At last, at very long last, Darton lowered his sword. He held it out before him; then, lowering himself with an unassuming grace, he laid it at Sloan’s feet. Still there was silence, and as the two men stared at one another, it was obvious that they had met before—as friends. Sloan’s voice was low when he spoke again.
“Lord Darton, in surrendering to me, you surrender to William of Orange, and cast yourself into the midst of what—with God’s grace—will be a peaceful revolution.”
Darton sighed. “I’ve heard it said you were an Orangeman, Treveryan. So shall it be. I ask that any of my men not willing to serve in such an army be sent back to shore.”
“Agreed,” Sloan said, and with his words it seemed that the others were given leave to breathe once again. The clatter of fallen swords could be heard all about the planking, and a subdued murmur arose.
“So be it,” said Darton.
Brianna vaguely understood that these king’s men were about to swear allegiance to another lord, but it mattered very little to her. All that she could comprehend was the state of the ship: the decks had been washed with blood. Men had fallen everywhere.
She brought the back of her hand to her mouth and bit down, totally unaware as she did so that she had begun to take small, jerky steps toward the mast. How many dead? Her mind raged in silent, agonized reproach. Bodies were tangled everywhere. She paused, ready to scream in mindless grief as she looked down at the body of the Sea Hawk’s cook, fallen arm-in-arm over the rail with a uniformed graybeard. So many …
Men were beginning to move, to tend to the dead and the moaning wounded. Brianna’s eyes swam with blinding tears. Through a thick haze she saw Sloan. His eyes were on her. She stood in blood, was covered with it, and she felt a horror that far surpassed any threat or pain inflicted on her by Matthews.
She had brought it all about. Dear God, not by malice or intent. But simply by her existence. She had crossed Sloan Treveryan’s life, and because of it his brave, fine men lay dead and dying all around her.
A sob welled in her throat, choking her. The breeze swept by her and the sun was shining fiercely upon her with all its warmth, all its brilliant life …
But her scream was not one that could be released; it was within her, and would stay with her forever. It was too much; she could assimilate no more of the pain. The breeze, the gentle balmy breeze, swept all around her, embracing her. She could see nothing but mist, and the mist darkened and darkened.
She saw Sloan’s eyes again for just a moment, then that striking jade, too, blended with the gray. Merciful, merciful succor came to her. She slid to the deck, unaware that she had fallen, unaware of the day or the sun—or the death about her. She fell like death itself; consciousness deserting her at last, bringing her to a peace she might never find again.
She awoke alone—and mercy was gone, for she immediately recalled her image of the deck with its bloody carnage. A low wail escaped her; she struggled to sit, but as soon as she raised her head, pain seared through it and her stomach twisted in a miserable heave. Her fingers clutched the sheets to fight off the pain, and she looked down at her hands, and at the bed. Sloan’s bed. She was back in his cabin.
Brianna closed her eyes again; but then she heard a sound and struggled fiercely to raise herself to the window. There was nothing but the sea, but she did hear men’s voices and slowly realized that they were chanting in prayer. Then there was a flash of white going past her, and a startling splash upon the water. For a moment she frowned, puzzled, then what color had returned to her face fled once again. She had awakened only to witness the burial detail. Voices rose again; another white-shrouded body fell, to be accepted by the sea.
Brianna fell back onto her pillow, praying that God would strip her of consciousness again. Mercifully, he did. But dreams tormented her, dreams in which the dead came to her, their wounds bleeding, and accused her of taking their lives to preserve her own.
It was Paddy’s dear and grizzled face she saw when next she opened her eyes.
“Paddy?”
“Aye, lass, ’tis me.”
“Thank God that you are well.”
Gruff Paddy discovered that he had to swallow fiercely; he felt her pain and the overwhelming vastness of her depression.
“Girl, ye’ve not been well. I’ve broth, and ye must drink it, lest we lose you too.”
“Oh, Paddy,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should have died, should die …” Her eyes had closed again, as if she were willing them to remain that way.
He took a deep breath. “Would ye have it, lass, that their lives were given in vain?”
“Nay, nay, but—”
“The lads we lost were fighters. ’Twas their choice to do battle. ’Twas their right as men to rage against such foul injustice. They died with their honor.”
She allowed her eyes to close again. “Paddy?” she asked, then hesitated.
“Aye, lass?”
“Sloan—was not injured, was he?” she whispered.
“Cap’n’s fine, don’t ye worry ’bout that one, now. He’s a cat with nine lives—and ’e always lands upon his feet.” Paddy paused but a moment. “He has much on his mind, now, girl. We hover off the coast, as the ship must have certain repairs made afore we can set sail for the Netherlands. There is a need for haste, as William of Orange has long been expecting him. Yet he must take grave care with his choice of port now, lest we find ourselves engaged in battle again.”
“I don’t understand,” Brianna murmured. “Matthews is dead; I saw him fall. Where is the danger now? Dear God, am I forever to bring about death and misery?”
Paddy sighed. “Nay, girl—you are no cause of this, except as victim. In killing Matthews, Sloan became an outlaw himself—but only as the law stands now. Wise men, when given the full facts, will know that Matthews was no true seeker of justice, or firebrand against true witchery. I believe myself that the man was grievously ill, and death his only release. He did not uphold the law, but only time will tell this true. There are many across the land—the firm and pious Britains of many persuasions—who believed Matthews to be an animal, and they would cheer his death by Sloan. But My Lord Treveryan is known to be ardently in favor of James’s abdication. The Papists would not welcome him. Therefore, we must assure ourselves that we make port in a community of those who are staunchly Protestant, and looking toward Holland too.”
The girl sighed softly, and Paddy was glad, for it seemed that her conscience had been somewhat eased. But then her eyes met his again and they were stricken with misery.
“What of Robin, Paddy?”
The old seaman had been sitting at the foot of her bed. He rose and shuffled about uncomfortably.
“Robin … well … uh …”
“Paddy! Please, don’t lie to me or hedge about! Tell me, is his wound healing, or not?”
“He’s fighting a fever,” Paddy said simply. “We know not if he can best it, as it ravages fiercely. But you must not be downhearted, for his chance at life at all comes from your quick thinking to remove the arrow.”
“Dearest God!” Brianna moaned, and she thought to rise.
But she realized then that the covers upon the bed were all that clothed her, and with a puzzled frown, she thought, too, that her flesh was not grimed by salt or grit, that her scent was rather one of soap and something else—something sharp and medicinal. She glanced at Paddy, her puzzlement obvious. He cleared his throat.
“Girl, you carried frightening wounds yourself. Holes upon your back and breast, matted with blood. I seek not to embarrass you, but we had no choice but to tend to those wounds—”
She smiled, so wearily that Paddy thought his heart would break. “I’m grateful, Paddy. And you mustn’t worry that I feel shamed or humiliated. I don’t believe anything could cause me shame again …” Her voice trailed for a moment. “Not after Matthews,” she continued softly. She met his gaze. “That friends should have cared for me warms my heart. Yet, how long have I lain so, out
of touch with the hours?”
“A day, no more.”
She nodded gravely, then said, “Paddy, I would see Robin.”
He shook his head. “You must eat the soup. When morning comes, if you are strong enough, I will take you to Robin.” He rose, trying very hard to smile cheerfully. “If you wish to be strong, then you must eat the soup.”
His ploy worked. She nodded slowly, then reached for the broth. He left her then, certain that she would comply.
Brianna did comply. She ate the broth, but she could not rouse herself from lethargy. She lay there, finding that not even her thoughts could torture her to feeling. She was numb, and nothing more.
When morning came again, though, a natural mechanism forced her to rouse herself. She tried to crawl from the bed and discovered that the cabin careened crazily when she did so. She fell back to the bed, astounded by her weakness. But then she tried again, and very carefully came to her feet, found clothing in the wardrobe, and dressed herself.
She sat on the bed then, clasping her hands together, accustoming herself to an upright position. A dull pain beat against her heart as she wondered why she hadn’t seen Sloan. It seemed highly likely that he had at last decided she was not worth one tenth of all the trouble she had caused. Perhaps it was best. He would cast her from him now, surely. For now, she prayed with ever mounting fervor to remove herself from his life. Not for honor—after her time at Matthews’s feet she was not sure she would ever know the meaning of the word again—but because of him. Her love for him had grown and multiplied until it seemed entirely a part of her; but surely he despised her, and if he did not, he would grow to. It was, once again, very strange. Life was the greatest gift, but in its receiving, she had discovered again that it was a gift that must be lived by the heart, soul, and mind. She was alive, and being who she was, she could not be the man’s mistress—or his whore.
Paddy came to the cabin as she sat there, and seemed distressed to see her up and gowned. “Ye do not take care—”
“You said that I might see Robin.”
“But the surgeon says that there is naught which can be done fer young Robin that he is not doing already! The lad must fight the poison with the strength of youth and, lass, ye’ve just opened yer eyes after a fair injury and bout with the devil of yer own! Ye haven’t the strength.”
“I must see him. I will do so with or without your help,” Brianna said softly but firmly.
Paddy muttered under his breath, certain that Sloan wouldn’t approve one bit. But the captain was closeted in the hull with Lord Darton. The military man was telling of the latest developments in London regarding the coveted crown and the mood of the people.
“All right, lass. We’ll go see Robin, and then ye’ll come back here with me like a little lamb and take yer own rest again.”
“Agreed, Paddy,” Brianna said, but then, strangely, she hung back.
“What is it, girl?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I am ready. I was just thinking that—that surely the men must despise me.”
Paddy stared at her in surprise, and then shook his head as he gripped her arm to escort her. “Nay, lass. There’s none who despise ye! Those lads are crowing like a pack of roosters with their victory! ’Tis nothing they enjoy so much as routing the likes o’ that black-hearted murderer!”
Brianna didn’t quite believe him, but she said no more as he led her through the ship.
He brought her to a section of the Sea Hawk where she had never been before, a deck below the galley and the guns but above the cargo hold. It was composed of dual stairways and countless small cabins; the cabins were for the officers, the dual stairways were a quirk of Sloan’s which he had demanded when the ship was built. Sloan, Paddy said, had been but a youth when Charles II had fought the Anglo-Dutch wars, but he had never forgotten the cries of his mates trapped in their burning ship. Regardless of the expense, Sloan had ordered that the Sea Hawk offer her men every possible means of escape should the majestic lady ever catch fire.
Brianna nodded vaguely as she noted a man exiting the cabin door toward which Paddy was leading her. It was the gunner, Geoff, a man of mature years with heavily muscle-bound shoulders but gentle brown eyes.
He had been frowning, but when he saw Brianna, he smiled with swift pleasure. “Ah, Mistress MacCardle! How fine it is to see you up and about!” He clutched her hand and kissed it with warmth and respect, leaving Brianna feeling a bit awed and vastly cheered by his tender emotion. “We feared for you, sweet lady!”
“Thank you, Geoff,” she murmured “Thank you so very much … you, and all of the crew.”
“Ah, ’twas our sweet pleasure to battle the likes of Matthews! Seein’ them slip that noose ’bout your lovely throat, ’twas enough to make devils o’ the lot of us, lady!”
“Bless you,” she murmured. Then she asked worriedly, “Were you with Robin? How is he doing?”
Geoff looked past to Paddy. “I was on my way to find the captain and that surgeon of Lord Darton’s. I’m afraid that poor Robin’s fever grows. Paddy, if you will stay with him—”
“We will stay with him,” Brianna said.
“Nay, ’tis not a sight for a lady.”
Brianna swept by Geoff, placing her hand firmly upon the door. “Then it is well that I am ‘Mistress MacCardle,’ and not ‘Lady,’ for I do intend to be with Robin.”
She awaited no word from either man, but pushed her way through to the cabin. It was much smaller than the captain’s cabin, and it was sparsely furnished with just a bunk and a small chest of drawers. The stench within the cabin was grim, yet the ‘sight’ that Geoff feared would be too much for her tender senses was not strongly repellent.
Robin lay twisting upon the sheets, mumbling in the throes of his fever. He was shirtless, and his breeches had been slashed upon his thigh. The arrow wound had obviously been treated beyond Brianna’s efforts, and a smoothly constructed bandage cradled the injured leg, giving credence to the careful talents of the newly acquired surgeon.
No, it was not the appearance of the carefully tended wound that was tearing upon the heart, but the strain and agony in the whitened features of the youth. The poison, causing the wound to fester beneath its clean linen covering, was permeating Robin’s blood.
Brianna knelt beside the lad and found the damp cloths with which Geoff had been cooling the boy’s body. Tenderly she smoothed the tawny hair from his forehead and bathed his face. “Paddy! Come and help me! We must cool his back as well as his front, or the fever will merely settle!”
Paddy hurried to her side. Geoff watched them for a moment, and then murmured something about finding the captain.
For once, Brianna was not thinking of Sloan Treveryan but of Robin, who was raving.
“The lad is delirious, Brianna,” Paddy said sadly. “Are ye sure we’re doin’ right? Shouldna we be coverin’ the boy up?”
“Not when he’s this hot, Paddy. He is burning inside and out and his mind will be damaged if … if he lives and we cannot cool him quickly. Lift him now, so that I can cool his back.”
Tirelessly, Brianna and Paddy worked over their patient. Brianna kept talking to Robin, soothing him, though he did not hear her. So involved was she that she did not notice when the cabin door opened once more and Geoff returned—with the weary surgeon and Sloan.
She was startled when a gaunt and weary white-haired man knelt down beside her, placing his hand upon Robin’s brow. He looked to the boy first, but then smiled at Brianna.
“You’re doing quite well with the boy, lass. Perhaps he is at last fighting the fever.”
“I’ll move, sir, so that you may get to him.”
“Nay, girl, for you do more than I can at this time.”
Robin’s eyes suddenly opened; they were glassy with fever and pain.
“It hurts!” he cried. “Dear God, it hurts like fire! It twists in me like a knife. Please, God, let me die …”
A furious spasm sudde
nly riddled his body, and then he stiffened, shuddered violently once more, and lay still. His youthful heaving chest rose no more.
The surgeon rose. “I’m afraid, lass, that there is nothing more any of us can do.”
Brianna could not believe that Robin—brave, cocky young Robin—had died. She sobbed out his name with the pain of it and leaned forward to clasp his body, willing it all to be a mistake.
But it was not. Even as she sobbed, George and Paddy caught hold of her and hauled her away; the surgeon draped the covers over Robin’s ravaged face. Still Brianna did not see Sloan, for her face was buried in Paddy’s chest, the old man comforting her as best he could. Sloan watched the scene silently, his sorrow for Robin deep, his heart a tempest for the woman he loved. Paddy was looking to him for help, Sloan knew, but he felt entirely helpless. She had almost died to escape. Better to leave her with Paddy, who had earned her caring and respect.
Paddy, nodding to Sloan, led the sobbing girl from the room.
Sloan paused only a minute at Robin’s side. “You were the best of seamen, the best of men, my young friend.”
“He rests in the hands of God,” the surgeon said quietly.
“Aye, surely he must,” agreed Sloan, and turning, he left the cabin. They were at anchor that day, and half the crew were on guard. There was little for to do, since he and Lord Darton knew it would be best to allow a few days to pass before leaving for another port.
He could not return to his own cabin. Perhaps he had to find his own peace before he could even attempt to console her. That night he found his peace in a bottle of rum.
When Robin’s body was cast into the sea, it was Paddy, Geoff, and young George who stood beside her. And even as Sloan ached for Robin, he was seared with an envy that he despised. He could not help loving her, but still he could not go to her. Paddy later informed him that George and Lord Darton had tended to her like two mother hens, escorting her to the galley for a meal, returning her to his cabin. Paddy looked at Sloan very reproachfully as he talked, but then Paddy was aware that he had been spending his nights in the chartroom since Port Quinby. But Sloan had nothing to say to his first mate except that he chose to be left alone. Paddy did not leave the chartroom quickly enough, and so Sloan departed himself with an angry exclamation.
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