Free Hot Winds From Bombay by Becky Lee Weyrich Page A

who adorned the newel-post stared up at a well-trimmed wick inside the cranberry glass globe she held high in her right hand. Fletcher had been about his work of turning down lamps all about the house. Usually at this hour everyone in the Whiddington family was in bed already, although a few lamps always burned low since the captain had a habit of slipping down for a sip and a read once his wife was asleep.
    The soft rose glow in the hallway made the familiar seem strange to Persia. The Adam-green wallpaper looked black, while the white lilies in the pattern turned a shocking pink and seemed to stand away from the wall. The heart-pine floors shone like marble, and the Indian rug before the door took on exotic hues she could not name. Even the air in that part of the house seemed thick and warm and rosy.
    She looked up at Zack. He, too, had been transformed merely by walking downstairs. The golden tangle of his hair and beard glowed bronze in this light. And his eyes smoldered darker and were more mysterious than ever. He was still wearing the clothes he had borrowed from her father after taking off his wet things. Although the captain was a good-sized man, he was not nearly so broad or tall as Zachariah. Zack’s muscles bulged at the seams, and his hard thighs strained every fiber of the trousers to their limits. Persia felt herself blush as her eyes strayed downward at the obvious artifacts of his manhood, outlined through the coarse wool.
    He reached out and touched her cheek, letting one strong finger glide along her high cheekbone, leaving a little shudder of sensation in its wake. He was smiling at her, a touch of irony deep in his eyes.
    “Well, Persia, it’s been quite a night.”
    “Yes, a lovely night,” she said softly.
    He laughed. “I rather gathered that you’d just as soon I’d let your sister sink to the bottom to await the spring thaw.”
    “Oh, no!” Persia cried, horrified that Zack had read the animosity between them and misinterpreted her words. “I meant that meeting you… skating with you… was lovely. Certainly not what happened to Europa. I’d never wish that on her.”
    “You don’t have to explain to me,” he said in his husky voice that now carried a touch of melancholy. “I have sisters, too. I remember how, from time to time, I wanted to sell them to gypsies, even though I loved them well.”
    Persia laughed softly. “I’m not sure even gypsies would take Europa.”
    “I wouldn’t be so certain. She’s a lovely woman.”
    Persia felt the hair at the nape of her neck bristle with anger. Granted, Zack’s words were true. But she certainly didn’t relish hearing them from the same lips that had tantalized her with their kisses this very night. And, too, if he was stating that Europa was lovely, wasn’t that only pointing up that he did not consider Persia the same?
    “Don’t frown,” he ordered, rubbing a rough thumb over her lips. “Your smile is bewitching. I want you always to bewitch me, Persia Whiddington. Just as you have done tonight.”
    His words caused such a sudden rush of joy and relief that her heart raced and her head felt light. Maybe he hadn’t been leading her down a primrose path. Perhaps he did feel something for her, and nothing for Europa.
    His next action seemed to prove that. Glancing first up the stairs to make sure no one was watching, Zack grasped Persia to his chest and took her lips. Willing lips, aching to be kissed.
    She felt the silkiness of his tongue caressing her and responded in appropriate fashion, aware of a burning in her blood that threatened to consume her. His hands slipped down from her shoulders to glide along her arms. He spanned her waist and squeezed gently, but she felt as if he were pressing the breath from her. When his fingers moved up her ribs to her breasts, stroking her boldly, she gasped.
    Zack released his hold on her only a moment. In that instant, as their eyes met—touching souls, linking hearts, promising