by Jo Goodman
Eli Holland snapped his fingers. "That's right. Now I remember. Family name, isn't it? Can't say that I blame you for not using it. Who'd want to—"
"I'm sure we can discuss this another time, Captain Holland," Salem interrupted. "Does she get transport to the Colonies or not?"
"Certainly. There's a prime bay your father has that I've had my eye on."
"Done." Salem concluded the shrewd deal. "Now may we go to our rooms?"
"That's a bit of a problem. I don't make it a practice to carry many passengers. Too much trouble by half. I've only one space left."
Salem spoke quickly before Ashley could voice her disagreement with the arrangement. "It's just as well. We could not be expected to keep the truth of our relationship from you for the entire voyage. Ashley is my wife, but it has been necessary because of her connection with the duke to keep our marriage a secret."
Captain Holland frowned, looking pointedly at Ashley's naked finger.
Uncertain why she went along with Salem, Ashley answered the captain's disbelieving gaze. "I had to give away any number of precious possessions in order to secure my husband's release. My wedding band was among them."
That seemed to satisfy Holland and a short time later Ashley and Salem were safely in their small cabin.
"And I thought the captain's quarters were bare," Ashley said, seating himself on the sole chair in the room. The furnishings consisted of a single bunk, a commode which held a chamber pot and washing basin, and a trunk she thought would have to double as a table of sorts. Everything, including the chair, was fastened securely to the floor.
Salem lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. "Missing Linfield already? I hope not, because this is going to be your home for quite some time. You won't be able to mingle much with the other passengers. There is no knowing who might cause us problems in the future."
"Why didn't you tell the captain the truth, that I am your sister?"
"You heard the man. He knows my father. D'you think I haven't a care for his reputation?"
"But what of mine?"
"Sharing a room with your husband is not the sort of thing that will shred your rep," he pointed out with some exasperation.
"What did Captain Holland mean when he was talking about your name?"
Salem turned on his side, giving Ashley his back. "Chatterbox, d'you remember saying this morning that I might find a little more sleep once we were on board? Well, we are and I am. I can't seem to stay awake any longer."
Horrified that she could forget so easily how tired and weak Salem really was, Ashley rushed to his side and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. "How inconsiderate of me to nag you with questions," she said sorrowfully. Taking a corner of the bedsheet, she wiped away the beads of sweat glistening on Salem's brow. The Oleander lurched beneath her as it left its berth, causing her to bump Salem's injured arm. His body gave a violent jerk that nearly unseated her from the edge of the bed, but he did not cry out or rail at her as Ashley would have expected. Tears misted her eyes when she saw that he had finally been pushed beyond endurance and sought refuge in unconsciousness.
The next several hours caused Ashley no small amount of fright. Though she pleaded very prettily and eventually, very angrily, with Captain Holland, he told her he could not spare a man to look after her husband and would send someone when he was able. It was therefore left to Ashley to nurse Salem as best she could. Never had she experienced such an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Nothing in her life had prepared her to take care of a person as ill as Salem.
She badgered Jack Brady into abandoning his duties long enough to supply her with towels, soap, and a pitcher of water to clean Salem's wound. Biting her lip, she steeled herself to remove Salem's shirt, finding that she was not immune to her patient's pain even if the patient was. Gently she unwrapped the bandage she had applied earlier. It was all she could do not to wretch at the sight of the putrid flesh.
The wound was not long, less than two inches, but Ashley suspected it was very deep. She wanted to weep, remembering that she had been the cause of this gash. The skin around the wound was hot and tender. Ashley drained the cut and washed it thoroughly. It bled some under her meticulous scrubbing, but she had no way of knowing if that was a good sign or a bad one. She ripped her nightgown again for a fresh bandage and covered Salem's arm, this time from wrist to elbow. Later there would be nothing to do but bathe his face and neck with cool water in hope of bringing down his temperature. Ashley applied herself to the task with unrelenting effort so that when George Harris peeked in her cabin hours later, she was still bent at Salem's side.
"Here, ma'am, allow me," he said, helping Ashley to her feet.
"Oh, Mr. Harris. I'm so glad you came. I don't know what to do for Salem any longer." She arched her back, working out the stiffness in her shoulders and neck.
"Just Harris, ma'am. Brady told me your husband was looking peaked." His dark, heavy eyebrows became one as he took Ashley's place at Salem's side. He took off the bandage and whistled softly. "I'm going to have to lance this, clean it out with some alcohol, and stitch it. Can you help me?"
"Anything," Ashley said feelingly. "I'll do anything to make him well."
Harris nodded. He hurried out of the room, swallowing the warning he could have told her—that anything either one of them could do might not be enough. When he returned Ashley was once again bent over Salem, soothing him with her silky voice and a damp cloth.
"It's going to be all right, ma'am," Harris said, hoping he could make it so. "You hold his shoulders down while I clean the wound."
Ashley concentrated on keeping Salem's body still while Harris worked. It required all her strength as the wound was probed deeply, and she closed her eyes against the sight of Salem's blood flowing freely into a small bowl. After the wound was purged, Harris applied leeches to the swollen area around it. He waited until they had gorged themselves on the poisoned blood then plucked them easily from Salem's flesh. Ashley avoided looking at the disgusting lethargic creatures as they were returned to another bowl.
"It's almost over, Mrs. McClellan. You've done a splendid job thus far. Now I've got to sew it."
Although Harris was fairly adept with a needle and thread, Ashley halted him after a few stitches. "Please don't be offended, Harris, but I'm an excellent seamstress. Maybe you would permit me to do the stitching?"
"Well, it doesn't require any fancy stitching."
"I'm not planning French knots, Harris, only the smallest scar possible."
Harris saw the wisdom of her suggestion and changed places. At first she found it difficult to pierce Salem with the needle, but once she was over the initial fear, she managed tiny, evenly spaced stitches that would leave little scarring.
"What of his fever?" she asked when she had finished.
"I'll send someone with more water and fresh linens if we have them. Also some food. It doesn't appear he's had much to eat of late. I suppose it's what one expects of Newgate's inmates. You'll do well to feed him as you can. If the fever breaks sometime today, then I believe he'll do nicely." He could have bitten back his words when he saw how they affected Ashley. She seemed too young, her shoulders too slender, to bear such a burden.
"Thank you for all you've done. You and Mr. Brady and Captain Holland. Are we quite safe from reprisals because of my husband and myself?"
"We're clear of England. I won't feel completely safe until I reach the Carolina shore."
Ashley silently echoed his opinion as he gathered his medicines, leeches, and linens and left her alone. Food arrived sometime later, solid fare for her and a clear chicken broth for Salem.
Salem was not delirious in his fevered state. Rather he was quiet, so peaceful that Ashley's eyes often strayed to his chest to make certain he was breathing. She attempted several times to force the broth in him, but he wanted no part of it, and she despaired that he would get any nourishment It was late in the afternoon when he finally woke. It proved to be only a br
ief interlude with consciousness, but Salem seemed to relish the pieces of biscuit that Ashley soaked in the now cold broth. He even carried on a lucid conversation while he ate. It was only his fever-bright eyes and the fact he called her Leah as he pushed aside the spoon at his lips that made Ashley realize he was probably unaware of anything he had said or done.
As the evening wore on and twilight shadows fell on the tiny room's few possessions, Ashley became aware of how woefully ill-prepared she was for the voyage. Her personal things amounted to an immodestly shortened nightgown, a clean chemise and undergarments, one pair of stockings, a brush, handkerchiefs, and the clothes she had on. She had supplied Salem with a much better selection of clothes, but the omission of a heavy cape was something she regretted deeply. Now she realized she should have brought food, preserved either by smoking or salt, extra blankets, linens for washing and drying and, for the evening, a lamp or candles.
In the trunk at the foot of the bed she was relieved to discover two wool blankets, a box of candles, flint, one candleholder, and a slightly damaged looking glass. After lighting a candle, she covered Salem with both blankets.
Brady and Harris each visited once during the evening. She declined an invitation to dine with the captain, so a dinner tray was sent to her. She was ravenous, eating every bit of the crusty meat pie and drinking nearly all the wine.
Prior to retiring for the evening she checked Salem's injury, saw the swelling had lessened considerably, and prepared a basin of fresh cool water in case he became restless in the night. Then she changed into her nightgown, took one blanket from Salem which she laid on the floor, and covered herself with her cape for warmth.
Blowing out the candle, she closed her eyes and let the gentle rolling motion of the ship rock her to sleep. When she woke hours later it was difficult to say whether the responsibility for the disturbance lay with her own chattering teeth or Salem's. It was easier to endure her own discomfort than Salem's, so Ashley tucked the blanket she had been lying on around his shoulders and huddled in her cape for warmth. She had nearly managed to nod off again, her head resting this time against the edge of the straw-filled mattress, when the entire bunk shuddered from the force of the chill that swept through the room. The movement jerked Ashley wide awake, her hair spilling about her face. She took one of the dark, fly-away strands and brought it to her mouth, worrying it between her lips as she had done as a child. When she realized what she was doing she brushed it away in disgust. She knew what had to be done to keep her patient warm.
Ever conscious of Salem's injury, Ashley carefully slid over his prone form and under the covers. She brought her body close to his, intent on sharing what warmth they could generate together.
A few minutes later she sat up. "You really do need a keeper, Ashley Caroline Lynne," she said to herself. "A guardian angel at the very least." She threw off Salem's covers and began stripping off his hose and britches. While her fingers fumbled with the buttons, her face flamed at her temerity. "You can hardly expect the man to make a recovery while he's trapped inside clothes damp with perspiration. It's no wonder he has a chill." Her trembling fingers grasped the edge of his underwear. It was dark, she couldn't see anything, but still she shut her eyes and pulled. "If you would not act like a green schoolroom miss, this would not seem so painfully embarrassing. He is your brother, after all." But he doesn't seem like a brother, some inner voice whispered. "And it's not as if you haven't seen him naked before—well, you really didn't look, but you knew it just the same." She tossed the damp clothes in the general direction of the trunk and slid beneath the covers again. Before she had time to consider her actions she drew herself close to Salem's back. Her legs rubbed against his while her hands made light circles on his shoulders and neck. She massaged his entire back until her fingers ached with the efforts to provide frictional heat Finally, when she thought she would fail to relieve any of his chill, Salem turned on his back, trapping Ashley's hair and one arm beneath him. It was not comfortable, but she was beyond caring. A faint smile creased her small oval face as she snuggled for her own warmth.
Chapter 6
Salem felt tension drain from his stiff muscles as fingers of heat radiated from his spine. He was content, now that the frigid wench who had shared his bed was gone. He tried to imagine the source of this new heat, and he thought of the sun as it suddenly broke through a gathering of clouds or a fire that had been stoked to life in a cold hearth. His mind wandered to a warming embrace he had once shared with a particularly lusty young lady in a secluded corner of a hayloft. The embrace seemed very real to him now, as did the scent of hay. He breathed deeply, catching the drifting fragrance of field flowers and a hint of something heavier, earthier, like musk.
He tried to put a name to the girl who had taunted him so long ago, beckoning with the crook of her finger and a sidelong glance. He remembered calling out to her as he chased her across sunlit fields in late autumn, but now, even though he strained, he could not hear the name he had shouted. He could just make out the slender back of her legs as her red shag skirt was kicked up behind her. Tiny beads of perspiration glistened on his brow as he thought of running the palms of his hands along the fair length of those enticing legs. She glanced over her shoulder once as they ran and laughed gaily when she saw the direction of his darkened eyes. He wished he had not been concentrating so hard on her bare limbs, else he might have held a better memory of her face.
Hoping that she would turn again, he kept his gaze focused on the back of her head. She was wearing a white kerchief knotted about her hair, decorated with an absurd little flower, a black-eyed Susan, he thought. Strange how he could remember that flower, dipping and swaying, as she tore a jagged path to the stables, yet recall neither the bearer's name nor her face. He had no trouble remembering the slenderness of the waist that was spanned by a white linen apron or the slim shoulders covered by a plaid shawl. At the entrance to the stable where the horses were kept, she paused for breath. Salem thought then he would catch her. He would have, he was certain of it, if her shawl hadn't slipped over one shoulder as she drank in air. He had not been able to move as his eyes observed the creamy swell of her breasts in profile. He held his breath, waiting for the moment they would simply overflow the square-cut confines of the tight bodice. It never happened, but his body went rigid as he imagined freeing those breasts, caressing those smooth and velvet curves with his work-roughened fingers, sipping on the rose-hued nipples with his mouth.
Her huskily attractive laughter brought Salem out of his trance, and she coyly lifted the shawl to cover the flesh where his eyes had strayed. Spinning on bare feet, she disappeared into the stable. Salem's single-dimpled grin as he watched her go was arrestingly wicked. His approach to the stable was maddeningly slow as he taught himself to juggle the pain and pleasure of anticipation. At the entrance he held himself still, listening for a sound that would betray the direction of his quarry.
A gasp alerted him, then a moment of sharp pain erased it from his mind. Inadvertently he had brushed against a pitchfork hanging outside a stall. "Damn," he muttered, trying to stem the bleeding on his arm.
"Are you all right?" a voice called to him from somewhere overhead. He heard concern and sadness in the soft tones.
"Fine." He grinned, taking off his linen shirt and wadding it against the cut.
"Come up and let me tend to it. I can't help but think it's my fault."
"Aye, it is. And I'll see that you pay." His voice had taken on the same striking wickedness as his smile. There was a rustle of hay overhead, and he imagined the young girl scrambling for cover as he approached. "It's no good hiding. Time to pay the piper." The ladder to the loft was difficult but not impossible to manage. At the top he tossed aside his shirt, hunkered down, and waited for a movement to give her away. It was not long in coming. An ill-timed sneeze shook a mound of hay. Salem chuckled deeply. "Not the place to hide if you haven't got the nose for it," he said, brushing away the mixture of grass, alfalfa, and
clover from the back of the giggling girl. Her laughter teased his senses, and he grasped her by the shoulders, having nothing in mind but to turn her on her back and see her face. His movement must have startled her because she struggled against his hold, and he was forced to release her when she unwittingly grazed his arm. She would have taken that moment to escape him, but one of his legs managed to trap both of hers beneath him.
"Your arm," she said as her fingers sought purchase on his naked shoulders, and she attempted to wiggle from under his embrace.
"Nothing but a scratch. And one that will bother me not at all if you cease this fighting." Immediately she was still. "That's better." His heavy-ridded eyes roved over the sweet face he had been so bent on remembering. "How could I have forgotten you? God's truth, you're lovely." His palms caressed either cheek of the delicately oval face as she shook her head from side to side, negating his heartfelt tribute. He was not deterred by the darkening emerald eyes, fanned by thick black lashes that searched his face beseechingly. With his thumbs he gently traced the line of her finely arched brows and felt the wild pulse of her blood at her temples. Her cheeks, soft as swan's down, seemed hot beneath his palms, and he wondered that this temptress should blush so easily. Something moved in his line of vision, and his gaze focused on the sadly crushed flower in her kerchief. Carefully he removed it and brought it to his lips, then touched it to hers. Her eyes widened and she shivered, but Salem merely smiled and held her fast.
To his chagrin his hands trembled slightly as they worked the knot of her kerchief. In the end she had to help him with it, and their fingers tangled playfully before her thick mass of dark hair spilled about her face and shoulders. Salem buried his face in the sable softness, nuzzling the curve of her neck with his chin while his fingers wound curling tendrils at her temple.
She turned her face toward him. Her breath was warm as it brushed his ear. "Please." The single word seemed a husky invitation to Salem, and his response was to taste the lips that had issued it so sweetly.