by Jo Goodman
She had no idea where she was. Her companion used sidestreets and alleys she had not known existed. Where there was light there were great, hulking shadows. Where light was absent there was only a penetrating darkness that frightened her with its intensity. She gave thanks that one of them knew where they were going.
Once Jericho realized the wench had no place to go where she could not be easily found, he knew where he would have to take her. It bothered him more than a little to use the schooner that had been set aside strictly for official use, but it sat idle now, far enough from Washington's camp that the girl would not suspect his connection with the Continental Army. He had no desire to be bartered for her freedom, knowing full well the British would be eager to forget his companion's deeds in exchange for a spy. She would be safe enough hidden along the banks of the Hudson. She could stay there until the search for her was ended, surely no more than a few days; then she could find more savory employment in another part of the city. Jericho was just feeling that he had the situation well in hand when her steps faltered beside him.
He stopped. He was slightly out of breath himself so he could appreciate that she was tired. He did not expect her to collapse at his feet. "Damn," he muttered, kneeling to hoist her over his shoulders. He staggered to his feet. "Not nearly the lightweight lightskirt I expected." He grimaced and adjusted her unconscious form. Proceeding at a slower pace, he allowed himself a lazy smile as he considered the anger of the soldier's companions when they broke into his room and found him and the wench gone. They would feel the veriest fools that they had trusted him to keep her under guard while they fetched the regiment physician. Jericho could have told them it was a waste of their time. He was certain the knife had pierced the soldier's lung. The man was not going to recover.
Jericho also knew it had been an accident, and when cooler heads prevailed the others would know it, too. But when she had withdrawn the bloody knife from the chest of her assailant, he did not think it prudent to wait for reason's embrace in view of the threatening stance of every man who surrounded her penitent figure. There was no telling what a crowd like that might do.
His burden groaned under the rhythmic jolting of his light steps. "Awake again, are we?" he asked. "Don't struggle. I'm not putting you down just so you can kiss the ground again. Consider yourself fortunate that I decided to pick you up."
She considered herself tortured, but there was no way to tell him so. She closed her eyes and prayed that they would reach their destination soon.
Jericho felt her frame relax once more and he knew she had slipped into oblivion again. "Just a bit further, Red." He recalled the name Wolfe had given her. It was as good as any other.
He held her tightly as he slid down the embankment that led to the schooner and narrowly missed making the journey on his posterior. That would have been good for a laugh, he thought wryly. He imagined dropping her into the water and losing her forever. Jericho did not make it widely known, but he couldn't swim a stroke. His past notwithstanding, it was one more reason to hate being aboard any vessel.
Jericho wobbled slightly as he climbed aboard the schooner. Once he got his bearings he moved with a grace that belied his uneasiness. He carried her below deck to the single cabin. The appointments of the room were not rich. Washington rarely used the craft and wished no luxury his men could not share. Still, it was a comfortable setting, probably better than anything she had seen recently.
Jericho was familiar with the floor plan of the cabin. There was a narrow bunk attached to one wall, three deep drawers beneath it, and several chairs neatly bolted to the floor. A storage bench sat below the single port window, its seat heavily padded for the comfort of a passenger interested in the view. There was a single desk and a stool, purely functional in design, and a walnut wardrobe and commode stood opposite the bunk. He moved easily to the bunk, dropped his bundle, and then lit several tallow candles. The flickering glow allowed him to see his companion more clearly.
Jericho Smith whistled softly, tipping back his cocked hat and wiping his brow with his forearm. He did not like what he saw. He had lifted too many ales; it was the only thing that explained his part in rescuing a girl who was burning up with fever. Her condition put an end to his returning to the camp tonight. His friends would merely assume he was spending the evening in the arms of a willing wench and envy his good fortune. His brows lifted at the irony of his situation.
What Jericho knew about caring for the sick he had learned on board the prison of his youthful years and during the winter of deprivation and disease he had spent in Valley Forge. The few Indian remedies he remembered were not suited to her illness. Neither of these experiences had prepared him to help the flushed and fevered wench.
He tossed his hat on a chair and knelt by the bed. "Well, Red. I hope you have some fight left in you, 'cause you're gonna need it." He rifled the drawers beneath the bunk and came up with a nightshirt, several thick blankets, towels, and an extra set of linens for the bed. He stripped her to her heated skin, impersonal and efficient. He slid her into the nightshirt and pulled the hem neatly to her ankles. "There's room enough for two of you in that garment," he told her. He carefully tucked two blankets about her, then took a pitcher from the commode cupboard and went to fill it with water. He liberally doused one of the hand towels, folded it, and placed it across her forehead.
Jericho stepped back to view his work. "That's it, Red. The rest is up to you." It occurred to him that he should probably have some manner of food for her. What was it the medics had told him? Starve a cold, feed a fever? Or did he have it reversed? He shook his head in disgust. How the hell had he managed to put himself in this situation? What good was he to the girl?
Oh, hell. He jammed his hat on his head and set off in the direction of a farmhouse in the area he knew to be friendly to the cause. When he returned to the schooner he had two large wafers of hardtack, plenty of dried and salted beef strips, several apples, two flasks of corn liquor, and as a special treat from the farmer's wife, a faintly warm piece of cherry cobbler. He had told them he was on the general's business and needed provisions for a few days. Though he had offered them the last of his continental notes, they had refused them. Jericho had merely sighed. Everyone seemed to know they were next to worthless.
He put everything in the storage bench except the cobbler, which he ate with rare relish while sitting at the desk. "I doubt you are in any condition to appreciate how good that was," he said, licking his fingers. There was not even the faintest of replies from the bunk, confirming Jericho's point. "What am I supposed to do with you, Red? How long have you been ill?
And what were you doing in Wolfe's feeling as poorly as you did? Earning your living, the same as every other lightskirt in the place, I'll wager." The absurdity of his conversation struck him and he laughed softly. "Dear Lord, I'm talking to myself... and answering. You've got a strange way of twisting yourself about a man. You fight like a soldier and fall at my feet as helpless as a baby. I don't think I much like it, Red. I don't think I like it at all."
Jericho Smith snuffed the candles, stripped to his drawers, and dropped to the floor, covering himself with the last blanket. In minutes he was asleep, his left hand resting within inches of his dagger.
At the first whimper Jericho was on his feet, crouched to pounce, his blade resting lightly in his palm. It took him longer to assess there was no danger than it had taken him to leap to his feet. "Damn!" he muttered, setting his weapon aside and going to his patient. "You're on fire, Red." He withdrew his hand from her cheek and sat heavily beside her, his shoulders slumping. What was he supposed to do?
"Mama."
The plaintive cry tore at Jericho Smith, and it angered him. "I'm damn well not your mama, you senseless chit!" he said impatiently, roughly. He immediately regretted his words, despite the fact that she had heard none of what he said. "Hell, I'm sorry, Red. We're both out of our minds."
Jericho moved easily about the darkened cabin. He rummaged th
rough the bench's contents, found one of the flasks, and added the contents to the remainder of water in the pitcher. He tore one of the towels into smaller pieces and soaked the strips in the mixture. Jericho first bathed her face, wiping the heated contours gently. Sweeping aside her blankets, he rolled the nightshirt to her shoulders and continued his tender ministrations on the rest of her flesh. Without light he could only make out the faint outline of her figure against the sheet, but he needed no aid to realize how neatly her curves fit the palm of his hand beneath the damp cloth. He growled deep in his throat at the direction of his thoughts.
"I think I liked you better when I thought you but a skinny bit, more temper than tempting. I don't need you, and God knows I'll be happy when you don't need me." He finished bathing her quickly, put the nightshirt in place, and tucked her in again. With the back of his hand he tested the temperature of her face. It felt slightly cooler to the touch, but he washed it again and left a freshly soaked cloth in place over her brow.
He sat with her a few minutes to make certain she was sleeping easily, then he returned to his place on the floor. Just moments prior to nodding off he wondered if he had wasted good whiskey.
* * *
Thirty-six hours passed before he knew the answer. He was on the deck of the schooner, fishing from the side, when he heard his patient moving below. Putting aside his pole, he got slowly to his feet and pulled his shirt from the rail where it was drying with the rest of the newly washed clothes. He could hear her rummaging through the drawers and wardrobe. He threw her slightly damp garments over his shoulder and went below.
"I think you're looking for these, Red," Jericho said from the open doorway.
Red? It seemed familiar. As did the man leaning negligently against the jamb. He appeared to know her. It followed he must know her name. She smiled uncertainly as she gathered the loose neckline of her nightshirt close about her throat.
"You are a fetching little thing, but it seems rather too late for a show of modesty. Have you forgotten who dressed you thusly?" Jericho stepped in the cabin and dropped her clothes on the bunk.
It seemed to her that she had forgotten all manner of things. Beginning with her own name. She did not know who she was, let alone where she was. Every muscle in her body ached as she moved slowly toward the pile of clothes. Had this man beaten her?
"Easy, Red." Jericho swept her off her feet and put her down on the bed. "You're not steady yet, and the schooner's bobbin' a bit today. How are you feelin'? You took a nasty turn yesterday."
Of course, she thought. She had been sick. That explained the relentless pounding in her head and the infantlike weakness. It was still incredibly painful to swallow. She tried to speak, but nothing came of it. She pointed to her throat, hoping he would understand.
"Open up and let me have a peek," he ordered, grinning when she complied. She looked very much like an unfledged bird waiting for feeding time. "Good girl. You're still a bit raw. Save your voice until you feel better. I can talk for both of us."
She frowned. She had a vague recollection that someone else had told her to save her voice. She couldn't hold the memory and it was lost as quickly as it had come.
"Just point to where you hurt," Jericho said, thinking her in pain. She rolled her eyes at the impossibility of the task he set for her. Her hands swept past her entire body.
"All over. Hardly surprising, Red. You weren't fit to work the other night and you damn well know it. I can understand that you needed the coin, but I can't believe it was so important that you lent your body to be pawed when you could barely say nay."
Her eyes widened and her dark lashes fluttered. What sort of work had she been engaged in?
"Course I can hardly say you weren't able to defend yourself. Was he the first man you killed?"
Killed? She had killed someone? She shook her head, not crediting what this man was telling her.
Jericho misunderstood. "I thought he might not be your first, but you were so near to fainting afterward that I couldn't be sure. I'm not condemning you, Red. I know it was an accident, and I can't say the same about the men I've killed."
Her mouth gaped at this last revelation. She tried to inch away from him.
"Self-defense," he said matter-of-factly, eyeing her carefully. "Same as you."
She stilled. She believed him. She didn't understand anything that had happened to her, or was happening at this moment, but she believed this man.
Jericho's head tilted to one side as he studied her. His hard cerulean eyes narrowed briefly. He could not understand why most of what he'd said appeared to surprise her. She had been at Wolfe's same as he, yet she reacted as if she had not been a participant in all that had gone on. A touch of brain fever, he decided.
"Look, you still need more rest. You've been out cold for a day and a half. I'll put your things over the chairs to dry and you slide under the covers. I'll be topside if you need me. There's fresh water in the pitcher and a mug on the hook nearby." He pointed to the opposite wall. "Do you want anything now?"
She shook her head.
"Get some sleep. I'll check on you a little later." He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. "Listen, Red, forget what I said about workin' out a price. You don't have to worry about me."
She closed her eyes, wondering why his parting statement should make her feel the tiniest bit sad.
When she woke again it was dark and, she assumed, quite late. She could make out the vague shape of the stranger on the floor and heard the soft, oddly reassuring cadence of his breathing. Gingerly she stretched her limbs. Her stomach growled noisily in the relative silence of the cabin. She patted the offending portion of her anatomy and quietly slipped out of the bunk. She had taken only two steps when she felt warm fingers clutch her ankle. Her instinctive scream was smothered with her own hand as she realized who was holding her. She sat down on the edge of the bunk and he released his tight grasp.
Jericho sat up. "I'll get you something to eat," he said.
He spoke as if he had been awake for hours, she thought. She was certain he had been sleeping soundly. "Please," she whispered.
Her voice made him hesitate as he got to his feet. He lit a candle and brought it close to her face. "You can talk." She nodded. "Does it hurt?"
"A bit."
Satisfied she was telling the truth, Jericho set the candle holder on the desk and rooted through the hold of the bench for food.
She watched the play of yellow light across his shoulders, fascinated by the rippling effect on his broad naked back. The string waistband of his drawers rested low on narrow hips. She was not quick enough to turn away when he glanced over his shoulder, and neatly caught out, she refused to deny her interest.
Jericho grinned. "Find something to impress you yet?" he asked cheekily.
She did not remember the exchange he was referring to. She sucked in her breath at his arrogance. "Hardly," she said, raising her chin a notch.
He chuckled appreciatively. "I suppose I deserve that," he said, turning back to get her food. "Can't say the same is still true for me. About you, I mean. You're a better-lookin' wench than I first figured."
"I'm not flattered."
"Good. Because I didn't say you were beautiful, or even comely. I merely said you were better lookin' than—"
"You first figured," she finished, mocking his country expression. That certainly put her in her place.
He thrust a small plate of food in her hands. "It ain't much."
She realized he wasn't apologizing, simply stating a fact. "Thank you."
Jericho sat cross-legged on the floor and watched Red break off a small piece of the hardtack and press it daintily in her mouth. Her manner was curious. In this setting, with her slender legs crossed gracefully at the ankles, she gave more the appearance of a lady than a harlot. "Are you an actress?" he asked suddenly.
She paused before answering, giving his question careful consideration.
"No. That is, I don't think
so. Might I have some water?" She thought the distraction would give her time to frame a suitable answer to the inevitable question.
Jericho stood up in a fluid movement that captured her full attention. How beautiful he is when he walks, she thought. She had quite lost her concentration when he returned with the water and dropped silently to the deck.
"What do you mean you don't think so?" he asked.
She blinked and took a sip of her drink to wash down the dry, unleavened bread. "I'm afraid I can't remember very much, Mr.—" She looked away, a troubled half-smile forming on her lips. "See. I feel a veritable goose. I cannot even recall your name."
Jericho sighed, relieved. "Is that all? We've never been introduced. I'm Jericho Smith. And you're—?" His voice trailed off hopefully.
Her shoulders slumped. "I was so hoping you knew," she said wistfully.
"Meaning you don't."
She nodded. "I haven't any idea."
"Damn. Is this some whore's trick?"
"Is that what I am? A whore?"
"You tell me. You were in Wolfe's Tavern serving drinks to a full regiment of redcoats. Smiling. Teasing. And looking over each customer to determine the color of his coin. The only females in the place walk the streets when the pub closes."
She put her plate and cup on the floor, her appetite gone. "Then I suppose I must be what you say I am," she said slowly, meeting his eyes again. "And I killed a man?"
"You really don't remember, do you?"
"I've told you I don't." Her voice cracked with tension and threatening tears.
"Don't strain yourself anymore," he said tiredly. In his melodic voice, he gave her a brief outline of the events at Wolfe's. "There you have it, and here you are. It remains to be seen how we go on."
Relief shone in her eyes with his use of "we." It did not sound as if he would simply desert her.
"Tomorrow's soon enough to work it out." Jericho reached for the candle, blew it out, and patted the hard floor as if he could shape it to his form. He pulled the blanket up to his bare shoulder and closed his eyes.