by Playing
He brushed her lips with a kiss and strode off toward the quarterdeck. She watched him walk away, admiring the grace with which he carried himself. She turned back to face the water. There was something so very peaceful about the endless ocean around her. The sunlight sparkled as it danced off the water’s surface. Occasionally she would see a spout of water burst up, which always brought a smile to her face.
The first time she saw such a spout, Drew explained it was a whale, and since then, she scanned the water’s surface in the hopes of seeing the elusive creatures up close. But she never saw more than the spray.
She moved away from the railing, crossing the deck to the doorway leading below deck. She’d become adept at walking on board, something Drew referred to as getting her sea legs. She barely felt the movement of the ship. Except at night, when the gentle rocking helped her drift off to sleep.
Drew’s cabin was quiet. Peaceful. That quiet helped settle her mind some as she locked the door, then curled up in a chair by the window, where she preferred to do her reading. The nap was a surprise, as was the odd creaking outside the door.
She sat upright as the door handle rattled. “Drew?”
He didn’t answer, and the handle went still. She rubbed one eye, willing the fog to lift from her sleepy brain. It refused to abate, her eyelids sliding shut against her will. They snapped open when the rattle resumed.
“Drew?” This time, the drowsiness fled as she rose to go to the door. The key rattled in the lock as she turned it, and the door groaned in protest when she tugged it open. “I’m sorry I locked the door. I didn’t I’d fall aslee — ”
The word turned to dust on her lips as she stared into icy blue eyes just beyond the barrel of a pistol.
Chapter Seventeen
Heather’s stomach clenched as Henry lowered the flintlock. An arrogant sneer curled his lip. “Happy to see me, whore?”
How the deuce had he gotten out of the doctor’s cabin? Heather’s gaze bounced about the room in search of an avenue of escape, but there was none. He stood between her and the door. Her blood ran cold as he spoke, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. All she could think about was the pistol, the closed door, and how far out of earshot Drew was.
“I asked you a question,” Henry snarled. He stepped closer. “I asked if you were happy to see me.”
“Y-you leave me be,” she stammered, staring at the pistol in his hand.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “You’re only a whore after all. Captain won’t mind sharing you. Why, I’ll wager he’s probably shared you with dozens of men. I ain’t no different.”
His flat, cold eyes sent a chill through her. Still, she forced herself to hold his stare. “You are wrong. Th-There have b-been no others.”
“Of course there ain’t. But you’re a whore.” His voice was mild, his shrug half-hearted. “Who can believe the word of a whore? I’m sure the captain jollies you along. Tells you what you want to hear. He likes to think of himself as some terrific gentleman.”
“He is very much the gentleman, I’ll have you know.”
“Please, do you think you’re the only whore he’s ever brought on board? Christ, lady, you’re dumber than you look. You ain’t special to him, y’know. You have no reason to think you are. I’m surprised he ain’t passed you around already. It’s what he usually does.”
“No.” She slowly shook her head. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t care if you believe me. It don’t matter.” Henry stepped closer. “Take off that fancy gown.”
“No.”
He cocked the flintlock. “Take it off, and get your skinny little self into that bed before I get real impatient.” With the pistol, he motioned toward the bed. “’Less, of course, you like it rough.”
His voice was barely audible above the rushing of her blood in her ears. Her heart banged so hard against her ribs, it actually hurt. Yet, she could only stand there, staring at that damned pistol. It was the first time she ever had a weapon aimed at her, and she held her breath as she waited for him to fire.
His free hand shot out, caught a fistful of her bodice, and he yanked. A muscle burned in her neck as she jerked forward. He lifted her off her feet, to fling her as if she weighed nothing.
Wood groaned, then squeaked, as she hit it with a resounding thud, her undignified, “Ooof!” becoming a hoarse scream as he pounced on her. His knee dug into the small of her back, and her scalp burned as he snatched a handful of her hair. A sharp wrench, and her head snapped back.
“Next time I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand? Just like you do the captain.”
The sting spread across her scalp, prickly and hot enough to bring tears to her eyes. His knee ground painfully into her spine. “Please…” her voice cracked as she squeezed her eyes shut. “Please don’t do this.”
“Shut up, whore.”
“Oh!” The pistol’s muzzle jammed her just above where his knee pressed down. A cold sweat broke out over her entire body. The rush inside her skull grew louder. Breathing was impossible. Her bodice tightened about her ribs, the fabric biting into her skin.
Then it tore.
“No!” She arched against him at the first rush of air on her back. “Someone please — help me!”
“Hush!” A burst of white light erupted within her skull as he cuffed her soundly. The light faded, but bells clanged in its place. Her vision swam. Nausea rose sourly in the back of her mouth. She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut, and willed the pain to recede.
But before her head had the chance to clear, he grabbed her by the shoulder to toss her over onto her back. He pinned her arms beneath his knees, set the pistol on the floor alongside his right knee, then gripped the neckline of her bodice to pull the ruined muslin over her shoulders. Shame flooded her as her thin linen shift became the only thing to come between her skin and his eyes. The urge to retch swelled up in her throat.
That grimy hand clamped down over her mouth. He hadn’t bathed in over twelve days and the stench rising from his unwashed body choked her. She managed to swallow her disgust long enough to sink her teeth into his hand.
He howled, yanking his hand away. Then, he backhanded her with fury across one cheekbone. Her teeth rattled as her head jerked to the side and pain burst like starfire in her skull. The moan rose on its own as she stared at the ceiling without seeing it. Henry, however, wasted no time in shoving up her skirts with one hand while rocking back on his knees to unfasten his grimy trousers with the other.
Her dizziness faded as someone rapped on the door. “Heather?”
Relief washed over her at the timbre of Drew’s voice. Forcing the rest of the fog from her brain, she cried, “Drew! He — ”
The door handle rattled. “Heather? What’s going on? Why is this damned door locked?”
“You shut up, bitch!” Henry slammed his palm over her mouth again. “I’ll kill him. I swear I will. Then I’ll kill you.”
Swallowing her disgust, she clamped her teeth down on the fleshy part of his hand. He howled, jerked back, and she took advantage of it to drag in a ragged breath and scream, “Drew!”
“Heather!” Drew’s voice rose to a shout and a series of thuds and crashes echoed throughout the cabin.
Henry scrambled for his flintlock. He grabbed it just as the door shattered beneath the force of Drew’s body. The splintered wood sagged on its hinges as he burst through.
“Drew, watch — ”
Her warning came too late. Henry, hands shaking furiously, grabbed the flintlock, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.
Heather screamed, but Drew kept coming toward them, grabbing Henry by his shirtfront, heaving him up from the floor. A sickening squelch filled the air as Drew’s fist slammed into the center of Henry’s face.
But Drew was not finished. He was like a madman, pummeling Henry until the man was hardly recognizable. The thunderous crashes must have been audible overhead, for within moments several of the Triton’s c
rew swarmed into the cabin.
She scrambled away, backing up against the wall, horrified as Drew punished Henry by beating him mercilessly. Holding her destroyed bodice closed with one hand, she covered her eyes with the other as blood spattered over the wall and spilled across the floor.
Finally, between them, Bobby and Jeremy managed to pull Drew off Henry. The bosun’s mate was a bloody pulp, barely managing a pathetic moan as he was dragged from the cabin.
“Tell Mr. Mason to keep him in chains in the infirmary,” Drew thundered, drawing the back of his hand over the trickle of blood in the corner of his mouth. “I will deal with him and I alone will do it.”
Jeremy looked for a moment as if he was about to argue, but backed down and motioned for Bobby to take Henry from the room.
Drew spun about, his eyes no longer blazing with fury, at least not until his gaze fell on her. “What happened?”
Still holding her bodice closed, she tried to keep the quake from her voice. “I — I don’t know. I came to nap, as you suggested, and he was here, waiting for me.”
He crooked a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face to meet his gaze. She wanted to turn away, especially as he brushed his thumb over her left cheekbone and a sharp sting spread through the side of her face. Drew’s eyes narrowed. “That son of a bitch.”
Her composure wavered, the tremble she managed to hold off until now rushed back with the force of a thunderclap to knock her off her feet. Without thinking, she slid her arms about his neck. “Thank God you came,” she choked as her throat squeezed shut.
“Shh…” he murmured as she buried her face in his neck. “It’s all right now.”
He lifted her, then stumbled with a groaned, “Jesus — ”
She spilled from his arms as he dropped to his knees and grabbed at his side. “Drew? What — ”
Her words died on her lips as he pulled his hand away, smeared with sticky-looking blood. Her stomach threatened to spill its contents as she stared in horror. Henry hadn’t missed.
His bullet had found its mark.
Chapter Eighteen
Gathering the tattered remains of her gown together, Heather leaped to her feet and dashed through what was left of the door to run to the surgeon’s cabin.
The door was closed, but she paid no heed as she pounded on it, calling out, “Mr. Mason!”
He jerked open the door, snapping, “What is it?”
“Please, you must come at once!” She grabbed his arm to drag him back toward Drew’s cabin. “Henry had a pistol! He shot Captain McKenzie!”
“How the devil — ” Sam sputtered, breaking free of her hold to sprint ahead. “How did he get out of the hold? Mr. Allen wouldn’t tell me when he brought Mr. Donaldson to the infirmary, only that Captain McKenzie nearly killed him.”
That was the last of the conversation as they reached Drew’s cabin and Mr. Mason threw open the door.
He knelt beside Drew, whose face was ashen as he slumped against the bed. The scarlet stain spread, soaking into the fine fabric, dripping onto the satiny wood beneath him. His eyes were closed, one hand rested on his belly while the other lay, palm up, in the sticky puddle on the floor.
Mr. Mason lifted the saturated shirt pasted to Drew’s side to reveal the small, bloodied wound just above his right hip. She swallowed hard against the sour taste flooding her mouth.
Mr. Mason looked up. “Help me get him into bed.”
She stared down at Drew. “Lift him?”
“No lip now.” Mr. Mason took Drew’s right hand from the puddle of blood, crouching to loop it about his neck. “Help me.”
There was no way to help him and hold her bodice closed, so she took a deep breath, bid her modesty farewell, and crouched to drape Drew’s left arm around her neck. Her spine threatened to crumple as she heaved.
Drew groaned, she grunted, and all three straightened onto unsteady feet. Together, she and Mr. Mason managed to walk Drew from the floor to his bed, where they gently placed him. he let out a long, low moan, then went quiet.
“You lay still, Captain,” Mr. Mason ordered, his voice brooking no argument. “This is going to hurt like the devil, but it’s important you remain perfectly still. Do you understand?”
Drew’s tongue flicked out to moisten his dry lips. “Yes.”
His voice was reed-thin, sending a rush of panic skittering through her. Turning to the doctor, she asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes. You can hold him whilst I remove the bullet and pack the wound.” Mr. Mason went to the door. “I’ll return momentarily to extract it.”
She nodded, moving to sit up by Drew’s head. Clasping his hand in hers, she stroked his damp hair with her free hand. “Everything is going to be fine,” she murmured, blinking back tears as she gazed into his cloudy dark eyes.
“Hurts like hell.” He winced as he shifted.
“I know.”
He fell silent for a moment, his breathing rapid and shallow. Then he whispered, “Did he touch you?”
“Aside from the bruises?” She waited for his slow nod. “No. You have perfect timing.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” she chided, still smoothing his hair from his forehead.
He shifted again, a low hiss of pain escaping his clenched teeth. “Goddamn, it hurts.”
Heather moved away from him. “It won’t much longer.”
“Where are you — ”
“I need to cover myself before Mr. Mason comes back.” She hurriedly stripped off her torn gown and replaced it with Drew’s dressing gown. It wasn’t perfect, and was far too large, but at least she preserved some of her modesty.
Mr. Mason returned with a bottle of whiskey, a pair of scissors, a bowl and a wad of bandages. He glanced at Heather. “I need you to hold his arms down, Miss Morgan. Are you ready, Captain?”
Drew nodded, setting his jaw as Heather pressed into him. “I am.”
Heather held her breath as Mr. Mason began, only exhaling when dots danced before her eyes. Dampness seeped into her sleeve as sweat beaded Drew’s forehead, pressed against her arm, his breathing ragged as the doctor probed about in the wound. He stiffened against her, and she stared down as Mr. Mason dug about deeper. Her stomach did a slow, twisting flip, yet remained otherwise calm. It was morbidly fascinating, watching the doctor work. At least it was until he sloshed more whiskey over the wound. Drew’s body snapped taut and he let out a roar of primal agony.
Her fascination deflated as nausea filled her. Still, she swallowed hard against it and murmured, “It’s almost over, love.” She released his right arm to stroke his hair tenderly. “Mr. Mason has found the bullet now and it is almost out.”
Sam withdrew the scissors and the sour taste sharpened at the sight of the bloodied, misshapen lead ball clamped between the blades. He dropped it into the bowl, then poured more whiskey into the gaping wound.
“Jesus!” Drew hissed again, then went limp.
“It’s out,” she murmured, still stroking. “It’s out.”
Sam pressed a folded square of linen against the wound, wrapping a rough linen bandage about Drew’s midsection. “We’ll keep an eye on the bleeding,” he told Heather. “And for fever. I think the worst is yet to come.”
She took a deep breath to calm her racing heartbeat, and sank back against the pillow, cradling Drew in her arms. His head came to rest on her breast and she watched over him even as his eyes closed and he slumped into unconsciousness.
It was a long night for Heather. Sam stayed long enough to show her how to clean the wound and change the bandage as needed. He left her the whiskey, promising to send Nick down with another bottle as soon as possible. Then he had to leave, concerned now about Henry.
“I’ve known the captain since he was a boy. I’ve never seen him lose his temper in such a manner before.” His gray eyes rose to meet hers. “I hope he hasn’t killed the man, even if he might deserve it.”
; She didn’t give a damn about Henry’s condition. Drew was her only concern.
After Sam left the cabin, she attempted to clean up the blood, using the tattered remains of her torn gown to mop it from the floor and the wall. Then she dragged the desk chair over beside the bed to curl into. Drew looked so pale, his skin nearly as stark as the bed linens, his dark brows standing out against the pallor of his face.
Thomas Carmichael, the ship’s carpenter, arrived to fix the door. Heather paid scant attention to him as she sat beside Drew. Her energy was focused on him. He was all that mattered to her.
So she sat, just watching over him as day stretched on. Darkness fell and she lit the lamps in the cabin. Nick arrived with the promised whiskey and with a tray.
“Cook sent down broth for Captain McKenzie and supper for you, Miss Morgan,” he said as he set the tray on the table, thunking the bottle of whiskey down beside it.
“Thank you, Mr. Stevens,” she replied, glancing at the steward. “I am afraid I am not very hungry right now.”
“Still, you need to eat,” he reminded her gently. “I’ll just leave it there and pick it up later tonight.”
“Thank you.”
He gave her a sympathetic smile and left the cabin as quietly as he had entered it.
She turned back to Drew, her brow furrowing as she reached out with a damp towel to sponge off his forehead. She didn’t know how serious his wound was and Mr. Mason hadn’t said, but he didn’t look happy when he’d left.
Drew stretched in his sleep, groaning as he did so. A fresh wave of perspiration broke out on his forehead. She touched a hand to his forehead. Hot. Fever had struck.
A while later, he began thrashing about, kicking at the sheet, now tangled about his legs. He shoved one pillow to the floor, the other to the far side of the bed.
Heather went to fetch Mr. Mason. She had precious little experience with fevers, so whatever advice he could offer, she would gladly accept.
The surgeon pulled open the door on the second knock. “Yes?”