Digital ISBNs:
EPUB 9781771459006
Kindle 9781771459013
WEB/PDF 9781771459020
Print ISBN 9781771459037
Amazon Print ISBN 978-1-77299-377-6
2nd Ed Copyright 2018 by Victoria Chatham
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
To Maxine Henry for supporting me through good times and bad and giving me a good talking to whenever I have needed it. Thanks Max.
To Lorraine and Larry Ortman, their daughters Coraley and Justene and members of the Carstairs Corsairs Fencing Club for their invaluable help in setting up my sword fighting scenes. Thanks to all of you.
To Timothy John Ellis for all things nautical.
To my critique partners A.M. Westerling and Brenda Sinclair who are essential to my writing process.
What woke her?
Lady Juliana Beamish propped herself up on one arm. Her heart raced, every nerve tingled. She cocked her head to one side and closed her eyes to better identify the sounds enveloping her.
At first, she could only determine the rush of the Atlantic Ocean as its gray waters slid beneath the Jenny Wren’s keel.
Next, the creak and moan of the ship’s timbers and the distant slap of canvas.
Then the hollow thud of footsteps thumping up the companionway accompanied by shouts from above deck.
“William! Wake up.” Juliana shook her husband’s shoulder and William groaned at being so rudely disturbed.
The crack of a pistol shot quickly followed by another made her throw back the blankets. In her haste to extricate herself from the narrow confines of the berth, she scrambled over William’s legs causing him to groan again and turn his face into the cotton-covered feather-filled pillow.
“What is it?” he mumbled.
“I don’t know.” Juliana stubbed her toes against a wooden bucket set beside the berth and cursed beneath her breath.
Before the ship even slipped her moorings in London’s East India dock, William retired to their fore-cabin, having succumbed to sea-sickness. Knowing him to be physically exhausted from this sad affliction tempered her frustration at his inability to grasp any sense of danger.
The bare planks of the decking were cool beneath her feet as she crossed the cabin to retrieve her clothes from the back of a chair.
“Come back to bed,” William pleaded.
“Not until I discover what is wrong.” As Juliana reached for her brown kerseymere skirt an explosion ripped through the night.
“Dear God!” William jolted upright in bed as Juliana grabbed a bulkhead to steady herself from the shock waves vibrating through the ship from stem to stern. “Are we under attack? Have we been hit?”
“I know no more than do you.” Juliana gasped as another explosion jolted the ship. She looked at the skirt she held and immediately dropped it. Women’s clothes would be of no use to her in whatever event had broken out on deck.
Rushing to William’s steamer trunk, thankful they were of similar height, she availed herself of shirt, breeches and stockings. Even his boots, she knew, would fit her.
“What are you doing?” William demanded as he subsided weakly into his pillows again.
“Dressing,” Juliana replied abruptly as she pulled his shirt over her head.
The tabbies at Almack’s would have the vapors if they could see her now, and she could only imagine the sisterly scold Caroline would ring over her head. She pulled on the stockings and stepped into the breeches, knowing she would need a belt to keep them up. Her sword belt should suffice for that. She quickly reached into the only closet in the cabin, closing her fingers around the hilt of her custom-forged rapier.
“No, Juliana,” William quavered as she housed the rapier in its scabbard and buckled the sword belt about her waist. “I forbid you to arm yourself with that weapon.”
“Forbid?” Anger fuelled by fear rushed through her making her fingers tremble on the buckle. “Who are you to forbid me? Who is to protect us if not I?”
She whirled to face him and instantly regretted her outburst.
The dim light from the lantern played across the contours of his face, thin now where it had once been full and healthy. Hollows lay deep beneath his cheekbones and his eyes held a feverish gleam. His hair hung as limply on his shoulders as did his nightshirt, as if the flesh that once rounded them out had melted away, leaving no substance beneath the fabric.
The effort required to haul himself to the edge of the berth produced a sheen of sweat on his brow and he retched into the bucket. The sickly-sweet smell of vomit assailed Juliana’s nostrils. She quickly covered her nose and mouth with her hand to prevent herself from gagging. After several deep breaths, she steadied herself and approached William who fell back against the pillows moaning in misery.
She did not question how he felt for it was all too obvious. Compassion for him made her ignore the turmoil above them. She slid her arm behind his shoulders and supported him while he sipped from the cup of ale she held to his lips.
“This is a poor pass.” His voice broke. “I am so sorry, Juliana.”
“There is nothing to be sorry for.” She gently laid him back against the pillows. “You were not to know that you would be troubled by sea-sickness.”
“Whilst you are not at all undone by it.” She could not dismiss the bitter undertone of jealousy in his words.
“Maybe my voyages with Lucius aboard the Avondale prepared me better.”
She put her brother and his pride in his racing yacht out of her mind, concentrating instead on dipping a cloth in the water container clamped to the wall. Another explosion made her flinch and she quickly wiped William’s face.
“Doctor Tryon assured me it is simply a matter of adjustment and that some people take longer to adjust to the motion of a ship than do others.”
“I doubt I shall have time for any adjustments.” The ship lurched as if shoved by a giant hand and the sounds of fighting above them intensified, startling them both. William caught her hand and kissed it, yet desperation flickered in his eyes. “Have I told you how beautiful you are?”
“Every day since we were wed. I confess I think you biased.”
“Not so.” Juliana knew the effort he put into the smile that crooked the corners of his mouth. “You are undoubtedly more beautiful now than the day I first set eyes on you.”
“Children aren’t in general considered beautiful, and I was a mere child when we first met,” she reminded him. She blinked back tears, took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We are so lucky to have each other.”
“My one regret is that I have not been well enough to fully make you my wife.” His eyes held a bleak expression and his mouth sagged as if he were about to cry.
“There is no time to talk of that now,” Juliana said gently, although her heart thumped uncomfortably. Despite giving him every encouragement, William still held her at arm’s length.
His thumb brushed her lips again. “I promise you when I am well I will love you as you deserve.”
Juliana clasped his hands in hers, hoping that what she could not convey in words she might by touch. A crash from above decks made her jump to her feet.
“William, right now I should prepare for whatever event might come our way. I cannot let anyone harm you.” As much as she tried to control herself, she could not prevent her limbs from trembling.
The cabin door burst open and she jumped up, her rapier drawn from its scabbard and in her hand in an instant. Juliana stood firm, her arm raised, her sword at the ready. She lowered the weapon when she saw the ship’s doctor’s pale face.
“Juliana … Mrs. Beamish,” he gasped, forgoing all form of manners as he caught her arm and looked her up and down. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Preparing to defend us.” She gritted her teeth and allowed the tip of the rapier to rest on the floor. Sounds of musket fire and pistol shots clashed with the sounds of steel on steel from the head of the companionway. The acrid stench of smoke filling the gangway filtered into the cabin making them all cough.
“For God’s sake, woman, are you insane?” Regardless of the proximity of her husband, Doctor Tryon gripped her wrists, his breath hot on her face.
“I studied fencing with my brother and know well how to present myself,” Juliana insisted.
“No, you do not,” the doctor snapped. “The devils that even now swarm our decks care nothing for the niceties of presenting and of parry and thrust. They slash and cut with no other desire than to kill.”
“Tryon,” William gasped harshly, “make her see sense. For God’s sake man, save her.”
“I am staying with you,” Juliana snapped as she broke away from Doctor Tryon’s grasp.
William shook his head. “No, Juliana. I am your husband and order you to find refuge where you may and forget about me.”
The doctor nodded his agreement and Juliana found herself lowering her gaze against the earnestness she saw in his dark blue eyes. “Forget about defending yourself, it is too late for that. Come with me. I know a place where you will be safe.”
“Safe?” Juliana gasped. “Is there now any safe place aboard this ship? And what about William? I am not leaving him.”
“Yes, you are.” With a huge effort, William sat up. Another explosion above their heads told them that time had run out. “Your safety is all that matters to me, Juliana. Tryon, take her away now.”
“William, what will you do?” Juliana cried over her shoulder as Doctor Tryon hustled her out of the cabin.
“Your husband will have to take care of himself until I return,” the doctor said. “Come this way. We must go below decks.”
He hurried her down a narrow companionway into the bowels of the ship. Although there was little light, the doctor seemed to know where he was going. He helped her step from strut to strut along the swells, avoiding the grim stew of the bilges and ignoring the rats. He stopped at last and pulled open a small door.
“What is this?” Juliana asked, horrified at the blackness within.
“A storage locker,” Doctor Tryon told her. “Get in there and cover yourself with whatever you can.”
He held the door open while Juliana, desperate to her core, crouched low to clear the doorway.
“Please help William,” she begged. On hands and knees, she crawled into the locker, making a burrow for herself beneath piles of rough canvas. “He is so weak. I should never have left him.”
The doctor’s blonde hair fell across his forehead as he leaned in to help her.
“I promise I will do what I can,” he assured her as he tossed more canvas on top her.
The weight was almost too much, and she could barely breathe for the musty smell of mildew, the tang of salt and pine tar.
“Stay here, Juliana.” The doctor’s voice, already muffled, held an edge of fear that she did not miss. “Do not come out for any reason until I come for you.”
As the door closed, shutting out all vestiges of light, Juliana cowered in the pitch black interior unable to control the tremors that took hold of her body. Her heart thumped, blood pounded in her ears and her breath ran short, as if she were suffocating. The sounds of shouts and shots were fainter now and she could only imagine the carnage taking place.
She lay in the dark, silently praying that Doctor Tryon would soon return. Hesitant footsteps outside the door froze her into immobility. Cold perspiration broke out on the back of her neck and slid in a chilled trail down her spine. She strained her ears to hear what the two men who stood outside her hiding place were saying. Their voices were rough, indistinct, and they spoke in a language she did not recognize.
Holding her breath, she shrank farther beneath the shrouds of canvas and gripped her sword with moist palms. The two men did not appear to be searching very thoroughly for no hand rattled the latch and the door to the locker remained closed. Their voices faded as they moved away.
She slowly pushed the filthy canvas away from her face, strained her ears for any hint of movement outside the door. As she sat up, a cry of terror from beyond the wooden walls of her hiding place followed by a loud splash startled her. There were more shots, more splashes. A woman screamed, and she covered her ears as she heard the cries of those who must be in the water.
Trembling in the darkness, dread seeping into her very bones, Juliana chastised herself for not having the courage to venture beyond the safety the locker afforded her. Much as she did not like to admit it, she knew Doctor Tryon had been right. Whoever their attackers were would quickly best one lone female, armed or not. The only clear thought in her mind was that she would use her sword however she could to defend herself to the death.
For once in her life she did as she was told and stayed exactly where the doctor stowed her. She did not know how long she huddled in the locker, praying all the while that Doctor Tryon had kept his promise to help William. The ship rocked a little, her timbers protesting as she settled in the water. Juliana reached forward to the door of her hiding place and carefully lifted the latch. She gently pushed the door ajar and put her ear close to the crack.
All she could hear was the sigh and whisper of the ocean and the squeak and rustle of rats as they scurried along the struts. She waited a few minutes more, each second taking a toll on her nerves, then pushed the door all the way open and emerged slowly, listening intently for any sounds of life above decks.
The boom of a cannon close by made her jump, and then a moment later the Jenny Wren shuddered under the impact as another missile found its mark. She fell back, grabbing for a handhold in the darkness. Another explosion followed the first and the ship groaned as if in anguish and listed heavily to one side.
Juliana sprang into action, not caring about the swirling bilges or the rats jabbering about her feet. The sounds of splintering wood filled her ears as she scrambled up the steep steps of the stairwells. As her head cleared the last set of stairs, she stopped and took in the hellish scene on deck with wide-eyed disbelief.
Scorched and splintered stumps were all that remained of the once proud and tall fore and main masts. The masts themselves, with their yardarms and rigging, were a tangled mess of fragmented timber littering the deck. Shredded by cannon fire, what was left of the sails now draped the gunwales in tattered strips of canvas. Amidships the deck was nothing more than a black hole still reeking of gunpowder and smoke. The ship listed a little more.
Tripping on the end of a trailing rope, Juliana lost her balance and tumbled to the deck. Her fingers slipped through something wet and greasy as she tried to get up, and she fell again. Bile rose in her throat when she saw the blood on her hand. The coppery taste of it tainted her tongue. There was so much blood everywhere and, unable to get to her feet, she slid through it across the deck, grasping at anything that might halt her progress.
She landed against an untidy heap of clothing, caught her breath and screamed when she saw the huge, ragged shards of wood that pinned the man’s body to the deck. His sightless eyes stared at her and her stomach lurched. That was all the incentive she needed to grab at the cargo netting on the gunwale and haul herself to her feet.
In the fitful moonlight, she was just able to determine the bulk of a ship as it hove off the Jenny Wren’s bow, the night breeze filling its dark sails. As the distance between the two vessels widened, she could no longer contain her terror.
They couldn’t leave her here, they just couldn’t.
She lifted her arm to wave in the hope of attracting attention. The shout that formed in her mind left her mouth in a high-pitched scream.
“No, no!” She waved both arms and screamed again. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”
Her scream ended in a choking sob. She didn’t care what became of her, if only they would take her with them. No one on the other ship saw or heard her.
The ship listed again. She could not waste time. If she was to escape it must be now or never. Her gaze darted around the deck, checking for anything that could be of use. She ignored the heaps of ragged clothing lying about, sensing without looking that these were more bodies, either attackers or defenders.
Swallowing her revulsion, she wildly searched the closest bodies for anything that could be of help to her. Pistols were useless without powder and shot. She nearly tripped over the handle of an axe embedded in the splintered deck and quickly grabbed it. A seaman’s cap lay close by the axe and she snatched it up. One glance over the gunwale told her it was too late to raid the galley for food.
The ocean, dark and hungry, lapped against the hull. It flooded into a gaping hole in the ship’s side, ready to swallow the Jenny Wren into its depths. A jolly boat swung over the stern from its davits, the list of the ship making it scrape against the shattered railing. Juliana mentally measured the distance between her present position and the boat. There were no other options. That boat presented her only means of escape.
Grabbing a flailing rope, she hung on to it, then grabbed for another. As she gripped them and slithered across the tilted deck the course sisal cords bit into the soft flesh of her palms. The pain made her wince as she clambered into the boat. The water churned beneath her, its chill breath enveloping her. The hull groaned again, creaked and settled more deeply into the waves, dropping the stern end of jolly boat closer to the water. The strain on the rope securing it caused it to snap and the bottom of the boat hit the water with a resounding slap, sending up a plume of spray.
Juliana took a deep breath, raised the axe and slashed at the rope holding the prow of the boat. The frayed fibers didn’t part. Once more she lifted the axe high and swung it with all her strength. The rope separated, and the jolly boat bucked like a fly-stung horse. She grabbed its sides and hung on for her life as it swung free and dropped into the waves.
Drake O’Hara narrowed his eyes and peered up into a flat gray sky. There were no clouds, little wind, and the ocean swell rose and fell like a sullen lung without even a white-cap to relieve the pewter monotony of its vast expanse.
He paced the quarter-deck, his lips pursed. This unexpected lull would cost him by adding at least two more days to his voyage. His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the look-out.
“Wreckage in the water, Cap’n.”
Drake shaded his eyes and squinted up into the top-rigging at the look-out who shouted the warning. He tipped his head back and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Where a’way?” he called.
“Larboard, about half a mile off.”
The seaman’s words drifted down to Drake through sheets of canvas hanging listlessly from the yardarms, their only movement an occasional ripple as the merest breath of wind stirred them.
Drake turned to his second-in-command. “What do you think, Mr. Fraser? Should we take a chance and see what the ocean has thrown up?”
Together they walked across the deck to the rail. They both looked in the direction the watchman pointed and soon made out the fractured remains of spars and yards and other pieces of timber amongst the flotsam.
Frowning, Fraser squinted at the wreckage.
“Looks like whatever ship it was, was blown to smithereens,” he muttered. “A pirate attack d’ye think?”
“Could be,” Drake agreed. “Or maybe her powder store ignited. Best we take a look and see if there are any survivors. Heave to, Mr. Fraser.”
Fraser nodded. As he stepped to the front rail of the quarter-deck, the crew on the main deck below him ran to their posts by the fife rails on either side, ready to slip the ropes from the belaying pins that secured them and begin whatever maneuver was demanded of them. Fraser looked aloft to determine the wind direction in relation to the drifting boat, then gave the orders to clew up the mainsail and stand by to heave to.
The crew swiftly went into action. Calloused hands gripped the clew lines and starboard braces, hauling the ropes hand over hand until the main topsails were squared and so that any wind could not fill them. Fraser nodded in approval and gave the order for the final maneuver.
“Slack off the head sheets!”
The ship’s barely perceptible motion slowed even more until it might have been at anchor. Fraser ordered the helmsmen to hold her steady and returned to Drake’s side, waiting in silence while his captain scanned the ocean surface through his spyglass.
“Damn and blast it,” Drake muttered. “Here, Thomas, what do you make of this?”
Thomas Fraser took the glass and peered through it to where Drake indicated.
“By damn, it looks like there’s a body in that boat.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Drake eyed the bobbing boat with distaste. “Can we get close enough to use a grappling iron to draw it in, or do we need to launch one of our boats?”
“Mr. Stephens can likely snag it close enough and have a man go over the side for a look-see.”
It took two attempts at swinging the iron before Mr. Stephens, the first mate, succeeded in hooking the drifting boat. While he held it steady, a crewman threw a rope ladder over the Elaine’s side, secured it and nimbly clambered down and dropped into the secured boat. Drake watched through narrowed eyes as the crewman checked the body.
“He’s alive,” the sailor shouted.
“Good enough, Higgins.” Drake tossed a length of rope over the side. “Tie this around under his arms and we’ll have him aboard right away.”
Once the rope was secured, Stephens and Fraser began to haul on it, lifting the body from the boat below. Higgins retrieved the grappling iron and climbed back up the ladder, keeping pace with the men on deck and giving what support he could to the body to prevent it bumping into the ship’s planking. Willing hands grabbed hold of the sodden, salt-stained clothing, pulling the victim onto the deck and laying him out.
“Sorry to have to tell ‘e, Cap’n, ‘tis my belief this here be a woman,” Higgins confided quietly.
“What makes you think that?” Drake knelt beside the inert figure and inspected the sun ravaged face.
“Didn’t seem right when I slipped the rope under ‘is arms, so I copped a quick feel.”
Drake lifted the jacket to confirm Higgins’ verdict. “Hell’s teeth. You’re right. Now why on earth would she be dressed as a man and armed with a sword? Fraser, Mr. Stephens, get her into my cabin. Now. Higgins, rouse out Doctor Clements and bring him along and not a word to anyone, do you understand?”
Higgins nodded and scurried away.
Drake led the way below decks, the sound of his boots on the planks echoing in the enclosed gangway. He opened the door into his cabin and crossed to the bed where he pulled back the covers. Fraser and Mr. Stephens placed their sorry burden in the centre of the bed and stood back.
“What now?” Fraser asked.
“We should get her clothes off.” Drake turned to his first mate, waiting at the foot of the bed with a look of interest on his plain features. “Off with you, Mr. Stephens, and say nothing. For all you know this is no more than what we first suspected, just an unfortunate young man who appears to have been ship-wrecked.”
As Stephens retreated from the cabin, Drake stared down at the woman in his bed. Dark brows arched like angel’s wings up and away from her neat, straight nose. The flesh had fallen away from her face, leaving sunken hollows where the definition of her cheeks should have been. He imagined her slightly parted lips could be full and tempting. Like the rest of her face, they were damaged by the extent of her sun burn, being swollen and cracked with dead skin flaking from them as chaff from wheat. Beneath the damage of weather and time he sensed a certain quality in her features and couldn’t imagine how she could have come to be in such dire straits.
The door opened, and the doctor stepped in.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” he exclaimed. “What have we here?”
“She’s barely alive.” Drake stepped back to allow the doctor access to the bedside.
The doctor bent over his patient and tested her pulse. “Thready, but there. Will you assist me?”
Drake agreed before turning to Fraser and giving him the order to take command of the ship. “And send Ben down to me.”
Fraser nodded and took him himself off, leaving Drake and the doctor together.
“What do we do first, Clements?” Drake rolled up his sleeves in preparation to help the doctor.
“Remove her clothes.” Clements echoed Drake’s own first thought with a grin. “Although that would be more your forté than mine.”
“Devil take it, Clements, do you believe all you hear?” Drake grumbled as he slipped the woman’s jacket off her shoulder. “Here, help me turn her on her side so I can pull her arm through.”
Between them Drake and the doctor peeled the clothes away from the young woman’s body, both sinking into silence at the sight of the sores caused by sun and salt. They protected her nakedness and dignity as best they could with a well-placed sheet. That she still breathed seemed a miracle to them both.
Ben, the cabin boy, arrived and was instructed to fetch what milk the cook could spare, diluted if necessary, and clean towels with which to bathe the victim.
“And have him prepare a mel saponis,” Clements added. “He has the recipe and I know there is enough honey in the stores.”
The boy nodded and scurried away.
“Honey of soap?” Drake queried.
“It’s an old country remedy, very effective for burns,” the doctor explained. “Your fine Irish linens may get a little messy but you can get them laundered when we make port.”
“Very kind of you to say so,” Drake murmured. “They can be as messy as you please, for I doubt I’ll be sleeping in them the rest of this voyage.”
“You could sling your hammock on the gallery and wrap yourself in a blanket.”
“That wouldn’t be the first time and is a practice to which I prefer to not return.”
The doctor grunted an indistinct response. Drake detected the words ‘soft’ and ‘coddled’ amongst the mutterings. That he was neither soft nor coddled was a fact of which they were both aware. Ben’s return with the requested towels and a bucket containing the milk stemmed any retort he might have made.
“Cook says he’ll soon have the honey soap ready,” he reported.
Clements thanked him and sent him on away so that he could get to work.
Drake couldn’t help noticing the woman’s joints where the bones jutted through her skin and he counted every one of their patient’s ribs as the doctor ran the milk-sodden cloth over them. Breasts that may once have been full and firm were now flaccid, and her belly lay hollow between her hip bones. Neither man could help feeling compassion for the unconscious figure, both trying to imagine what she must have endured during the days she was adrift.
“'Tis my belief she made a fine figure of a woman before this,” the doctor offered as he soaked another cloth with milk and laid it across an angry red patch of skin on her thigh.
“I’m sure she did.” Drake covered her quickly when Ben returned, carefully carrying the warm pot containing the honey preparation.
“Good lad,” remarked the doctor without looking at him. “Now reach into my bag and cut that length of linen you’ll find there into squares. If you need a knife, you’ll find one in the side pocket.”
Without a word Ben did as he was told and, shortly afterwards, Drake heard the rip of fabric as the boy went to work with the blade.
“How many pieces do you want?” Ben asked as he ripped at another length.
“As many as you can make. If we need extra linen there’s more in my medicine chest, but I think this will be enough.”
Drake watched the doctor spread the unguent onto the pieces of linen and gently lay them on his patient’s sores. When he was done, he lightly bandaged the linen squares in place then draped the sheet over her.
“I’ll treat her again later this evening. With luck she’ll not suffer any scarring and when there’s an improvement in her skin you can massage her with olive oil and attar of roses.”
“I can?” Drake lifted an eyebrow at the doctor’s comment.
“None other.”
Drake was not fooled by the look of bland indifference on the doctor’s face which belied the expression of satisfaction in his eyes.
“I doubt this lady is a common trollop,” the doctor continued, “and if anyone is to care for her as she needs, who better than the captain himself?”
“Would she were a common seaman and you could simply dose her with a camphor preparation,” Drake quipped.
Doctor Clements dried his hands on a small piece of cloth and began to pack his bag.
“What I don’t understand,” he commented thoughtfully, “is why she would be dressed in men’s clothes.”
“Maybe for her own safety,” Drake suggested as he moved aside for the doctor to leave. It was not a far stretch for his imagination to determine what fate might have befallen an attractive, well dressed young woman if her vessel had, in fact, been attacked by pirates. “Until she is conscious and can tell us what befell her, we cannot be sure. Is there anything else we can do for her?”
The doctor scratched his chin. “If you can spare Ben, have him sit with her. He should have a cup of wine or ale and a sponge and allow a few drops at a time onto her lips. If he can get them into her mouth so much the better. Will you stay with her until he returns?”
Drake nodded, and the doctor left him staring moodily at the woman in his bed. Her hair, ravaged by sun and salt, straggled in a riot of tangled auburn strands across the pillow. He imagined it clean and fresh, gleaming with health and knew there would be a hint of cinnamon in it. There was something about the lift of her dark brows that still tugged at his memory.
It was a fleeting thought, which he could not quite capture, prompting an unexpected quiver of conscience in his mind. Yes, of course he’d stay with her. Indefinitely, if necessary. Even as he thought it he dismissed the idea. His was a life of constant motion, never long in once place and one that no woman would want to share.
With a ship to command and no idea of the woman’s identity, he would rescind her care to Ben as soon as he could. In the meantime, it would do well for him to guard his heart. Feeling compassion for an unfortunate was one thing, the nascent thread of memory she prompted quite another.
“Who are you?” he murmured as he tucked the sheet around the unconscious woman’s neck.
A sudden image of a splendid ballroom, a riot of motion and color as dancers whirled around the floor beneath magnificent chandeliers formed in his mind. He dismissed the thought. Ballrooms and parties no longer held a place in his life.
He huffed out a breath of frustration. An enemy on the horizon could be engaged and dealt with in the open. The thoughts and impressions that assailed him now slid beneath his defences as easily as a thin, sharp stiletto between his ribs. How to repel an attack as insidious as that?
When Ben returned he gave him strict instructions to call him if the lady awoke. Despite his youth, the boy had a gift for languages. He spoke French, Spanish, Italian, and a little Portuguese, all learned from various seamen, either on board the Elaine or in various ports where they berthed. As Drake made his way above deck, he hoped for this particular piece of flotsam to be English. Lady Luck, he knew, would not be likely to treat him so well. She had served him some cruel cuts in the past. What else would she throw at him?
On deck Drake found that Thomas Fraser had the Elaine back on course and under full sail, making the most of a strengthening breeze. Together they walked to the taffrail where they could not be overheard by either the helmsman or Mr. Stephens, who was also on the quarterdeck.
“How’s the lady?” Thomas asked quietly.
“Sleeping,” Drake replied. “Did you have a chance to look over that rapier of hers?”
Thomas removed his hat and scratched his head. “I did. Lovely weapon and forged just for her, I’ll warrant. That moulded guard and those elegant sweepings are too small for my hand. There’s no name on it, only a date worked into the chasing on the blade.”
“That could be the date when it was forged, or maybe a birth date. Was there anything on the scabbard?”
“No.” Thomas shook his head. “Both pieces are of the finest workmanship I’ve ever seen. No doubting why she would’ve wanted to hang on to it.”
“We’ll simply have to wait until she’s conscious before we can learn anything more.” Drake’s mouth tightened with displeasure as he considered another delay. “There is quality in this woman and I don’t think sailing straight into Kingston without even a maid to attend her will do her or us any favors.”
“What do you plan to do?”
Drake shook his head and formed his hand into a fist of frustration. “Leave her with Jian and Docherty at the island while we go on. I’ll hire a maid and acquire new clothes for her and then see how best we can help her.”
Fraser nodded in agreement but made no comment.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Drake gritted his teeth, making a muscle in his jaw twitch. “It doesn’t matter how carefully I go about this, my reputation is such to be the undoing of her. If it is known that she has been alone in my company for any length of time, for whatever reason, her reputation, if she indeed has any at all, will be ruined.”
“Aye,” Thomas agreed. “Poor lass, and through no fault of her own that I can tell.”
Drake pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in concentration as he considered how and why the lady could have been drifting alone upon the ocean.
“I can’t help thinking she must have been making passage to somewhere. Come with me.”
He hurried back to his cabin with Thomas just steps behind him. Ben looked up and whispered a greeting as they stepped through the door, quickly returning his gaze to the figure in the bed. Drake approached his desk, its surface covered with charts. He stabbed a finger at the top-most chart.
“We’re well beyond San Vicente, west of the Canaries and the Azores, though not quite clear of North Africa and the Barbary coast,” he said.
Thomas frowned. “Are you thinking it could have been an attack by Barbary pirates?”
“Possibly,” Drake mused as he continued to study his chart. “We know they only pay lip service to the treaty of four years ago. They simply go quietly about their business out of any port from Algiers to Agadir, preying on whatever ships they can.”
“Aye, and there’s precious little our government can do about that,” muttered Thomas as he followed the direction of Drake’s finger moving across the map. “Without posting a ship of the line alongside every merchantman that leaves port, there’s little can be done to prevent these attacks.”
Drake nodded his agreement. His lips pursed in thought as he considered the routes crisscrossing the Atlantic. “My guess is she was aboard an East India merchantman. Until she recovers enough to tell us we have no way of confirming that. For now, I’ll log the coordinates where we found the wreckage and put in a report to the Admiralty when we return to England.”
Fraser returned to his post while Drake opened his red-covered log book and laid it across the map. Dipping his pen in the inkwell sunk into the corner of the desk top, he began his entry.
A light scratching sound filtered into Juliana’s ears as she lay quietly trying to determine her surroundings. The scratching continued, and she recognized it to be the splutter of a pen on paper. As if to endorse this conclusion the scratching stopped to be followed by the unmistakable tap of a pen against the edge of an inkwell. She absorbed this sound as easily as she absorbed the delicious sensation of linens on her skin. She was cool and comfortable. Her prayers for rescue must have been answered. But by whom had she been rescued?
Her last memory was of leaping into an open boat from the crazily slanted deck of a wrecked ship. Had she really wielded an axe to slash at the rope securing the boat, or had that been a dream? That the palms of her hands were still sore told her it was no dream. Nor was the sudden recollection of being soaked in spray when the boat smacked into the ocean. The dangerous ebb and flow of water rushing into the broken hold had threatened to draw her in with it.
Knowing that to be caught in that wreckage would mean her certain end, she used an oar for purchase against what timbers she could. It took several attempts to push the little boat far enough away from the wreckage to be able to row.
Now she knew why her back and shoulders ached so abominably. She had pulled on the oars as hard as she could and nearly lost her balance when one oar plunged deep while the other paddled the air. In comparison to the pleasant aspect of the lake at her family’s country home, the choppy, heaving ocean petrified her.
Her face hurt, too. Her cheekbones felt as if they were pushing through her skin, a sensation her exhausted brain likened to that of a butterfly escaping its cocoon. She sighed and ran the tip of her tongue across her parched lips.
“Here, miss, take a drop o’ water,” a young voice said close to her ear.
A blessed trickle of liquid cooled the corner of her mouth and she eagerly lapped at it.
“More,” she croaked.
“Just a little,” said the voice and then more liquid dripped across her lips. She thought she tasted a faint tang of lemons. “You can have some more in a few minutes. You lie still now.”
Lie still? She was so weak she could barely move. Her eyelids were heavy and, as much as she wanted to open them, she did not have the strength. No matter. The bed she lay in was soft and warm and she breathed deeply, thankful for the comfort after the bare boards of the jolly boat.
A cog in her brain clicked. She had been in an open boat, now she was in a bed wearing nothing more than a man’s shirt. Where were her clothes? Who had undressed her? Despite the shirt and the bed covers, being stripped of William’s clothes left her feeling naked and vulnerable.
Clutching the edge of the coverlet she forced herself to open her eyes. She could see no more than shadowy, indistinct shapes and the light hurt, so she closed them again. As she lay there she sensed that someone stood beside her. How could someone have been so quiet that she had not heard them move?
“You’re sure she was awake, Ben?” A man’s voice, strong and steady with a distinct Irish accent, pitched low as if not to disturb her.
“Aye, Cap’n. I gave her a little water, just as you said.”
Juliana recognized the boy’s voice but a finger gently tracing the curve of her cheek distracted her. She kept her eyes closed and breathed steadily, feigning sleep, then heard the click of the latch and the soft tread of another person entering the cabin.
“How does she?” Another male voice, gruff though not unkind.
“Ben says she has stirred,” answered the Irishman. “Although I hope she wakes soon. I would like to have my curiosity satisfied as to who she is and what happened to her. She will be requiring nourishment that I am not sure how best to supply. We can hardly feed her our crew’s normal fare.”
“Cook says the hens are laying well and there’s enough goat’s milk to make her a hot posset,” offered the boy.
Hens and goats? Juliana couldn’t believe her ears. What type of ship had taken her aboard? She vaguely remembered draping herself over the gunwale of the little boat, hanging her arm over the side and letting her fingers trail in the salty ocean. The strains of a waltz she hummed came back to her and a faint smile hovered on her lips as she drifted softly in and out of the familiar steps. She knew now that the firm support impressed across her back had been from the hard, wooden bench in the boat, not William’s stalwart arm.
Dear William. He danced so well. Her arms lifted and fell as she twirled gently around the ballroom with him. A soft breeze drifted in through the open French windows, making the drapes billow. Beyond the window a fountain bubbled with beautiful fresh, clear water into an ornamental shell, cascading over the lip to a pond beneath. She floated out into the deep blue night, delighted by the twinkling stars so far above her. If she reached up she could touch them. It was all so lovely, but now the ball was over, and she was draped in cool linens with a soft pillow under her head. How delightful.
As the dream faded and her consciousness returned, she realized she had been hallucinating. Maybe she was still hallucinating, or were there really people beside her bed discussing a posset?
“That would likely be a good start for her.” The Irishman again. “Doctor Clements will decide what is best for her.”
And a doctor? Had another ship bound for India rescued her?
“I’ll go and ask him,” the boy called Ben said.
She heard him cross the floor, open and close the door. The air stirred as someone moved around, confident movements without any hurry and she knew she wasn’t alone. A soft rustle of paper made her turn her head and lift her eyelids enough to see the blurred outline of a man.