil from the two whales, which is a fairly good beginning. Mr. Slater informed me that a large right or sperm whale’s head contains fifteen hundred pounds of bone, and its tongue alone can yield ten barrels of oil.

JANUARY 1

Have rounded the Cape (Horn) and weather is not pleasant. The waves are beastly. I, in turn, feel beastly as well!

JANUARY 4

Saw whales, but they were gone before the men could lower the boats.

JANUARY 8

Caught porpoise today, which they tell me is necessary for the oil, for we have so little at this point. When the men hurried forward to strike, they startled one of the hens, who flew overboard. As soon as she touched the water, the flying birds swooped down on her. I felt sad, for I had acquired a fondness for her plucky disposition.

JANUARY 10

Crew caught pilot fish for dinner—reminiscent of trout. Very tasty. Will have some fried for breakfast, too, I am told.

JANUARY 15

Many of us became ill after eating the day old pilot fish. My sickness resulted in a miscarriage, which has left me depressed and forlorn. I had been carrying a boy. I turned to Amos for succor and hoped he could say a prayer for the lost soul, but he was in no condition to soothe me, for his own despair was almost greater than mine. I know I saw dampness in his eyes as we blest the child, wrapped it in sealskin, and lowered it into its watery grave.

JANUARY 25

Even now tears well up when I think of the helpless child that will never be. And I silently weep for myself as well, for I had so longed for something to love. I hope we can try again. I simply don’t believe that I shall live a long life without children of my own to care for and love.

FEBRUARY 1

Weather is rough, no whales in sight. We have not seen another ship in days.

FEBRUARY 4

A whale sighting. The waters are rough, the whaleboats toss and turn like kindling upon the waves, especially when compared to the size of the whale. Amos has gone into the second boat—I don’t understand why, as he never has before. I hardly dare watch, for the sea is churning like a bubbling cauldron. Will write more after they have brought the whale to the ship…

One

JUNE 1860, BOSTON

He was a carnal man. Sleek. Polished. Every movement, every word, every look was drenched with an animal heat that made a woman weak. The way he looked at her, his eyelids heavy and sensual as he slowly moved his gaze over her, resting at places no decent man would. The way he walked toward her, all loose limbed and dangerous. Then he stood before her, the unasked question in the lift of one raven-wing eyebrow. His voice was the final seduction, for when he was in the mood, the words oozed out like warm honey, making a woman’s blood thicken and her skin come alive. He was both wild and tame, and no woman on earth could refuse him.

He was a magician of sorts. He could walk into a ballroom and turn the head of every woman there, any age, any social standing. And when the last song had played, every lady went home to dream of him.

It was his indifference that drew both men and women to him, for each wanted to believe they would be the first to charm him. Coax him to put money into a failing business. Lure him into an affair. Few realized that Dante could not be bought or enticed. Fewer yet knew that he had little respect for most men, finding them braggarts and bores. And to him, women were a nuisance. A hazard to be avoided. Only useful in satisfying his animal needs.

The woman, his current mistress, studied him as he read the newspaper, his rich black hair falling forward to cover part of his face. His arms were thick, the muscles sculpted beneath his bronzed skin, the veins standing out like rivers of granite. He had beautiful hands, large with square palms. His fingers were long and strong, yet the power in his touch could be gentle and seductive when he wanted it to be.

She looked at the strange tattoos that covered his body. Only those who knew him as intimately as she did would ever know they were there.

She had hated them at first—the coiled snake, the soaring hawk, the masterful ship with the skull and crossbones banner on the mast.

The largest one was a green and yellow dragon with nostrils that licked flames up Dante’s neck. It covered his chest and stomach. Once she had seen that enormous, fierce-looking dragon, the other tattoos were nothing. Beneath it was a mass of whip-like scars that looked like part of the dragon’s corded skin. She had traced those scars many times with her fingers and her tongue. When she had asked how he had gotten them, she had been met with a taciturn, icy stare. She had never asked again.

He was still reading, ignoring her. She wondered if he remembered she was in his bed.

Her gaze wandered to the far wall, which displayed one of his many collections of erotic art. Every woman she knew and most men as well would blush at what Dante considered art. He had a fine, rosewood corner cupboard with glass doors that held Greek and Roman objets d’art, all of which were, as far as she was concerned, lewd and immoral. But that was exactly what excited her.

The cup bearing the image of a bearded Greek male entering the smiling, compliant female from behind, the da Vinci cross-section of a couple making love, in which one could see the huge, erect penis as it entered the female body, the stone relief of ancient Indian temple art depicting a fornicating foursome in which the man was somehow, miraculously, able to make the three women who surrounded him happy—two with his hands and one with his enormous, oversized penis. All of them were, of course, male fantasy pieces, but the mistress became aroused just the same.

And those were just the pieces in the glass case. He had many, many more. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the pillows and ran her fingertips over her breasts. She was his lover, for now. But on those nights when she wasn’t with him, she would toss and turn and dream of being taken over and over again by a tall, powerfully built man who was as untamable as the dragon etched on his skin.

Dante Templeton was hers, for the moment. She never wanted it to end, but how long she would share his bed was his decision alone.

She opened her eyes and, with a finger, traced the dragon that slid over the muscles of his chest, appearing to move each time he took a breath. Put down the paper, Dante.

He reached beneath the disheveled bed linens and briefly stroked her sensitive inner thigh, nudging her with his little finger as if that would begin to satisfy her.

To her shame, it merely made her want him more. She had an immediate reaction to his touch. It was as if he had not made love to her in weeks when in truth it had been less than an hour. The sensual lethargy that came over her was almost more than she could bear.

His gaze was held captive by an article in the newspaper and she knew that at least for the moment, she had lost him.

Undaunted, she shifted so her breasts straddled his powerful upper arm, raised herself up, and blew in his ear.

He cocked his head away and continued to read the newspaper. Suddenly he scowled. I’ll be damned.

Why?

Why what? he asked, not looking at her.

Why will you be damned?

He folded the newspaper back and said nothing. He merely smiled a cold smile and kept reading.

She loved his face. His cheekbones were sharp as glass, and deep grooves bracketed his sensual mouth—a mouth that could usually bring her to the heights of ecstasy. But even when it did not, she feigned pleasure, for she didn’t want to vex him.

Heat stirred within her again, and she gave him a petulant swat on the chest. You’re ignoring me.

Patience, Marguerite. I’m trying to read the paper.

She nipped his earlobe with her teeth. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you preferred the newspaper to me.

You said it, I didn’t.

She sighed. The paper will always be here, Dante.

The look he gave her said that if he wanted it, she would always be there, too. She didn’t argue.

Millard is coming home, she said, hoping for a response. But she knew that Dante didn’t care that her husband would return today.

She needed to make him acknowledge her. She reached beneath the covers and fondled him. Even at rest he filled her hands. To touch him made her ache deep inside. When she wasn’t with Dante, she was afraid she would call out his name when she was with her husband. And it was never her intention to hurt Millard; he’d been good to her. But Dante was her obsession.

He turned and surprised her with a deep, wet kiss. My only love. Let me finish this article.

She almost laughed out loud. As much as she might want it, she would never be his only love. No woman would. His only love was, and always would be, the sea.

What’s so interesting that you can’t put the newspaper down? Her waspishness began to show.

The obituary of a man I wish I’d killed myself. Ah, but it’s fitting that he died in a whaleboat trying to slay a whale.

The venom in his voice startled her. She looked at the page. Amos Rayburn?

Yes. His voice was clipped.

I met him once. And his wife. Eleanor, I think he called her. She laughed.

Dante turned toward her, one eyebrow raised, his brilliant blue eyes glittering dangerously. What is so amusing about Amos Rayburn’s wife?

Marguerite kicked off the bed linens so her whole body was available to him. She ran her fingers down over her stomach, threading them through her fluffy pubic hair. Her stirrings deepened and it was all she could do not to touch herself more intimately.

We met them at a party. She pressed her thighs together to stem her desire, then turned and propped her chin on her hands, her body pressed against his. She spent the entire evening either sitting in a corner by herself or cleaning up after the guests.

Marguerite reached out and touched his chest, tracing the dragon’s scales. She acted like the hired help. Truthfully, she was so plain I don’t think I’d recognize her if I bumped into her again. I just remember brown eyes, brown hair, and a shapeless brown dress.

Marguerite had lost him again, for his expression became hooded, his jaw tensed, and he tapped the paper against his hand.

Dante had a dark side. He rarely displayed it in public but she knew it was there, simmering just beneath the surface. She often wondered what troubled

Reviews for The Dragon Tamer

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A great story about overcoming hardships and finding love ever after