Promise Me Forever

by Kimberly Nee

  "The hold?” she asked as they hurried from his cabin.

  "Yes. Scottie transferred him there this morning, since he was eating again. Oh, that boy has some explaining to do."

  And that was the last of the conversation as Sam picked up his pace, now dragging Heather behind him. He burst into Drew's cabin with her right behind him.

  Drew slumped against the bed, not moving as Sam knelt beside him. Heather circled around to kneel behind Drew, and she didn't miss the doctor's frown as he lifted Drew's shirt away to expose the small wound above his right hip.

  Sam looked up at Heather. “Help me get him into bed."

  She didn't hesitate, but looped Drew's left arm about her neck while the doctor took his right. Together they heaved, lifting him from the floor and toppling him across the bed.

  Drew let out a soft, low moan as he hit the tick, his face growing whiter still. Sweat dotted his upper lip and he swore loudly as the doctor pushed him onto his back. “You lay still, Captain,” Mr. Mason ordered, his voice brooking no argument. “This is going to hurt like hell, but it's important you remain perfectly still. Do you understand?"

  Heather's belly tightened painfully as Drew's tongue flicked out to moisten his dry lips and he whispered, “Yes."

  She could hear the weakness in his voice and it sent a rush of panic through her. Turning to the doctor, she asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "Yes. You can hold him still 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 blue eyes.

  "Hurts like hell,” he groaned, wincing as he shifted.

  "Be still,” she ordered sharply.

  He fell silent for a moment, his breathing growing rapid and shallow. Then, he whispered, “Did he touch you?"

  "Aside from the bruise?” She waited for his slow nod and said, “No. You have perfect timing."

  "I am going to kill him."

  "Do not worry about that now,” she chided, smoothing his hair from his forehead.

  He shifted again, a low hiss of pain escaping his clenched teeth. “God damn, that hurts."

  "Lie still."

  Mr. Mason returned then, carrying 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, my lady.” To Drew he said, “I apologize now, Captain, but this will hurt quite a bit. Now remember, it's very important then, that you hold perfectly still."

  Drew nodded, setting his jaw as Heather pressed into him. Sweat beaded his forehead, his breathing ragged as the doctor probed about in the wound. Heather almost couldn't bear to look, almost couldn't bear to see Sam probe the wound. A hollow chill filled her, leaving her to wonder if she was about to be sick. It grew worse when Sam sloshed more whiskey over the wound, but then drained when Drew suddenly stiffened and let out a roar of agony. She could feel his body go rigid, could see the beads of sweat standing out against the waxy whiteness of his skin, and she forgot her own discomfort in her desire to ease his. Leaning over, she whispered into his ear, “It's almost over, love,” as she stroked his hair, adding, “Mr. Mason has found the bullet now and it is almost out."

  Sam withdrew the scissors and her stomach lurched when she saw the bloodied, misshapen lead ball clamped between the blades. He dropped the ball into the bowl and poured more whiskey into the gaping wound. With that, Drew hissed again, and then relaxed, going limp as she whispered, “It's out."

  Sam pressed a 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."

  Drew sank back into the pillows and she could see the fight go out of him. Inch by inch, his body relaxed and he shivered even after she drew her arms about him and held him tight. Then, with a soft sigh of resignation, he surrendered completely, sinking from consciousness.

  * * * *

  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,” he said, shaking his head. “I've never seen him lose his temper in such a manner before.” His gray eyes rose to meet hers. “I do hope he hasn't killed the man, even if he might deserve it."

  She didn't give a damn about Henry's condition. As far as she was concerned, she would dance on the bosun's mate's grave, after what he'd attempted to do to her and what he had done to Drew. Drew was her only concern.

  After Sam left the cabin, she changed her clothes, using her torn gown to mop off the blood still smearing the floor and 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 black brows standing out against the pallor of his face.

  Thomas Carmichael, the ship's carpenter, arrived to fix the door as best he could. Heather paid scant attention to him as she sat beside Drew. Her energy was focused on him. He was all that mattered to her.

  * * * *

  Several hours passed since Drew had slumped against her. His hair was damp with perspiration and he moaned in his sleep. 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 Kennedy and supper for you, Miss Spencer,” 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 away from Drew to look at the steward. “But, I am afraid I am not very hungry right now."

  "Still, you need to eat,” he reminded her gently. “So, 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 seriously he had been wounded, and Mr. Mason hadn't said, but she knew 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, which was now 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 jumped up from the chair and hurried out the door. She practically sprinted down the corridor, turning towards Mr. Mason's cabin. She skidded to a halt outside it, pounding furiously on the closed door for the second time that day.

  The surgeon pulled open the door. “Yes?"

  "Mr. Mason, Drew—that is, Captain Kennedy—is running a fever now."

  Sam's brow furrowed. “Are you certain?"

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course I am certain. I do know a fever when faced with one."

  He sighed. “I was afraid of this. The only thing we can do now is try to keep him cool and hope that it breaks."

  "What should I do, then?"

  "I'll send Mr. Stevens up with a ewer of water. Just keep Captain Kennedy's head cool."

  She simply stared at the doctor. “Is that all? I already knew to do that."

  "So why are you here then?"

  "Because I thought that you—a doctor—might have a better remedy.” She made no attempt to keep the exasperation from her voice.

  He shrugged, looking more that a little frustrated by her insistence. “I am afraid that's the best I can do, Miss Spencer."

  She didn't bother to hold back her own irritated sigh. “Very well then. Thank you."

  "He is a strong man. I think
it will take more than that nick to fell Captain Kennedy."

  Her heart was heavy as she plodded back to Drew's cabin. What would happen if he succumbed to his injury? The thought of that happening, of never seeing him again, cut through her like a dull blade. She tried not to think about the fact that she might never again hear him laugh, or speak, or see the beautiful cerulean blue of his eyes. It brought tears to her eyes.

  She returned to his bedside, sinking back into her chair. Drew was still tossing about. No sooner did she cover him, and the blankets were tangled about his legs. She spent a great deal of time tugging the covers free and smoothing them over him again.

  "Oh ... God...” The low moan rose from Drew, who had gone still. “Rebecca..."

  Her ears pricked up, the blankets slipping from her fingers. Rebecca?

  "Why—why would you do that?” He began tossing once more. “Lies ... all lies ... should never have trusted..."

  She leaned a bit closer. What on earth was he talking about? She dipped her towel in the tepid water and pressed it to his forehead.

  He caught her wrist. “Heather...?"

  She thought he was waking up, but his eyes never opened. He just squeezed her hand and murmured, “Heather...?"

  "Yes?"

  "Rebecca—why? God, I love that woman—so much it—I can't get her out of my mind...” His voice grew louder as he vehemently shook his head. “I love her ... but I can't ... I can't..."

  "Shh, love,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut as she smoothed his hair away from his forehead with her free hand. She didn't want to hear how he still loved Rebecca. What she heard so far sent a sharp pain shooting right through her. It hurt worse than she imagined it could, worse than any physical pain she'd ever felt. Her throat tightened, tears pricked at her eyes, and she swallowed hard against both. Rebecca must have been the R of the note in the book of poetry. He did still love her. Still, she forced herself to remain calm as she whispered, “Shh..."

  He calmed down then, lying quietly, leaving her to gaze down at him with confused eyes. She wanted to shake him, to ask him to whom was he speaking? Was he telling her he loved her? Or, in his delirium, did he think she was Rebecca? She wanted so much to believe he was talking to her. Her heart had actually skipped a beat when he said those words. Her mouth went dry and it all made sense now.

  She was falling in love with the dashing American sea captain. She knew she shouldn't, knew she was only setting herself up for heartbreak, but she couldn't help it. She was falling in love with Drew Kennedy.

  "Rebecca—so beautiful...” he groaned again, his voice now harsher “But, so perfect for me ... so perfect ... Heather?” He paused a moment. Then his moaning grew louder, more panicked. “Heather?"

  She slid her arms around his neck as carefully as she could, cradling his head against her breast. “I'm here, Drew. I'm right here."

  He calmed at once again, settling against her as he sighed, “I love you."

  She stared down at him, tears filling her eyes once more. Only this time, a smile lifted her lips. “Drew?"

  He was at peace now, his head resting against her breast. “I do so love you."

  Her heartbeat quickened as she bent forward and murmured, “And I love you, my darling."

  He sighed again, mumbling thickly, “Stay with me?"

  "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

  But he didn't respond. He was asleep again. Still, her heart sang as she sat there, a fool's grin pulling at her lips. She couldn't believe what she had just heard.

  Drew loved her.

  She ignored the pain in her back from her somewhat twisted position on the bed. It didn't matter. All that mattered was what he had whispered to her as he pulled her close.

  He loved her.

  Nineteen

  Drew's fever broke during the night. He lurched violently, let out a pitiful moan, and was almost instantly drenched with sweat.

  His moan jolted Heather from her light doze in the chair. She sat up with a start to find him blinking up at the ceiling with cloudy, confused eyes. “What happened?” he asked softly, reaching up to push his hair off of his forehead.

  "You don't remember?” she asked, leaning away from him to light the lamp on the small table beside the bed.

  He groaned as he shifted again and a slow burn spread throughout his body. “Now I remember. That son of a bitch shot me."

  She rose from the bed to fetch him a change of fresh clothing and pull fresh linens from the wardrobe. “Do you remember anything else?"

  As she emerged from the wardrobe with everything in her arms, his eyes went to the bruise on her face and they narrowed. “I remember he attacked you."

  Her expression remained neutral as she brought over his clothing and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. Lifting the towel out of the bowl of water Nick had brought down earlier, she wrung it out, and pressed it to his forehead. “You were talking in your delirium."

  "I just know I hurt like anything,” he replied softly. Then, his eyes caught hers. “Did I say anything embarrassing?"

  "No,” she assured him with a smile. “Nothing you would not want repeated."

  He groaned again, trying to sit up. Heather put a hand against his chest to stop him. “You need to lay back, Drew. Lie back and rest."

  He covered her hand with his. “Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine,” she told him. “It looks far worse than it feels.” It was the truth. She had forgotten about the bruise Henry had given her, her mind far too cluttered with worry for Drew.

  His fingers came up to lay gingerly against her bruised cheek. “He will pay for this with his blood."

  "Please, Drew, I do not care about him. I only wish to see you well again.” She shook her head. “Besides, you've already pounded him to a pulp. I don't know that there is much left of him to punish."

  He sighed, sinking back into the pillows. “What did Sam say?"

  "The only thing I could do was to wait for your fever to break. He really wasn't much help once he removed the bullet.” She dabbed at his face again. “Would you like to have clean linens to lie on?"

  He arched an ebony brow. “I'd rather have you to lie on."

  "You are terrible."

  A soft chuckle rose to his lips. “It hurts to laugh."

  "Then do keep your mind on the fact that you are wounded."

  Catching her by the hands, he drew her down to his chest. “It's hard to forget, but I am trying."

  Her eyes held his and she wished she were brave enough to remind him of what he'd said in his delirium, but she wasn't. Perhaps he hadn't meant her, but simply confused her with his Rebecca.

  "What is on your mind, love?” he asked softly, his eyes never leaving hers as he smoothed a tendril of hair behind her left ear.

  "Nothing. I was merely worried about you."

  "I think I will live to fight another day."

  "It does appear that way."

  His eyes drooped again and his sigh was hollow with fatigue. “I apologize, my lady. I am sleepy."

  "Sleep then. I will go down and fetch you something to eat when you awake."

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Make certain you fetch something for yourself as well."

  "Of course."

  She waited until he'd fallen back to sleep before easing her hand from his. She sat back in her chair, chewing on her thumbnail. He did not remember what he had said to her, did not remember telling her he loved her. The happiness that had sustained her through those dark hours seeped away. Her only comfort was that he also didn't remember her reply. At least she was spared that embarrassment.

  She reached for the blanket she'd used the night before, though she didn't get all that much sleep. Now that his fever had broken, some of her worry slipped away, and exhaustion crept over her. She snuggled into the blanket, her head lolling against the side of the chair, and fell fast asleep.

  * * * *

  Drew opened his eyes to find sunlight fading from the c
abin and Heather sound asleep in the chair beside the bed. He lay back against the pillows, watching her. Even in her sleep, she was adorable, resting her head against a folded hand, the way a child would. He could hear delicate snores rising from the chair and couldn't help but smile. His lady snored.

  He sat up slowly, wincing as fire burned through his midsection. Ignoring it, he pulled the soiled, bloodstained linens from the bed and replaced them with fresh. It took some doing, as he felt more than a bit lightheaded and fresh sweat broke out over his entire body. Still, he gritted his teeth and blocked out everything, concentrating solely on his task.

  When he'd gotten the bed remade, he moved to the chair and carefully lifted her from it. She did not stir as he turned to gingerly place her in the middle of the tick, drawing the sheet up to her chin.

  He was breathing heavily, sweat breaking out once more by the time he finished. He dropped into the empty chair to catch his wind before attempting to dress. It was slow but he managed it, leaving the cabin to make his way to Sam Mason's cabin. He pounded on the door, holding his aching side as he did so. When the doctor opened the door, Drew pulled his hand away, clasping both behind his back as he straightened. “Mr. Mason, I want to see Donaldson."

  "Captain, you should be in bed. Not up and about just yet."

  He waved Sam's concern aside. “I am fine. Now, where is he?"

  "In bed, in manacles. Although, it will be some time before he is up and about again."

  Drew brushed past him to enter his cabin. “I wish to see him and I wish to see him alone."

  "With all due respect, Captain, I am not so certain that is a wise idea."

  "Frankly, I don't give a damn what you think, Sam. Now, if you will excuse me."

  Sam gave up on his protests and led Drew to the small alcove of his cabin where sick or injured crewmen recuperated. Henry lay swathed in blood-stained bandages, on a narrow cot. His left ankle was manacled and chained to the wall by a short tether. He began whimpering softly, apparently hearing the fall of boot steps on the planks.