by Sarah Hegger
Newt approached the other. He yanked his dagger from his shoulder.
The man screamed. Clapping his hand over his shoulder, he dropped to the deck. Red oozed through his fingers.
Alya huddled with her arms wrapped around her legs.
Henry approached her slowly. The hand he reached for her was covered in blood and he snatched it back. “Alya? My lady? It is over.”
She shuddered and buried her face in her knees. “So much blood.”
Gore covered the deck.
Newt busied himself hefting bodies over the side.
“Let me take you below.” Henry wiped his hands on his tunic. He did not want his killing hands to touch her.
“Nay.” Alya took a deep breath and raised her head. As she looked about the gore-splattered deck she paled. “I am not so feeble.”
Unsteadily, she stood.
Henry caught her elbow.
She breathed and then nodded. “I am well.”
Then she snatched up a bucket and lowered it over the side.
Henry joined her. “Will you not let me take you below?”
“Nay.” She hissed as she struggled to raise the full bucket.
Henry leaned over and pulled it aboard.
Alya turned and tossed the water over the deck. Water and blood mingled in swirling patterns about them.
“I am not made of sand.” Alya lowered the bucket again.
Henry helped her bring it up.
Again, she tossed water. “I will not fold or falter at the first sign of trouble.”
“Lady?” Hands held out Bahir approached her. “This is not for you.”
“Stand back, Bahir.” She brandished her third bucket of water. “Or you will get wet.”
Somehow, she needed to do this, and Henry motioned Bahir back.
“There.” Newt sent the injured men swimming as well. “We seem to be missing a crew.” He brushed his hands. “Time for Newt to do what Newt does best.”
“And what’s that.” Sneering, Bahir wiped blood from his sword with the ragged remains of a sailor’s tunic.
“Find things.” Newt clapped Henry on the shoulder. “What Newt does best is find things that are missing.”
Chapter 14
After Newt disappeared, they finished cleaning the deck. Not wanting to go below and be alone, Alya remained on deck with Henry and Bahir. Always with her best interest at heart, Bahir went below and returned with enough cushions to keep her comfortable for the night.
Lying on her cushions staring up at the star-strewn sky, she was almost able to forget the last few horrible hours.
Henry sat with his back propped against the mast, his gaze fixed on the quiet dock. Braziers threw off strange and grotesque shadows against the dock. From the other boats the sound of conversation, and sometimes laughter carried across the water.
Needing the contact, Alya shifted closer to Henry.
Glancing down at her, he smoothed a tendril of hair from her face. “Sleep, my lady. I will watch.”
* * * *
Night dragged on as Alya slept beside him. Neat as a cat she slept with her knees curled into her chest and her hand tucked beneath her cheek. Cool night breeze ruffled her hair and clothes and Henry draped his cloak over her.
The need to protect her fastened around him like an iron claw. She was his to have and to hold, to shelter, and to cherish. He tucked his cloak beneath her chin. If he thought himself still capable of the emotion he would love her as well. Love he might not be able to manage, but he could come as close as he was able.
From the far side of the boat Bahir watched him and nodded before returning to keeping watch.
Dawn ousted the cool night in a gaudy display of red and orange across the horizon.
“Ho! The boat.”
Henry must have dozed because the shout from the dock startled him. He stood and joined Bahir at the railing.
A man stood on the dock. A dead sailor dangled from his meaty fist. “Newt said you had a bit of bother. Would this be part of that?”
Grimacing, Alya shuddered. “Is he speaking English?”
“Aye.” Henry searched for Newt. The stranger had the looks of a Newt plan all over him.
A grin split the bearded stranger’s face as he shook the body. “You seem to have had a lot of trouble.”
“Who are you?” The man wore worn, but clean, tunic and hose, and his large beard and hair were neatly trimmed.
“Smelly Tim.” Still fastening his chausses, Newt trotted toward the boat. “Stop scaring them with your ugly face and let me introduce you.” He arrived beside Tim and grinned up at the boat. “Sorry I am late. Whoreson drank me under the table.”
Henry raised his brow. That took some doing.
“Hand to God.” Newt winked and went back to Smelly Tim. “Put that down.”
Tim dropped the corpse on the dock with a sickening splat. “The lads thought I should come ’round and see about this boat you were talking about.”
“I said I’d bring you.” Newt stepped over the corpse.
Tim chuckled. “But why wait. Tide will turn any minute and there was no telling when you’d see daylight again.”
Bahir growled. “English, who is this man?”
“A sailor,” Henry said. “He’s called Smelly Tim and he says he has a crew to take us back to England.”
“Why do they call him smelly?” Alya wrinkled her nose. “And he does not seem to mind it.”
“Smells like a blasted girl.” Newt resorted to French, slapping Tim on the shoulder. “And it so happens that Tim and his lads are looking for a way home.”
Stiffening, Bahir glared at the dock. “We do not know him.”
“True enough.” Tim switched the French and toed the body into the water. “Looks like your crew isn’t up to the job right now.” Elbowing Newt, he guffawed.
“Can you even sail?” Henry had his doubts.
“Can I sail?” Tim snorted and jammed his hands on his hips. “Can I sail?”
Henry waited for the answer.
“I can sail a sausage around your bathing tub.” He eyed Henry with a grimace. “My lord.”
“Why would you have a sausage in your bathtub?” Alya frowned.
“Who be that?” Tim jerked his chin. “She your serving girl?”
Bahir put his arm around Alya’s shoulder.
Henry blamed himself. He, more than anyone else here, knew the battle Alya faced. “Nay.” He relished his next words. “She is my wife.”
“Wife?” Tim snorted. “Don’t make no difference to me, my lord. I just want to get home.”
“And how came that to be?” Henry made a show of leaning against the railing as if he had not a care in the world. “What happened to the ship you came in on?”
“Ah.” Shifting Tim put his hands behind his back. “That is a rather long story, and might go smoother with a jug of ale.”
“Don’t get yourself all excited.” Newt motioned Tim to stay put and bounded up the gangplank to the ship.
“What think you?” Henry turned to Bahir. “We could see what he has to say.”
Bahir pursed his lips. “Who are these ‘lads’ he speaks of?”
“Small group of English sailors.” Newt joined them. “I met them at a tavern last night.”
Henry had learned to trust Newt’s instincts, particularly where it came to people. Having grown up in the gutter, Newt could read people like their intentions were spread on parchment before him. “What do you make of them?”
On the dock, Tim leaned over the water and examined another body.
“Typical dock rats.” Newt folded his arms. “But they want to get home.”
Of course, news of the ship of treasure could have reached Lisboa long before them. Sailors gossiped more than matrons at a wedding.
“English.” Bahir clapped his shoulder. “Let us see what we make of this man before we make a decision.”
Bahir grinned at him as if he could read Henry’s thoughts. “We need to get to your home, English. And unless you have been hiding your sailing skills, we are going to need a crew.”
Apparently, Bahir had developed a touch of humor. It must be all the time he spent in Newt’s company. When Newt had first joined him as squire, Henry had tried to instill a sense of decorum in Newt. Instead, Newt had fostered a healthy dose of irreverence in Henry. Newt had that effect on people.
“Come aboard,” he called to Tim.
Tim hitched his chausses. “Right you are, my lord.”
Henry turned to Alya. “Perhaps you want to go below?” He didn’t want Tim catching an eye load of Alya. Lusty at the best of times, sailors didn’t need that kind of temptation. Jesu, Henry didn’t need this kind of temptation on a boat in the middle of the bloody ocean where he could do nothing about it.
Bahir and Newt awaited Tim at the head of the gangplank.
“I do not wish to go below,” Alya said, so softly he almost didn’t catch it.
Politely phrased, aye, but he had not been making a suggestion. “I believe you must.”
Alya sniffed. “The battle is over.”
By the martial gleam in his bride’s eye, Henry gathered the battle was just beginning. Staring into her lovely, challenging face, Henry faced a choice. He could thunder and rail at her, and insist she go below. Except, that approach had never won him many victories over his sister, Beatrice. Instead, he would rant and Beatrice would stick her stubborn chin out and do the opposite. As a sort of atonement to his sister, he took Alya’s hand. “I am asking you to go where I know you will be safe.”
“Oh.” She blinked at him, and glanced at Tim.
Beaming at everyone, Tim hopped on the boat.
Alya leaned closer to him. “Is that man dangerous?”
“I do not know.” Henry resisted the urge to bury his face in the jasmine scent of her skin. “Until I do, I would really like it if you could stay where you are safe.”
“I can do that.” She nodded, then peered at him with a shy smile. “Thank you for being so concerned for me, Henry.”
God’s bones, if only he’d thought to apply that method to Beatrice. Beatrice! Another bridge he needed to rebuild when he returned home. He pushed that thought aside and turned to address Smelly Tim.
“Your lordship.” Tim held out a meaty paw. “Pleased to make the acquaintance of another Englishman.”
“Indeed.” Henry shook the hand. “So, you are offering to crew my ship in return for passage home?”
Tim squinted at the sky. “Tide turns before the hour is up. We’ll want to ride that out of here.” He shoved his hands into his tattered rope belt. “Especially if the whispers concerning what has your hull riding low in the water are true.”
Henry’s hackles rose. “What do you know of this?”
“What every dock rat knows by now.” Tim met his gaze squarely. “Or believes to be true, which amounts to the same thing. They say you have a ship of treasure here.”
Casting his shadow over the smaller man, Bahir moved closer to Tim.
Tim threw his hands up. “Look, your lordship, I’m telling you like it is. I could stand here and pretend I know nothing, but my mam raised me better than that. Honestly, I don’t care what you got belowdecks. All I care about is getting home. Got four young ’uns back in England, and a wife due to drop another any day now.”
“How came you to be in this situation?” Like he would an insect, Bahir studied Tim.
“We took passage on a merchantman to Genoa. It was supposed to be heading back for Dover, but when we reached Lisboa, our captain picked up a rich load that needed a way to Damascus. Like I said, my wife is about to birth another one. I want to get home. A couple of the lads wanted the same and we jumped ship.”
Henry did not know what to make of Tim’s story.
Bahir shrugged.
“There are but five of us,” Tim said. “As it is, we are going to need you lads to jump to if we hit a good blow. Judging by how many you sent overboard in your recent…discussions, you have nothing to fear from us.” He grinned. “But if you saw fit to show your gratitude when we reach home, the lads and I will not be making a fuss.”
Home. The word sent a shiver down Henry’s spine. Only four days away now. Hard to believe when he had resigned himself to never returning.
Newt gave him a subtle nod.
“Get your men,” Henry said. “We sail with the tide.”
Tim’s lads turned out to be a scraggly old man, two boys too young for beards, and a round, smooth-faced man who spoke like a woman.
Hard-pressed not to laugh at the look on Bahir’s face, Henry greeted them all.
Tim strode across the deck yelling things like “get your fat ass in that rigging, Boils.” Boils, Henry surmised was the round man.
Still, he didn’t breathe easier until the boat slipped her mooring and slid out of the bay. As Lisboa receded with the stiff breeze filling their sails he stood at the railing.
“English.” Bahir appeared beside him. “Newt and I have the deck.”
Henry stared at him, aware he had missed a hint.
Rolling his eyes, Bahir chuckled. “Get yourself below and tell your wife what is happening.”
“Indeed.” Aware Alya waited below, Henry had been hesitating joining her. Riding him hard was the knowledge he had yet to make his bride a wife. Not for lack of wanting.
“Trust me on this.” Bahir slapped his back. “As a man who spent many hours in a harem. You best get down there.”
Since the night after their marriage Henry had not spent much time alone with his wife. Wife? Interesting description for the woman who now shared his life. Strangers brought together by unseen twists of fate and now tied together for the remainder of their lives.
He recognized his musings for what they were—a cowardly attempt to ignore the erratic thump of his heart against his breastbone. Although no virgin when he had left Anglesea, he could not claim his brothers’ ease with women. William and Roger had dragged him off to meet the village whore, Lilly, when he came of age. Lilly, bless her kind heart, had done the rest. Other than Lilly, there had been a handful of drunken tumbles, and two bored and experienced court ladies.
None of them had made his palms sweat as he contemplated touching them.
Below decks smelled of Alya. Cinnamon and night-flowering jasmine. A heady combination that made his senses whirl. Hand braced against the bulkhead for balance due to his limp knees, he stood and drew it into him. Standing on the roof, watching the sunset, Alya had possessed no unique scent. He had not known the plush pillow of her lips, or touched the cool silk of her skin.
“Henry?” Long hair spilling like ink down her back, she wove into sight. Her silk chemise clung to the dark circle of her nipples and dipped into the shadowed place of wonder between her thighs.
Mouth suddenly dry, he struggled to produce sensible words. “Aye.”
“You will sleep here?” In one hand, she held a brush.
“Aye.” The need to touch overcame him and he took the brush from her.
She frowned at him.
Henry guided her to the pallet and sat beside her. He could allow himself this. “Allow me.”
The pallet reflected more Alya. Crisp cotton bedding so white it glowed in the dim light. Vivid scarlet, blue and orange pillows appeared even brighter on its pristine surface.
He slid his hand over the smooth fall of hair, so dark it shone with its own light. Thick and silky, the ends curled about his fingers as if reaching for him and clasping him in a gentle embrace. Beneath the heavy fall lay the vulnerable sweetness of her nape, begging for his lips. His fingers brushed her delicate skin.
Alya shivered. Slowly she arched her neck to the side in a silent plea
for more.
Henry let his fingertips linger on the fine arch of sinew. He followed the elegant sweep to her shoulder. Her chemise gave way before his questing touch. Small bones, delicate below her skin, marked her shoulder. He explored them before he palmed the swell of her upper arm. Her skin against his hand was the color of crushed almonds. Would it taste as sweet as the paste they made of almonds, rosewater and honey?
Beneath his lips, her warm skin begged for the touch of his tongue. Warm, slightly salty and underneath, pure honey.
Alya drew in her breath.
Her chemise slipped over her shoulder and revealed the swell of her breast. A tiny silken bow quivered between her breasts as she breathed. The only thing standing between her and his hungry gaze.
“Henry.” She twined her fingers with his around the brush.
With his lips, he followed the path his fingers had taken, moving from her shoulder to her neck. Tendrils of hair stuck to his hair-roughened chin.
Henry closed his eyes and breathed deep.
His girl on the wall. Here. Under his hands. His mouth on her. She was real. “Alya.”
Like a cat she arched her neck and rubbed her head against his.
He tightened his grip on her arm. The brush dropped and he took her small hand in his. He ran his nose over the fine line of her jawbone, up over her cheek to her temple. She unmanned him. So achingly beautiful he both dared not sully her with his touch, and was powerless to stop. He kissed her temple.
Boots clumped on the deck above them. A voice called out unintelligible words. A fainter voice answered.
Their breathing mingled.
Henry’s fingers found the fluttering bow at the neck of her chemise and tugged.
She gasped. Her chemise slid to her waist.
Dark nipples crowned high, round breasts and he had to touch. His hand shook as he palmed the soft weight.
On a soft moan, Alya arched into his touch.
Dear God, he would spend from touching her alone. Like a man ensorcelled, he brushed her nipple with his thumb.
Her flesh puckered and swelled, demanding more of his attention. Words he formed without awareness whispered from him. “Alya, you slay me.”
“More.” She pressed her hand to her breast. “I need more.”