Her hand took his. So small. So fragile.
“How do you feel?” he said.
“Bloody well,” Meg said gamely.
He heard the Campbell wench’s indrawn breath at the oath. Meg, he thought, had probably been with Burke and himself too long.
Just then, Meg moved and gasped. He checked the poultice. It was wet and sticky. Blood. “Has she had any laudanum lately?”
He made out the negative shake of her head.
“I was afraid to leave her. We tied her down, but she still rolled and I did not want the bonds to hurt her.”
He stood silently as seconds turned to minutes. The ship still rolled but the tumbling had ended. “You can untie her,” he said finally. “The worst is over.” He went to the porthole. Minutes earlier it would have been awash with waves. The storm had passed.
He stanched the bleeding as best he could. Meg clenched her teeth as he did so. Then he returned to the cabinet to fetch her some laudanum. He was careful about its use, knowing it was addictive and could be dangerous.
He poured just a small portion from the bottle into a cup. Thank God the cabinet had protected what few medicines they had. Then he looked for water. The pitcher had been fitted into a slot, but the tossing of the ship had apparently spilled it.
“Rob,” he said. “Go to the gallery and fetch some water.”
“Aye, sir,” he said.
Rob had always been far more polite than Meg. To Rob, Alex had simply been “Will” until he’d become captain of the Ami. Now he was “sir.” Even Rob did not know Alex’s true name, or if he did, he never mentioned it. Only Burke knew exactly who he was. And Burke was not a confiding man.
Keeping the cup steady, Alex returned to Meg’s side. The ship plunged and immediately the Campbell leaned over to protect her. It was not, Alex had to admit, out of duty but out of true concern. True caring.
That Meg did not want her to leave put truth to that observation. He remembered the soft lullaby she’d sung earlier, the loneliness and longing in her voice.
How long since Meg had known gentleness? Certainly not in the past year. Probably not before that. Meg’s mother had not been a demonstrative women. Alex had seen that firsthand. She’d been a dutiful wife and mother, yet not an affectionate one, and definitely not one to sing lullabies.
Meg had cared for her in the caves, but the woman had just given up. She’d not had her daughter’s will to live.
He still remembered Meg’s tearless face when he had buried her mother. No sign of emotion as if she had turned off everything inside herself.
But now she looked very much the vulnerable child with her hair hacked off, and her thin face, and the need for a woman.
Even a Campbell.
That was the most telling of all.
The door to the cabin opened, and Rob lurched toward him with a keg in his arms. Alex tapped it while Rob held the cup. Alex filled it and mixed the water with a small amount of laudanum, then went to the cot.
“Drink this, Meg.”
She took tiny little sips. No protestations. No rebellion. It was not like Meg.
He waited until her breath grew easier.
The Campbell lass said nothing, merely kept her hand on Meg’s, occasionally leaning down to protect her when the ship bucked. She said nothing to Alex, and he found himself wishing she would.
When he was sure Meg felt no more pain, he went to the tinderbox and took out the flint, steel, and tinder. Even as experienced as he was, he had trouble striking a light. Then the linen tender flamed and he finally got the bloody candle lit.
The Campbell woman rose and retrieved a piece of cloth from the cabinet. He watched as she carefully washed Meg’s wound. Some of the stitches had torn away. The wound looked raw and ugly.
“We need some milk,” Jeanette Campbell said.
“There is none.”
“A milk poultice is best for a wound.”
“Hamish does not seem to think so,” he said coolly.
“The oil is not working,” she said just as coldly.
“Do you have any way of conjuring a goat or cow?”
In a sudden flare of the candle, he saw her flinch. For a moment, she looked as vulnerable as young Meg.
Surprised, he felt a moment’s regret. She had, after all, helped Meg and had done far more than he’d expected.
“Go to your cabin and get some rest,” he said again. “You will be needed in the morning.”
“And you?”
“I’ll sleep then.”
“If there’s not another British ship.”
His gaze met hers. “Aye.”
“Will you then find another storm and to bloody hell with Meg?”
He did not know if he were more surprised at the oath or the accusation.
“And what would happen to her if the ship was taken by the English?” he asked. “Just what do you think would become of her then?”
Her hand trembled. “Certainly it could be no worse than this.”
“Then you do not know them, my lady.”
“You merely want to save yourself.”
“Aye, I do,” he said. “I have a few debts to repay.”
He saw from the sudden flare in her eyes that she knew exactly what he meant.
She ignored him and looked at Meg’s wound. “I can sew that.”
“I’ll wait for Hamish.” He knew he sounded churlish. But she was reaching some part of him he did not want touched. “Leave,” he said again. “She’s sleeping. She doesn’t need you.”
“You are an ass, Captain,” she said flatly as she rose and left the room with regal dignity.
Chapter Ten
Jenna tried to keep her temper intact. No matter who he was, no matter how he carried himself, he had the manners and demeanor of a ruffian.
She would not have left, had the child not been asleep. She hadn’t wanted the tension to somehow affect her. But she was indeed tired, and she was glad to be free of the captain’s presence.
For a moment, when he had touched Meg, she thought she possibly might have been wrong about him, that he did have some decency and humanity left inside. But then he had growled at her yet again and glowered as if he hated her.
Well, ’twas obvious he did. And oddly enough because of her name and not because of the mark she bore. Perhaps because he considered her so poorly, he cared little about it. Perhaps he had not even noticed it.
How could he not notice her mark? Except hers was of God’s making. Or the devil’s, as so many claimed.
Yet he had never thrown it at her.
He has not yet had time.
And what did she care in any event?
She could not get the picture of Meg out of her mind, or the ugly wound. Neither could she dismiss the image of the captain. He had been soaked to the skin, his dark hair plastered to his head, lines crinkling around tired eyes. Perhaps because his face had been etched with weariness, the scar had been more visible as it turned up his lips. Only it had been more grimace than the curious half smile that usually hid his emotions.
When he’d touched Meg with gentleness, she’d felt an odd tug in her heart. Would a murderer and thief have a tender touch?
Even a tiger had a care for its young as it devoured other more helpless beasts, she told herself.
She was determined not to be a more helpless beast.
She made her way back to her cabin, but it was locked, and there was no crewman there to open it. She knocked and heard a wailing inside.
“Celia,” she yelled through the door. “Are you all right?”
“Aye, my lady,” came a weak voice.
“Is that you crying out?”
“Nay, it is Lady Blanche,” Celia said. “She is ill.”
“And you?”
“Not as badly,” Celia said, but she sounded awful. “And you, my lady?”
“I am well. Unhurt. I’ll try to get the captain to let you stay with me.”
Another wail.
; Poor Celia. Jenna expected her maid’s cabin mate—Blanche—was worse than the seasickness.
She debated whether to return to the sick bay to make her request, or wait until later. When would she have more chance of success?
She turned back toward the sick bay and opened the door. The interior was dark but so had been the rest of the bowels of the ship. Rob was asleep on the chair. Then she saw the captain. He was next to Meg’s bed, his long legs folded, his head slumped on his chest. For a moment, she did not know whether it was in defeat or sleep.
Then he slowly moved and raised his head. She knew then it had been sleep, and she regretted her decision. She did not care about his welfare, she told herself, but she did about the ship and the people on board. At least some of them.
He rose, and his limp was even more pronounced. Something deep inside responded to the man who looked so utterly tired and, for the first time, vulnerable. He came to the door, held out a hand to direct her back outside, and then closed it behind him.
“Aye?” he said.
No title. No courtesy. Only an abrupt, irritated question.
“Celia … my companion … I would like her to stay with me. She’s been ill and—”
“And you need a maid?” He turned back to the door in dismissal. “Well, this is one Campbell who will have to go without.”
The area was dark, and she could not see his eyes or even much of his face. But his voice was rude and presumptive.
“I want to look after her, not the other way around,” Jenna said, her anger now equal to his. For a moment earlier, their joint concern over a child had united them in a common cause, or so she had thought. He made it clear now there had been no common cause, no temporary truce.
He turned and stared at her. She wondered if he could see more of her face than she could of his. He seemed catlike in his movements, uncanny in his ability to see in the dark.
He didn’t say anything, but she still felt his enmity like a palpable thing. She was a Campbell. She suspected whatever she did, or said, was not going to make up for that. And it was one thing she could not change.
She waited, refusing to be cowed or intimidated.
He hesitated, then nodded his head once. “Go. I’ll have one of my men bring her.”
“Thank you,” she said through clenched teeth. If nothing else, she was a pragmatist. Anger over his rudeness and unfairness accomplished nothing.
“And you will stay there until I say otherwise,” he said. “I do not want you wandering the ship.”
“I would be delighted if that means I will not see you,” she said with the same contempt he’d put in his voice. So much for holding back her anger.
“Then we are agreed on that point,” he said. She felt his gaze on her again. “Go,” he said.
She turned around, afraid her defiance might prod him to change his mind.
Why had she said anything at all?
Because she had wondered for a split second whether there was more to the man than she’d first thought.
There was not.
He would get some rest in Claude’s cabin.
Damn, but he hated to give up his own quarters, with the only bed on the ship large enough to accommodate him.
Still, the infernal Campbell wench needed sleep of her own, and she would never get it with the bawling Carrefour woman.
He rubbed the corner of his left eye. He had not meant to go to sleep. That he had dozed meant he needed it badly. He woke Rob. “I am going above to see whether Hamish can join you. If not, I’ll send Burke to relieve you. Then you get some sleep. I will be in Claude’s cabin.”
Rob nodded, his gaze going over the still form on the bed. “Is she …?”
Alex shook his head.
“Miss … Lady Jeanette was … kind.” The lad’s words were tentative, unsure.
“She wants to stay alive,” he said curtly.
Rob did not say anything else, and Alex left him. Damn, but his leg hurt. If he weren’t careful, it would give way at any time. As it was, every step was agony.
Hamish was seeing to the repair of the hauling of sail. A sliver of light peeked through distant clouds, though rain still fell steadily. The waves had diminished in strength. So had the wind.
The lifelines were still in place, though, and the ship still leapt through heavy seas.
He approached Claude, who was next to the wheel. “See anything of the Charlotte?”
“Non. I hope it avoided most of the storm.”
“Burke?”
“Here.”
Alex spun around. Burke was indeed next to him. It was uncanny the way he always appeared at the right moment.
“Stay with Rob and Meg in the sick bay,” he said.
“Aye.”
“And get that Campbell lass’s maid. I want her sent to my cabin.”
Burke raised a surprised eyebrow. “I thought ye would be using it.”
“Just do it,” Alex said.
Claude turned and gave him a searching look. “Ahhh,” he said.
Alex glared at him. “I’ll use your cabin for the next two hours to get some rest, then I’ll relieve you.”
“Oui, whatever you say, Captain,” Claude said with an amused look.
Alex was damned if he was going to explain himself. Instead, he left the quarterdeck, trying not to hear Claude’s chuckle.
He was not softening toward the Campbell wench. She would be no good to Meg if she too did not get some rest, and she obviously would not do that if she were worried about her maid.
Worried about her maid? A Campbell?
Campbells were a devious lot. Dishonor ran in their blood. She would be no different from any of them.
Damn her anyway.
A few more days and she would be off his ship.
Celia was pitiably grateful for her new quarters. Dawn’s light was now creeping into the captain’s cabin, and it must have looked very grand to her after the tiny quarters she’d been assigned to earlier.
The maid’s face was white. Her dress was soiled, and her hair looked as if it had not been combed in a week. “Oh, miss, I did so worry about ye,” she said.
“No more than I of you,” Jenna said.
“You look tired, my lady,” Celia said.
“And you look ill.”
“I will no’ be sorry to see land,” Celia said, her pale face looking even more pinched. “They will let us go?”
“Aye,” Jenna said, not nearly as sure as she hoped she sounded. But Celia needed the reassurance.
“They did not lock the door here,” Celia noted.
“An oversight, no doubt,” Jenna replied dryly. “Or else they know we are no threat.”
She put a hand on Celia’s shoulder. “Let me help you with your dress, then you can help me with mine.”
She undid the buttons down the front of Celia’s dress and tugged it down. Celia did the same with hers. Then they both stood in their shifts. “You take the bed, my lady,” Celia said.
“Nay, it is large enough for both of us.”
They looked at each other as a knock sounded at the door.
She did not have a key. For a moment, fear returned. Then for some reason it faded. The captain might despise her, yet she knew deep down he would do her no physical harm, nor allow it to happen by someone else’s hand.
She went to the door and opened it a crack. A young sailor stood there, a jug in one hand and a basket in another. “The captain sent this.”
“What …?”
“Some wine, miss, and some bread and crackers and cheese.”
She reached out and took the offerings, handing the jug to Celia. “Thank you.”
“Yer welcome,” the sailor said, then turned and disappeared.
Jenna stared at the gifts, for surely they could be nothing else from captor to captive, and wondered at the paradox that was both gentleman and pirate.
Alex woke with a huge ache in his head, a leg that did not want to respond, and a glowering d
iscontent.
He did not want to deal with the Campbell woman.
Meg. How was Meg? Someone would have wakened him if she were worse, but still …
He hurriedly dressed. Shaving could wait until later.
He looked out the porthole. Blue sky, by God. The ship still rolled, which meant the seas were running high.
He left the cabin and strode straight to the sick bay. Meg was awake. Both Burke and Rob were with her.
“How do you feel?” He felt her face. He would swear the fever was lessening.
“You look terrible,” Meg said.
“We are not talking about me.”
“Are you worried about me?” She looked pleased even if her smile seemed more like a grimace in her too-pale face. She was definitely a female. And definitely getting better.
“Aye. It would be inconvenient if anything happened to you,” he said.
“Why?”
He grinned at her. It had been a long time since he had done that. “I would miss you,” he admitted wryly.
“Really?”
“Aye. But I would have preferred missing you if you’d stayed in Paris.”
“They dinna care about me.”
“They did, or they would not have offered to take you in.”
“I dinna need charity,” she said belligerently.
Now he knew she was feeling better.
He understood. Dear God, he understood. But what to do with a lass of eleven years whose manners and speech were atrocious and who did not know the meaning of obedience? Her one goal in life seemed to be to vex him.
He would have missed Rob and her, had they not stowed away. But the last few hours had proved just how dangerous it was for them.
Yet there was little he could do about it now. In the past hours he’d considered leaving them on Martinique or another French island, but he knew no one he could trust to care for them. If he left money, who was to say the children would not be abandoned and the money stolen? As dangerous as the Ami might be, it probably was no more so than the alternatives.
It strengthened his resolve to end his privateering for the immediate future and try the diamond business. It had, after all, been the original plan.
After selling the captured Charlotte, he would change the name of the Ami and sail to Brazil.
The Diamond King Page 13