“Pistol shot?” Isabel shifted her elbows back in an attempt to raise herself up, but a spire of agony pierced her shoulder down her arm, and she fell back onto the bed.
Kent wrapped his warm hand around hers, the familiar action quickening her breath despite her pain. Fear flickered in his dark brown eyes—an emotion she’d never seen in them before, not when he’d faced battle, nor a duel, nor even death. The warmth of his thick fingers gave her comfort. His lips lifted in a half smile. “Try to be still, milady. Cutter will dress your wound.” He let out a pained sigh. “’Twas my fault. I thought all the Spanish sailors were confined.”
The Spanish sailor. Visions of the mad Spaniard strutting across the deck of the sloop, brandishing his pistols through the air appeared vividly in Isabel’s mind. But why her? Why had he shot her?
Cutter poured liquid from the vial onto a white cloth. “This may sting.” He placed it over her shoulder. Pain radiated in pulsating waves. She squeezed her eyes shut as tears filled them.
“You’re hurting her.” Kent’s grip on her hand tightened.
The cloth fell away, but her pain did not.
“I must clean the wound, Captain.”
Tears slid into her hair. Opening her eyes, she tried to focus on the captain through the blurry moisture. “’Tis all right, Kent.” Egad, did she just use his familiar name? Too late, the rising of his brows and flicker of delight in his eyes revealed his pleasure. Warming under his sensual grin, she dropped her gaze. Red blotches stained his white shirt, and a sudden terror rose to join her pain. “You’re hurt?” She gave his hand a squeeze and instantly realized he still held hers. She snapped it from his grip.
“Nay, milady. ’Tis not my blood.” Sadness stole his handsome smile, and Isabel cringed at the thought of the blood that must have been shed earlier that day.
Her gaze landed on Hann, thankful the young girl had not been hurt. “I suppose now that I’ve been injured in the plundering of a ship, I’m a real pirate?”
Hann chuckled. “That ye be, miss.”
Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Kent regarded her with admiration. “You certainly possess enough courage to be one.”
Isabel’s heart fluttered at his compliment. As Cutter peered into the wound, she strained to see how bad it was, but saw only a glimpse of red. The metallic smell of blood pricked her nose, and she turned her head away.
“I cannot dress this wound unless I cut her gown from her shoulder,” Cutter announced, wiping his hands on a towel. “You men will have to leave or turn your backs.”
“Swounds, man.” Kent crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve seen a lady’s bare shoulder before.”
“I trust you have, Captain, and”—Cutter gave him a judicial look—“no doubt this lovely shoulder, but you will not see it today, nor you, Hann.” He gestured for them to turn their backs. “About with you now.”
Grunting, Kent swung around, and Isabel smiled as Hann winked at her before turning around also. But when Isabel glanced back at Cutter, his urgent expression alarmed her. “What must you do?”
“Milady, I need to stitch up the opening.” He grimaced. “I can offer you naught but liquor to dull the pain.”
She drew a deep breath. How bad could it be? Worse than giving birth to a child? She nodded her assent.
Isabel’s body tensed as the doctor cut her gown away from the wound. Grabbing a flask, he doused her shoulder with rum. Fiery pan gripped every nerve, and she lurched from the bed with a shrilling wail.
Kent flinched and flung a glance over his shoulder. “Confound it man, what are you doing to her?”
Ignoring his captain, Cutter held the bottle out to Isabel. “I beg you to drink some, milady.”
Eyeing him, she hesitated, never having partaken of the vile liquid, but the pain coursing through her convinced her to make an exception. Lifting her, Cutter poured a draught into her mouth. The torrid liquid scorched a trail down her throat that spread out to her whole body in flames. She coughed and hacked and thought for certain she would lose what little she’d swallowed.
Lifting a needle and thread from his bag, Cutter leaned over her, a sober expression on his scarred lips. The tiny metallic spike shook in his withered hand and loomed larger the closer he brought it. Isabel’s head grew light, and the room began to spin. Darkness stole the corners of her vision and crept inward, absorbing everything in its path until only the doctor’s receding form remained before he too was swallowed in black.
Kent propped his head in his hands and closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief repose from the harrowing events of the day. The familiar creak and moan of the ship as she soared through the sea becalmed his frenzied emotions. Opening his eyes, he watched the lantern light above him arch across the floorboards as it swayed with the movement of the ship. He raised his gaze. Only an inky darkness stared at him from outside the oval window, like the shroud that hovered over his heart.
A slight groan touched his ears, and his eyes drifted to the bed where Isabel slept. A red splotch marred the white bandage wrapped tightly over her right shoulder. Cursing himself, Kent stood and paced the cabin. How could he have allowed her to be shot? A few inches to the left and he would have lost her. The thought horrified him. He rubbed the back of his neck. God, if you are there—he cast a tentative glance upward, half expecting a bolt of lightning to strike him—thank You for sparing her. He wasn’t sure God would incline His ear toward someone like him, but if so, Kent wanted Him to know how grateful he was. A warm tingle showered over him, and he glanced around the cabin.
Shrugging it off, he leaned against the bedpost and watched the sleeping beauty. Her full lips pursed, and a sigh escaped them as her head tossed over the pillow. She seemed to be having a bad dream, and he hoped it wasn’t about him. Her auburn hair cascaded like silk around her head. Even from where he stood, the sweet scent of coconut and vanilla encircled him, inflaming his senses. Another moan escaped her lips, and Kent flew to her side. He took her hand in his. Warm. But when he laid his palm on her forehead, her skin was not hot. He let out a sigh of relief. Cutter had warned him of a possible fever should infection set in.
Her eyelids fluttered and slowly opened. Sparkling green eyes found his, and though recognition flickered in them, fear did not follow. His heart leapt at the amorous glow pouring from them before her shield rose to block it from his view.
Her gaze took in the room and then returned to his. “Am I dead?”
Kent chuckled. “Not unless you expect to find me in heaven.”
She smiled. “I thought perhaps I’d ended up in the wrong place.” She raised a hand to her forehead. “It would seem this girl you deemed so brave passed out at the sight of blood.”
“When ’tis your own blood, it is allowed.”
A moment passed in silence. He could not tear his gaze from hers. What he wouldn’t give to know what she was thinking.
Tugging her hand from his embrace, Isabel shifted her gaze away, and Kent felt the loss like a knife in his gut.
He cleared his throat. “Would you care for some water?”
Isabel nodded and strained to sit, pain etching her face.
With arms outstretched, Kent moved toward her. “Allow me?”
She stared at him wide eyed, then nodded.
Easing his arm behind her back, he leaned toward her, his face just inches from hers. Her sweet fragrance danced around his nose. Pounding heat throbbed in his blood. He lifted her and allowed his gaze to wander over her face. She looked up at him, confusion and yearning in her eyes, and he felt a tremble course through her. The air grew warm and heavy between them.
She has some affection for me, I know it.
It was there in her eyes, in the quiver of her body, the heat of her touch. He longed to take her in his arms, but instead, swallowing his passions, he propped her pillow behind her and laid her gently back down.
She averted her gaze, and Kent turned away to retrieve the pitcher of water and calm himself before f
acing her again. Pouring a glass, he handed it to her. She raised her right hand to take it, and winced. Kent moved the glass toward her mouth to assist her, but she snatched it from his grip, trembling, and took a sip. “How long have I been sleeping?” Her voice hardened.
Kent glanced toward the window, saddened by the gulf widening between them again. “For half a day. ’Tis about midnight, milady.”
Her brows pinched. “What are you doing here?”
“The doctor said someone must watch over you in case a fever arises. Hann sat with you until nightfall, and then I took over.”
“As you can see, I am quite well.” She ran a hand over her stomach. “I won’t burden you further.”
“’Twas my pleasure, as you well know.” He felt his ire rising. Why the sudden change in her manner? Did she blame him for being shot? Or was it still the past between them that stole her affections so quickly? The past. Kent hung his head. He made it sound so unassuming and guiltless, when in reality what he’d done to her was unforgivable.
She took another sip and handed the glass back to him. Her fingers shook, making the water slosh. “What of the hungry slave?” Her features softened as if she remembered something nice about him.
“He’s below with the others, and being well fed, I assure you.”
She stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes grew wide. “Lord Sawkins called you brother.”
Kent marched to the desk and pretended to sift through the charts spread across it. He’d hoped she hadn’t heard the knave’s admission. But what could he do now? If he didn’t tell her the truth, she’d inquire of Sawkins, and God only knew what twisted tales the man would weave for her. He swung about and leaned back against his desk.
She studied him. “How could you be brothers when he is a nobleman and—”
“I am not?” Kent raised his brows. “When he is a lord, and I am not?” Anger thundered within him. “When he is a gentleman and I am not?” He crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his fists. “Truth be told, milady, we are half brothers. He is the illicit product of one of my father’s many conquests. Only this particular mistress was a baroness, wife to Baron Nathaniel Sawkins.”
Isabel’s green eyes reflected shock and something else—sympathy?
Gripping the hilt of his cutlass, Kent stomped to the leather chair beside the bed. “The baron thought Richard was his son and gave him his name and title. But, alas, to my great misfortune, when both the baron and baroness were killed in a fire, young lord Sawkins came to live with us.”
He grabbed a bottle of rum from the table. Lifting it to his lips, he took a huge gulp. The hot liquid bit his throat and sent its numbing waves across his chest and into his belly.
Isabel cleared her throat. “Did he not have any other family who would take him in?”
Kent shook his head. “None save a great grandmother who could no longer care for herself. Besides, his true parentage was being questioned even then.”
“But his name?” Isabel asked in a tentative voice.
“Is Lord Richard Sawkins Bristol.”
Kent plopped into the chair, noting the confusion crimping her face. “And my full name is Kent Frederick Carlton Bristol.”
“Why do you keep your relation a secret?” Isabel asked.
“Our mutual abhorrence for one thing, but alas, I have grown tired of his creditors seeking me out to settle his debts.” He gave her a wry smile.
“You are nothing like him.”
Kent studied her, wondering if that was indeed the flicker of a smile he’d seen on her lips. “Though I know you did not mean it as such, I will take that as a compliment.”
She glanced toward the dark window. “Did he lie to me about his father being injured in the war?”
“Nay, milady.” Kent leaned the bottle on his thigh. It was probably the only thing the villain hadn’t lied to her about. “Our father was indeed maimed.”
“Truly, I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. ’Twas not my father’s outward deformities which caused him to fail in life, but his inward ones.”
Isabel looked at him curiously. Her cinnamon hair spiraled down around her face, over her shoulders, and tickled the lacy quilt on the bed. Kent swallowed. He’d rarely seen her hair out of those blasted combs, and he longed to run his fingers through the silky threads.
“Was he cruel to you?”
Her question and the concern warming her voice drew his focus back to memories of his father—a subject he much preferred to avoid. He took another swig from the bottle, hoping to dull the pain, and suddenly remembered his vow to remain sober while Sawkins was on board. He slammed the flask on the table. Isabel jumped.
“My apologies, milady.” Kent sighed. “Yes, my father was a hard man to please.”
“Yet Lord Sawkins speaks well of him.”
“Richard was the favored son.” Kent gritted his teeth and leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. He tried to force back all the sordid memories emerging from the corners of his mind, but they shoved their way forward despite his efforts. His father’s endless bragging about Sawkins, praising his intelligence, his strength, his nobility, all the while belittling Kent for not being more like his brother—blaming Kent for everything that had gone wrong in his life. When Sawkins stole money from his father, Kent was whipped for it. When Sawkins did not complete a chore, Kent was sent to bed without supper. He looked up at Isabel. “He was spoiled beyond measure. My father worshipped him, gave him everything, his business, his ships, his fortune, and Sawkins trampled them under his boots.”
Isabel gave him a skeptical look. “He seems quite successful to me.”
“Have you seen this wealth he boasts about?”
Isabel looked away.
“He has not two doubloons to warm his pocket, no property, no ship.”
“’Twas not his fault he lost his ship in the storm on a rescue mission.”
“Egad!” Kent laughed. “Is that the tale he told you?”
Isabel crossed her arms over her chest, then cringed and shifted her injured shoulder. “Are you saying he didn’t lose his ship?”
Kent shook his head and leaned back in the chair, amazed at the ease with which Sawkins could entrap women with his bewitching charm. “He no longer owns a ship because he wagered it in a game of cards, milady.”
“I don’t believe you.” Isabel huffed. “A nobleman would do no such thing.” Gathering her silken hair in a bundle, she laid it over her left shoulder. “Why do you hate him so?”
“I pity him more than hate him.”
Isabel’s eyes snapped to his. “As I have said before, I daresay you are merely jealous of him.”
“Is that so?” Kent jumped to his feet. “Insufferable, stubborn woman.”
“Me? Insufferable?” Isabel raised her nose in the air. “You’re the pirate.”
“Then what of your precious Captain Merrick?” Kent sneered. “He is a pirate too.”
“Captain Merrick is a man of honor, while you are naught but a lecherous dog. He does not plunder for gain, but for the glory of the crown. He does not torture and kill innocent people but values all life. Nor does he ravish women, but cherishes and respects the weaker gender. So my apologies, Captain.” Isabel flashed a superior grin. “’Tis not that your trade makes you insufferable. Your character alone does that quite well.”
Grimacing, Kent swallowed the burning lump in his throat. He turned away.
“Please leave.” He heard her stern voice behind him.
Releasing a sigh, Kent regained his composure and faced her. “Very well.” He bowed and slammed out the door before she could see the pain in his eyes. Slinking into the shadows, he flattened himself against the adjacent wall and lowered his head. Why had he disclosed so much of himself to this woman? Now, she had more than enough poison darts to do away with him for good. He felt their sting even now in his heart. Though he thought he’d sensed her attraction to him, it must have been naught but his ow
n foolish desire. No matter what Kent said, she was quite taken with Lord Sawkins. Besides, why would she believe the word of a pirate who’d ravished her? He must make her see the truth. He would not let his scandalous brother have her—not as long as Kent had the power to prevent him.
Chapter Sixteen
Under the Shadow of His Wings
Isabel drew her shawl tightly about her shoulders against the chilly mist billowing up from the sea. Leaning over the railing littered with tiny droplets, she peered into the gray haze, searching for the familiar turquoise of the ocean, but only the purling rush of water against the hull assured her the ship maintained its speed. Cool moisture soaked through the sleeves of her gown, and she stepped back from the rail.
Oh, Frederick. How long had they been at sea now, ten days? And no sign of Morris. Was he truly going to Cartagena? Would they find him there? Father—she glanced up into the silent ashen sky—please keep him safe. A burning ache formed in her throat, threatening to rise and fill her eyes with tears. She wanted to trust God, yet as each day passed, her faith waned. Lord, I believe. Help me in my unbelief.
Hugging herself, she closed her eyes and tried to remember the feel of her baby in her arms, the gurgle of his playful babbling, his innocent scent. A dull pain spiraled out from her shoulder, and she rubbed it, easing it in a semicircle. Three days had passed since the pistol shot pierced her skin, and although still sore, Isabel had recovered quickly. She’d spent most of that time sleeping. Her only visitors had been Hann, who’d come to bring her food, and Cutter, who’d periodically checked her bandaging. She’d not seen the captain since she’d tossed him from her cabin. But what did she expect? She’d been horribly cruel to him. She remembered the pain leeching from his eyes, and guilt raked over her. It was no way for a Christian woman to behave. Her thoughts drifted to the way his strong arms felt on her back as he lifted her from the bed. A warm blush crept up her neck.
“What makes you smile this early in the morning?”
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