by Jo Goodman
"I know you put the bee in his bonnet, you sassy wench," Salem said, lifting Ashley by the waist and hugging her after Eli Holland departed their cabin.
"There is no need to insult me or become physical," she replied in playfully frigid accents. "I had no notion that Captain Holland wore a bonnet." She giggled when Salem tickled her. "And where would I find a bee in the middle of the Atlantic?"
He gave her a light squeeze before setting her down. He bowed deeply. "If anyone could manage it, you could."
"Flatterer."
He managed to look affronted. "I am ever the bearer of truth, madam." He flicked her nose with his finger. "As I am ever your humble and obedient servant. Ah, you laugh. To what can I attribute this? You think me not humble?"
"You are everything that is modest."
"And obedient?"
She smiled and her eyes danced. "You oblige my every whim."
"Then it must be that you don't think me your servant." His finger touched her lips, stilling them. His voice became soft, his eyes serious. "In this you would be right, for in truth I believe myself to be your slave." Before Ashley could form a reply, Salem left her.
In the companionway he cursed himself for bringing that stricken look to her delicate features. From the moment he began to improve, he kept a watchful eye on Ashley. Although there was some lift to her spirits and she ate better, filling out the hollows in her cheeks and throat, there were still those odd times when he swore she seemed troubled and hurt beyond bearing. He hated it when she shied away from him for no reason that he could readily discern. His efforts to discover what thoughts were whirling in her head were met by resistance, evasion, and silence.
He wished he had not spoken so simplemindedly of being her slave, for it was precisely that sort of talk that made her regard him warily. It was difficult to honor the promise he made to himself to treat her as he would his sister when what he wanted to do was kiss her sweet mouth and lose himself in her silky warmth.
Did she sense the constant battle within him? He decided she probably did. Little wonder she had argued with him so fiercely that first night he was feeling better. He recalled his outrage upon discovering she had spent every night of his illness sleeping on the cold floor. When he had asked her to share the narrow bunk her adamant refusal had been out of proportion to the request. He could not understand why it was suddenly a problem when she had trusted him before. Finally, when he was angered beyond reason and threatening to sleep on the floor himself, she agreed to share the bed. At first she had been stiff and alert to his every move, but gradually she was overcome by exhaustion and fell into a deep sleep on her side of the thin bundling blanket.
Salem reached the upper deck and breathed deeply of the fresh sea air. It did much to temper his mounting frustration. While Ashley had accustomed herself to the sleeping situation after the first few nights, Salem decided he had discovered a cruel form of torture. It was the nights when Ashley lay so close to him, innocently curled and agreeably feminine, that made the days so hard to bear.
Salem threw himself into the work he was assigned to by the captain, hoping it would serve the same purpose as a plunge into an icy Virginia spring.
Hours later, as he lay on his back in the bunk, listening to the softly clipped speech of his companion, he decided there was something to be said for the balm of hard work. He felt pleasantly tired and relaxed, and the occasional rustle of the sheets as she shifted her position was a soothing reminder of her presence rather than a source of discontent.
"I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else. What was it you just said?"
Ashley's sigh did not reach his ears. "I was speculating about your name. I recall you telling Captain Holland your family doesn't always call you Salem. It's an odd sort of name. How did you come by it?"
"Silly chit. My parents gave it to me."
"Sa-lem."
"I suppose you won't let me rest until you know." Her silence was her answer. "First you should know that not all Colonials are descendants of thieves, savages, and wastrels. You forgot to account for that highly moral strain, compliments of righteous Puritan blood. My mother, virtuously christened Charity Faith, comes from such a line so there was nothing for it but that all her children should have Biblical names. As the first born male there was never any doubt what my moniker would be. You heard the captain, it's in the family."
"But what—"
He continued as if her interruption had not occurred. "Now Gareth's name is not precisely from the Bible."
"I wondered about that. I didn't recall it—as I don't recall yours."
"When my mother was carrying Gareth, she was certain she would have twins. She and Father chose a variety of names for the event. When only one squalling and extremely robust baby made an appearance my father suggested Goliath." Ashley smiled. "Mother wouldn't consider it. She said my brother had carried like two and delivered like two and he was going to be named like two. They combined the names chosen for twin boys, Garab and Seth."
"Gareth."
"Clever pixie."
"What of the others?"
"Noah was next and Father envisioned him taking over the shipping concerns one day. Unfortunately Noah can become ill merely watching the tide come in. Your assistance in Newgate will probably save him a harrowing trip to England."
"He's the barrister then."
"Yes. Several years after Noah's birth Rahab was delivered."
"Isn't Rahab the name of a—a—"
"Harlot might be the word you're looking for. I'm afraid Rahab's name was not my mother or father's doing. Mother nearly died in childbirth on that occasion, and my father was distraught. Several days passed without naming the baby girl. Gareth and I decided we should take the responsibility. Earlier in the month the minister had delivered a powerful sermon on Joshua and the Battle of Jericho. Rahab was the woman who helped Joshua escape the city and the only woman's name we could remember. By the time Mother recovered and Father came out of his cloud of concern, Rahab's name was firmly established. We usually call her Rae to appease my mother."
"And your youngest sister? I believe she's called Leah."
"Yes. There's no story to Leah's name, but it's an indication Mother was feeling quite the thing when she was born. Gareth and I had no say in the naming, though we had several fine ones picked out."
"It's tempting, but I'm not going to ask."
"Good," he murmured, smiling into the darkness. "Don't you think it's time you should be going to sleep?"
"Oh, no. You shan't slip away so easily. What of your name? I don't recall any Salem in the Bible."
His relief was short-lived and his groan was heartfelt. "It is mentioned once in Genesis."
"I don't think you're telling all."
"Salem is not my full name."
Ashley was silent for some time, mulling this information. Salem could almost hear her thought processes. He knew the exact moment she figured it out because the bed shook with the laughter she could not stifle. "Nev—never say it's—it's—"
"Jerusalem." He endured her laughter and waited patiently for it to fade. He turned on his side and leaned a little closer. His whispered growl tickled Ashley's ear. "I've bloodied a lot of noses for making fun of my name."
"Noses made fun of your name? How bizarre Colonial life must be."
"Miss Lynne."
"All right. I am shutting my eyes. I'm going to sleep. Pleasant dreams—Jerusalem."
* * *
Ashley was bent over the copper tub, rinsing the soap from her gown when Salem brought in the evening meal. She was still modestly attired in her chemise and petticoat, but there were certain areas of her anatomy, such as her breasts, where the damp material clung in a less than modest fashion.
Looking up, she flashed him an ingenuous smile and went back to her work. Salem nearly threw the tray at the far wall in frustration. He held onto it with white-knuckled will. He had never foreseen that propinquity would lead Ashley to relax her rigid
sense of what was socially correct. Six weeks ago, when they had boarded the Oleander, she would have gone red with shame if he had walked in the cabin and found her dressed in her undergarments. He admitted it was not often he saw her thus, but even once was more than a man should be called upon to bear.
Ashley wrung out her gown and laid it over the back of the chair to dry. "There are times I despair of having to wear that dress," she said conversationally. "It's hopelessly faded, and I believe the salt water must have shrunk it. It seems disagreeably tight." Salem laid out their dinner on the lid of the trunk. She glanced over at the fare and sighed wearily. "And I despair of salted pork."
"The biscuits are fresh."
"How fresh can they be when they're baked with mealy flour?"
"The tea is strong, the way you like it."
"I like it with—" She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Salem. I don't mean to find fault with everything. I can't think what's wrong with me. I never complained so much before."
He patted the space beside him on the bunk "Maybe because you had no one who would listen. Eat something. It might only be that you're hungry."
"Then you should stop listening. It's too bad of you to encourage me." She took a bite of her salted pork and strove not to make a face.
"I might have known you would find a way to blame your present mood on me."
"You don't mind, do you?"
He smiled fondly at her and did his best to keep his eyes from wandering to the damp swell of her chemise. "Not if it brightens your day." Her green eyes sparked mischievously. "And your days haven't been bright lately, have they?" he continued seriously. "I stopped by the cabin earlier when Holland could spare me. You were taking a nap."
Ashley gave her food more interest than it warranted. "I was tired this afternoon. I suspect it's being in this cabin most of the day."
"And yesterday? And the day before that?"
"Well, I was in the cabin those afternoons also. Are you spying on me?"
"No. But I am concerned about you. You didn't sleep so at the beginning of the voyage. Are you certain you are all right?"
"Of course I am. It's merely cabin fever."
Salem lifted her chin and eyed her critically. "You need some pink in your cheeks." He laughed shortly. "The kind that doesn't come and go when you're embarrassed."
She sniffed haughtily and removed her chin from his grasp. "Not all of us can be brown as berries." Never would she admit that she had noticed how his work on deck had touched his face with color and that he looked handsome.
He ignored her cutting reply and hid his annoyance. Would she never see him as anything but a Colonial barbarian? "Would you like to go on the deck this evening?"
"D'you mean it?" she asked in a rush. "Oh, could I?"
Her artless eagerness tore at Salem. He hadn't realized until this moment how she hated her confinement, yet she never really spoke of it. It was not surprising she was tired and out of sorts. That she had become dispirited only recently was actually quite astonishing. "As soon as you finish eating."
"Must I?"
"Yes, Miss Lynne, you must."
"But the gown? I told you it doesn't fit well. I could spare the meal."
"Forget your dress. It won't be dry anyway. You can wear something of mine and throw your cape over it. No one will suspect."
Ashley was patently horrified. "Breeches? You're not serious. I couldn't."
Salem's eyebrows rose as he deliberately allowed his silver eyes to roam her attire. "What an odd time you've chosen to voice your concern for fashion."
She looked down at herself. "I suppose I am sadly out of the common mode, no matter what I wear."
"You're right about that. You'll never be common. Hush. I meant it as a compliment."
Her smile was resigned. "Breeches you say? Promise me you'll never tell."
He merely raised an eyebrow.
"Promise."
"I promise."
On the deck that evening Ashley leaned gratefully into the protective embrace of Salem's strong arms. The warmth at her back combined pleasantly with the cool salt spray at her face. To Salem's amusement she held her cape tightly closed so none of the crew could see her clothes.
"Feeling better?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear. He tried not to think about how good she felt in his arms.
"Yes. It's lovely out here."
"We'll do this more often. I don't think the other passengers pose much of a threat to our future safety; still, it would be better if we waited until evening to be together."
"I won't get much color that way."
"Quiet. Or I'll color that part of you which never sees the sun."
"Sa-lem!"
* * *
The Oleander bypassed Charles Town and swung north to Norfolk in order to accommodate Captain Holland's desire to have the bay Salem promised him as payment for Ashley's passage. There was some protest from the other passengers, but Holland concocted a story of unfavorable weather conditions and they had to be satisfied with that. When the Oleander really did run into a storm everyone agreed the captain must know his business.
Ashley sat by the bunk, hanging on to it as she heaved what little she ate for breakfast into the chamber pot. She was too ill to mind that Salem had walked in on her and was now kneeling beside her, supporting her with one arm around her shaking shoulders. The wild pitching of the Oleander had not lessened in hours.
"When will we be out of this storm?" she asked, miserable to her core.
Salem wiped her pale face with a damp cloth. "Things will look better this evening, and we'll be in Norfolk in less than two days."
The news failed to cheer her. "I don't think I'll live that long." She moaned and retched again.
Salem continued to hold her and stroked her back, trying to ease the spasms that shook her so violently. "Of course you will, you just won't want to." He tried to joke about the matter but his effort fell short. His face was tight with concern for Ashley. After all she had been through he never thought she might become ill from rough seas. He wondered if she had been this sick while trying to care for him and going through the Channel at the same time. "Ashley, were you so ill when we left London?"
She shook her head. "The pitching of the ship didn't seem to bother me then. I can't understand why it's happening now."
He gave her a gentle squeeze. "Perhaps it is worse now." She nodded weakly, but he knew that she did not really believe it. He didn't believe it either. To his experienced eyes it seemed Ashley was sicker than the motion of the Oleander warranted. He touched her forehead with the back of his hand and thought she was warmer than she ought to be. "Finished?"
"I think so."
"Good." He helped her to her feet. "Let's get you out of that dress. Why you ever bothered with it, I'll never know." Salem knew it was a measure of how ill Ashley really was when she allowed him to strip her down to her underthings without any sort of protest. "Under the covers. And stay there. I'm going to get you some tea and crackers. That should help settle your stomach."
"It sounds awful."
"Then it will probably work."
When he returned to the cabin Ashley was leaning over the bunk, her body tightly contracted with dry heaves.
Quickly he set the tray aside and sat by her, supporting her as best he could. When she relaxed he pulled her away from the side and made her comfortable in the bunk again. His heart contracted when tears escaped her closed lids. He brushed a damp tendril of hair away from her cheek. "Shh. Don't cry. You'll feel worse." He reached for the cup of tea and a salty cracker. "My mother always swore by this for any sort of upset. Can you try a little?"
Ashley didn't want any part of his remedy, but she found she couldn't refuse Salem's touching assistance. "I have to sit up."
"So you do." He looked around for something soft for her to rest against. Finally he shifted behind her so she could lean back on his chest. His hands came around her, one with the cracker, one with the tea. He smiled ruef
ully when she laughed. "I've not had much experience in the sickroom. I'm afraid I don't know quite how to manage."
She took the food and drink and experienced a very different sort of flutter in her stomach when Salem's empty hands crossed in front of her and settled naturally on either side of her waist. "You're doing just fine," she said. "The hardest thing to do is not get sick when the patient does." She took a bite of cracker and sipped on the warm tea.
"I noticed that."
"Have you ever been seasick?"
"Never. I often wondered if it's as bad as it looks."
"It's worse."
"Seeing you, I'm beginning to think so." Salem bent forward so that his mouth nearly touched her dark hair. His chin rested lightly at the back of her head. He wished he had a right to hold her more often. She seemed to fit against him so easily that he could imagine she was really a part of himself that had been torn away and was only now returning. It frightened him beyond anything he had known that she might somehow be torn from him again. "Ashley, it occurred to me while I was in the galley that you've not been feeling quite the thing for a few weeks now." He felt her stiffen but ignored it. "Are you certain this present illness is from the storm?"
"What else could it be?" she asked carefully. God, don't let him suspect as I do.
"I don't know. I'm asking you."
"I don't know either."
Salem frowned. She was not going to bring it up so he supposed he must. He cleared his throat. "My sisters sometimes get ill around their monthly time. Mother says it is different with different wo—"
"Salem. There is no need to speak of it." She wanted to crawl under the blankets. How could he talk of such things? What would she do if all Colonials talked so frankly? How was she supposed to respond?