by Georgie Lee
‘Lay him on the bed,’ she ordered and pulled the near-threadbare curtains closed over the panes. Feeling along the rough wood mantel, she found a candle and the tinderbox. Striking the flint, she sparked the tinder into life, lit the candle and set it in the brass holder. Dancing light filled the room, emphasising the sparseness of the furnishings. Mr Rush and Mr O’Malley helped Richard to sit on the edge of the bed, and it creaked under his weight.
‘You two had better return to the others,’ Richard commanded, determined to remain the Captain even while he struggled to sit upright.
‘Aye, sir. Take this to protect yourself and this for what you need.’ Mr Rush laid a blunderbuss on the small table beside the bed and placed two pieces of eight next to it. ‘We’ll be at Knott Island.’
‘I’ll send the signal when it’s time for you to come for me.’
Cassandra didn’t ask where Knott Island was or how Richard intended to signal his crew when he was well. She also didn’t ask how she’d send the crew word if Richard died. It was a possibility she didn’t wish to consider.
Mr Rush and Mr O’Malley made for the door. Mr O’Malley stepped out into the night, but Mr Rush hesitated on the threshold, scratching at his hair beneath the wool cap. ‘Thank you, milady.’
‘Don’t thank me yet.’
Grim faced, he closed the door behind him. His footsteps banged over the wooden porch and then there was nothing except the hiss and sputter of the wick in the tallow and the cicadas in the grass.
Cassandra faced Richard, as afraid of being alone with him as of the deep stain matting the wool of his coat. Pain drew sharp the line of his mouth while exhaustion darkened the circles beneath his eyes. ‘I must see to the wound.’
‘What does a baroness know about wounds?’ Richard snapped like a sick dog hiding under a porch and resisting all attempts to help it.
She rifled through the rickety cupboard, searching for supplies, trying to pretend his surliness didn’t sting. ‘My mother used to take me with her to treat the indentured servants. She didn’t believe in sheltering me from reality.’
‘How fortunate for me.’ He shrugged out of his frock coat, groaning in pain with each movement.
Inside the cupboard she found an old bottle of rum, a wooden bowl and nothing else. She didn’t dare light a fire to boil water, afraid the smoke rising out of the forest would catch someone’s attention. The strong spirit would have to do. It was a pity the overseer hadn’t left food behind—some pickled pork or even dried beans. With nothing here, she’d have to sneak food out of the kitchen without Mrs Sween noticing. Gathering up the bowl and rum, she decided not to worry about it until the time came. There was enough to concern her already.
She approached the bed and set the rum, bowl and candle on the table beside it. The light revealed the sickening wet of the blood on his shirt. It didn’t pour out of the wound and was dark with age instead of fresh red, giving her some hope. With his youth and strength, surely he could survive this, but she remembered the indentured servants her mother used to treat and how once in a while the smallest of cuts would turn putrid and the man would die. Richard had a hole in his shoulder, and she didn’t know what it would do to him.
She tugged the handkerchief that had hidden the pistol out of her pocket and laid it beside the rum. Worry would get her nowhere and there was work to do.
She knelt down and, wrapping her hand lightly behind his calf, raised his foot.
He dropped his heel with a thud against the floor. ‘I can remove my boots.’
‘With one good arm, I doubt you can.’ She reached for him again, and this time he didn’t pull away. The solid muscles of his calf flexed beneath her hand while she drew off first one boot, then the other and set them aside. ‘I need to take off your shirt so I can properly dress the wound.’
‘The bullet went straight through.’
‘Good, then I won’t have to try to extract it.’ She grasped the sides of the shirt at his waist, the motion bringing her face so close to his she need only shift forward to taste something of what they’d known before the world had turned ugly. Beneath her hands, his chest rose and fell in deep breaths to match hers. Sliding the shirt free of his breeches, the musky scent of him took her back five years to the Belle View barn and the sweet smell of hay that used to surround them when they’d made love. Then she’d eagerly traced the line of his neck with her tongue, his skin tart like temptation and lighter than it was now. They’d been free and young, with nothing in the world except each other and their belief in a future together. Her heart ached for everything they’d lost.
She lifted up the shirt, uncovering inch by inch the tanned lines of his torso. He raised his good arm and she removed the stained linen, following the curve of his bicep and fist over his head and across his tightened muscles. He sucked in a fast breath when she brushed the top of his collarbone.
‘I’m sorry, I’m trying not to hurt you.’
‘It didn’t hurt.’ His face stiffened with a different pain she instinctively understood.
Doing her best not to touch his wound, or any part of him, she slid the shirt down over his injured arm. When the linen was at last free, his shoulders sagged with a fatigue to weigh down the heartiest of men. His weakness frightened her, reminding her of how fast the fever had taken her parents and how it could still sweep Richard off. If death was his fate, then nothing she did tonight would stop it, but she still had to try. She sat down next to him. ‘I need to clean the wound.’
‘Leave it be.’ A bead of sweat slid down his temple and his skin turned slightly grey beneath the tan.
‘No. Mother always said if filth can spoil the milk in the dairy house, then it can’t be good for a man.’
He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. ‘Do what you must. I trust you.’
She wasn’t sure she trusted herself. With shaking hands she took up the rum. The glass bottle was cold against the perspiration of her palm. She poured some on to the handkerchief, allowing the excess to drip into the wood bowl. Moving close to him, she pressed the handkerchief to his shoulder and made small circles over his bare skin. The red and jagged wound stood out in horrid contrast to the smooth planes of his torso. She worked slowly, distracted by his occasional wince and the heaviness of his body beneath her hand. She fought to focus on her work, rising up to lean over him and clean the wound at the back, conscious of the dampness of his hair freed from its queue hanging down over his sturdy neck.
He stared straight ahead while she wiped away the red, the muscles beneath his eyes tightening whenever she came close to the injury. He didn’t make a sound, his stoicism easing her worry over hurting him. After many tense minutes, the skin was clean, and she was glad to see the wound wasn’t red or hot with inflammation and, to her relief, no new blood seeped out.
She set the dirty handkerchief and rum aside, realising she had no cloth to use to bandage him except the bed sheets. She didn’t want to destroy those and deny Richard their small comfort. Rising, she lifted her petticoat from off the cotton-covered panniers.
‘What are you doing?’ Richard gaped at her, his surprise so different from five years ago when she’d slipped her plain dress from her shoulders, revealing everything to him.
‘I need material for bandages. It’s all I have.’ She undid the buttons and tapes of the panniers and shimmied out of them. She let go of the skirt and it dropped down past her stockings to pool around her feet, longer without its support. Tearing the seams, she freed the light covering from the wicker frame, the rip of fabric harsh in the quiet of the cabin.
When at last she had a good number of strips, she sat on the bed beside him, her hips so close to his the silk brushed against them as his skin had done years ago in the barn. She pressed a wad of cloth against the wound, making him flinch, but he didn’t jerk away. She began to wrap another strip around the wad to hold it in place.
‘I’m surprised you came.’ His breath brushed over her shoulders exposed by her dress.
‘So am I.’ She wound the strips of cloth under his arm, adding a wad to the wound at the back.
‘Why did you come?’
She met his eyes, afraid to tell him the truth. ‘Uncle Walter asked me to help you, in a letter before he died.’
If he was disappointed in her answer, he didn’t show it. ‘He was a good man.’
‘Yes, he was.’ The heat of his cheek so close to hers nearly made her fumble the delicate fabric while she tied the ends.
‘This isn’t work for a lady,’ he said in a low voice, mistaking her agitation.
‘This isn’t a life for a gentleman’s son.’
‘It is the only one left to me.’
She met his eyes, the lack of hope in his words as disturbing as the wound. Even during the worst moments in London, her past had helped her imagine a better future while his made him believe it was bleak. If she could help him out of the darkness she would, but she didn’t know how, or even if she should.
‘Rest. You need your strength.’ With the tips of her fingers she lightly pushed him down. He didn’t resist, but settled back against the rough pillow and closed his eyes. ‘I’ll stay until you’re asleep.’
‘I don’t deserve your care.’ He slipped his hand in hers, clasping it tight over his bare waist, his skin damp with sweat and sleep already creeping over him.
‘You don’t have to deserve it, just accept it.’ She held his hand while she watched his wide chest rise and fall with each breath until the rhythm of it grew longer and steady.
In the distance, an owl hooted, reminding her of the late hour, but she didn’t rise. Every time they parted, the world came crashing down around them. She’d seen him off at Yorktown only to lose him. He’d sailed away from the Winter Gale to return to her bleeding. If she left him now, she might come back tomorrow morning to find him bathed in sweat and on the verge of death. If she stayed then maybe he would never slip away from her again.
The raspy sound of his heavy breathing filled the still air and the single candle on the bedside table flickered in the room, making the shadows dance. With her free hand, she lightly traced the hard line of his jaw, the stubble chafing her skin. He hadn’t come to her because they’d made a bargain but because, deep down, under the hardness of his life and his heart, he still cared for her. It was there in the strength of his fingers around hers, even in his sleep. She couldn’t love him again, not when he might abandon her at any moment to return to his ship, leaving her to fend for herself. Or he might die like her parents and Uncle Walter. Still, she could not ignore how much it meant to her to be near him and how much his wounds, all of them, frightened her. She wanted to help him heal, but for the moment she could do no more than hold his hand through this trial. He might not live until morning, but at this moment they were together and nothing could come between them.
* * *
Throbbing pain dragged Richard out of a deep sleep. In the semi-darkness, his senses sought out the familiar creak and groan of the ship’s timbers and the rocking of the current. There was nothing in the quiet except the faint sound of someone breathing. Then, the events of the night before came rushing back to him: the fight with the schooner, Dehesa, the gunshot wound and Cas’s appearance. He moved to feel his shoulder to see the damage done by the bullet, but his right hand felt trapped and heavy. He looked down to see Cas sleeping soundly beside him, clutching his hand. She lay with her cheek against his chest, her body tucked inside the curve of his good arm, lost in a rest too deep for a woman with so much to lose by his presence. Tendrils of her dark blond hair, freed from their pins, draped her cheek and brushed his bare chest. He slid his hand over the curve of her fingers where her other hand rested on his stomach, sickened by the sight of her skin stained a faint pink with his blood.
You deserve so much better than this, Cas.
He covered her hand with his and lay back against the pillows, fending off the restless sleep trying to steal over him. He could hear the curses on his breath when he’d seen her approach with Mr Rush in the woods and the disbelief that she was standing before him. He forced his eyes open to stare at the ceiling, still amazed she’d honoured the bargain. Unlike his crew, whose allegiance he’d won by sweating beside them and sharing their hardships and dangers, he’d done nothing to earn Cas’s loyalty, but she’d come to him, not because Walter had asked her to but because she still had faith in him.
She’s wrong to, they all are. He’d tricked her and his crew into believing that the vengeance driving him on was a desire to see wrongs made right. It wasn’t. It was a reflection of the ugliness inside him, the one that had grown deeper with each passing year he spent at sea.
He closed his eyes, but her sweet scent and the memory of her white skin brushing over his while she’d tended to him tortured him with everything he’d sacrificed to have his way. I never should have left her.
Dreams of her in Walter’s house taking his hand and leading him into the garden filled his fitful sleep before they faded into the howling laugh of Vincent. Richard jerked awake, the force of his regret as startling as his pounding heart. He tried to calm himself, but it continued to plague him like the searing pain in his shoulder. When he’d left Yorktown, he’d naively believed he could have everything he wanted—a career as a privateer, Cas’s love and Belle View. He had nothing now. He’d promised his crew a new life once they’d cleared their names, but there wouldn’t be one for him.
She mumbled something in her sleep and shifted against him. He tensed, waiting for her to wake and leave, but she settled back into her slumber, her long eyelashes dark against her cheeks, her lips red and full even in the pale light. Bitterness and exhaustion dragged at him, adding to the torment in his shoulder and his heart.
It doesn’t matter, none of it does. He tightened his grip on Cas’s hand, struggling against the voices and memories pummelling him to hear her breathing and to feel her beside him. As pain gave way to sleep, the tortuous images began to fade, replaced by dreams of the two of them on the back porch at Belle View, the sun glinting off the grass and the river blinding in its brightness, the peace he experienced in her presence stronger than any revenge.
Chapter Seven
The constant twitter of birds pulled Cassandra from a deep sleep. She opened her eyes to focus on the brass candleholder in front of her, studying the cold black wick set in the tallow candle. For a moment, she thought herself back in London, but the heavy air sitting thick on her sweat-covered body quickly brought her back to Virginia, as did the rum bottle and crumpled handkerchief on the bedside table.
Richard!
She sat up, relieved to see him smiling at her, the memories that had teased her last night no less potent in the coming dawn.
‘Good morning, Lady Shepherd.’ The circles beneath his eyes hadn’t faded, but the ashy tint of his skin was gone. Around them, the grey light of dawn softened the coarseness of the stone fireplace and the rough board walls of the cabin.
‘It’s better now, but far from good.’ She pressed her hand to his forehead, grateful to find it cool, but it didn’t ease the anxiety tightening the muscles of her back. She hadn’t intended to stay all night or to wake up and endure the embarrassment of him having discovered her beside him.
‘I’ve ruined your dress.’ He motioned to the dark mud matting the hem.
‘A ruined dress is the least of my worries this morning.’
‘I’ll be sure to send you a finer one after I leave, maybe something meant for a princess of Spain,’ he teased.
‘Assuming you do leave.’ She perched on the edge of the bed, trying not to be drawn in by his wry humour, but after the strains of last night it was hard. ‘You may still expire and then I’ll have to bury you under the roses in the garden.’
He curled one of th
e ribbons on her bodice around his finger. ‘To be under a rose is very fine thing.’
‘This is no time for teasing.’ She lightly batted his hand away, trying to suppress a smile, but he clasped her hand in his and brought it to his mouth.
‘I’m very serious. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’ He pressed his lips to the back of her hand, his breath hot and moist against her skin.
She closed her eyes and curled her fingers, touching the tips to the solid line of his jaw, and willed herself not to settle back down beside him and forget everything in his arms. The risks facing her here were capable of hurting her and those she cared for far more than any of Giles’s schemes. She opened her eyes and slid her hand out from beneath his. ‘I’ll check the wound, then I must get home before the sun is up and everyone rises.’
He let her go, and a small part of her was disappointed. ‘Will you be able to return unseen?’
‘I’ll go through the kitchen outbuilding and the passage beneath the house. No one should see me. Except for Mrs Sween, there aren’t any house servants any more, which is good because I’m too tired to think of a story clever enough to fool anyone.’
She shifted on the bed and began to undo the knot of his bandage, trying to ignore how close her hands were to his skin or the intensity with which he watched her. She held her breath as she gently pulled the cotton away, afraid of what she might find. If the wound was red and hot with inflammation, then there was nothing she could do except pray it didn’t kill him. To her relief, his injury appeared better with no redness, so she removed the soiled wads.
‘Do you remember the time Mrs Sween caught us sneaking up from the cellar after we’d eaten her apple pie in the kitchen?’ he asked.
Cassandra smiled despite herself, having forgotten about their afternoon in the kitchen, spoons in hand, devouring the freshly baked treat like two ragamuffins who’d been deprived of food. ‘How she berated us. And then when we tried to bake one to replace it...’