Archie lost his balance and toppled backward, dragging her with him. His head slammed into the cuddy hatch, slowing him just long enough for her to scramble free.
There was no escape but aft—and barely ten yards from here to the bowsprit. She sprinted down the slippery deck past Will and Martin as the sloop pitched in the choppy seas. And as she neared the mainmast, she heard the pistol blast. Someone howled—an agonized cry that rose above the snap of canvas in the rising wind.
"Will!" she screamed. She glanced back over her shoulder to see Martin flat on the deck, and Will leaping over him to confront Archie.
Without warning, rough arms clamped around her. "Where ya goin'?" Jarvis demanded.
Angel choked back a cry of alarm. He smelled of vomit and sweat. Coarse hands clutched at her, cruelly gripping her wounded arm. She bit back a moan that rose in her throat.
Waves of nausea threatened her unraveling senses as she twisted in his grasp. Jarvis was weak from seasickness, but her own strength was strangely dwindling, and oddly, a cicada had begun to buzz in her head.
"Let go of her!"
Will's command was faint, as though he were a long way off. Pinwheels of light spun and twirled inside her head. And when Jarvis released her, Angel felt herself slipping to the deck.
She heard the smack of muscle and bone driving into flesh. She forced her eyes open to see Jarvis stagger back against the mast. Bellowing like a bull, he lowered his head and rushed at Will in an attempt to headbutt him. Will sidestepped, and Jarvis hit the rail with a hard thud. The force of his charge threw him off balance. Arms and legs waving, he vanished over the side.
Will peered into the choppy sea. "Jarvis!"
Spits of rain splattered Angel's face, but she was so tired that she didn't care. Holding her eyelids open was impossible. All she wanted to do was sleep, but she knew that if she did, she might never wake.
Angel thought she heard Will call Jarvis's name once more. And then a man loomed over her.
"Angel?" Will's voice flooded over her. She couldn't make out his features in the growing darkness, but his breath was clean and warm against her face as he gathered her up.
"Will?" The absolute certainty that she was safe in these powerful arms swept over her.
"I've got you." Raw emotion turned Will's words to a deep rasp. "I've got you."
"Good." Her head fell back, and then she knew nothing at all.
* * *
"Angel?" Will's voice was insistent. "Open your eyes. Speak to me!"
She felt his lips on her mouth... her eyelids. Warm fingers clasped her face.
"Angel!"
She blinked, trying to clear her mind. "What happened?"
He gripped her hand and pressed damp kisses against her knuckles. "You fainted," he said. "You scared me half to death. I thought you were dead."
"Me?" She tried to laugh, and her voice came out in a cracked whisper. "I... I never fainted in my life."
"You did this time."
"Nay..." It was raining harder. The drops hitting the deck around them were coming down in sheets... soaking her bare breasts. She blinked again, trying to remember when and how her bodice had been ripped away. "I... I'm all right," she insisted groggily. But she wasn't all right. She was cold... so cold.
"The hell you are. You're bleeding." He drew the torn garment over her naked bosom. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you might be stabbed in the chest."
"Not blood... rain."
He ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and knotted it around her wounded arm. "I want to get you below while I tie—"
"Not there. Don't put me down there."
He cradled her as though she were a child, murmuring and stroking her hair. "You're safe, but I've got to find rope to bind Archie. And I need to take the tiller before we—"
"Blood... blood on the pillow."
Abruptly, it all came flooding back to her: Archie's attempt on her life... the gunshot... Jarvis rising out of the night to grab her. She began to tremble. "Jarvis, he tried to..."
"Shhh, shhh," Will crooned. "He's lost. He never surfaced. Martin's dead, too, shot with his own gun."
"Archie?"
"He's not going to hurt you. It's over."
"I'm all right, I tell you."
"I need to lock Archie in the cargo hold," he explained. "Archie's groggy. He won't cause me any trouble."
She fought to clear her mind of seaweed. "I can take the tiller."
"Are you certain you can manage?" He helped her to her feet, steadying her with a strong arm.
"I can do it," she said. But she wasn't sure she could. Her knees were jelly, her head spinning, and she was suddenly cold. "How did you...", she started, wondering how Will had gotten the best of Archie and Martin.
"Later," Will promised.
"Did I hit Martin with the lead weight?" she asked.
"Squarely between the eyes." Will kissed her temple. "You saved my life, woman. Again."
And you saved mine, she thought. She wanted to thank him, but it seemed too much effort to speak. Her arm felt as though it were on fire, and the odd buzzing had begun again in her head. "Hurry," she managed as he propped her beside the tiller. If he answered, his words were lost in the drumming of the rain, the roar of canvas, and the creaking of wood.
Later—she didn't know if minutes or hours had passed—Will did carry her below. She was so cold and wet by then that she had no energy to protest. When she pointed out the blood, he stripped the mattress and pillow, stuffing them as far away from her as possible.
She watched him with heavy eyes as he stripped her naked, rubbed her bare flesh until it tingled, and wrapped her in an unsoiled blanket. "You sleep," he ordered. "It's the best thing for you."
"But ye can't... can't sail this sloop alone. I have to help you. Archie—"
"I tucked him in. He'll stand trial in Charleston for piracy and murder." He covered her with an old coat. "Leave everything to me, Angel."
Her teeth were chattering. "I'm cold," she repeated. "So cold."
Frantically, he looked for something else to put over her. "There's nothing—," he began.
"Hold me," she begged him. "I'm so cold."
"But I'm wet."
Wordlessly, she held out her arms.
For an instant, he hesitated, then swore softly. "All right, Angel." Peeling off what remained of his shirt and breeches he lifted the coat and blanket and crawled in beside her and pulled her shivering against his broad chest.
"I... can't get warm," she managed. "I can't..."
"Shhh," he soothed, cradling her with his body. "You're in my world now. Trust me."
"Trust you...," she echoed. "Trust..." How could she? How could she trust him? But the heat of his flesh and the feel of his fingers stroking her hair eased her troubled mind.
"I'll take care of you," he promised. "No matter what you've done. I'll keep you safe."
* * *
Angel wasn't sure how much time had passed from the time they had taken the ship from Archie and his mates. It was the following afternoon, or the day after, that Will carried her off the boat. With her in his arms, he climbed a ladder onto a crowded dock and put her into a painted sedan chair.
She was dizzy with thirst, and her skin was so hot that it seemed on fire. Her head throbbed, and the agony in her arm had become an oven filled with whirling demons poking her with pitchforks.
"Where are we?" she begged him. "Whose chair is this?"
"It will be all right," Will soothed. "The chair belongs to a friend. I'm taking you to my home. A physician has been called to..."
His words danced and twirled like gull feathers on a windy beach. Nothing he said made any sense to her. But then he closed the tiny door, and she felt trapped in an airless coffin. She was too dizzy to stand—even if the compartment had been high enough. All she could do was lean against one wall and grit her teeth to keep from crying out in pain.
Then the chair swayed, and she felt herself lifted off the dock.
Weakly, she pushed aside the heavy drape and peered out through a tiny square porthole. Two black men in blue coats and breeches with silver piping, wearing silver-colored tricorn hats, had lifted the poles onto their shoulders and were carrying the chair through throngs of people.
She couldn't remember ever having seen so many men and women assembled in one place. She couldn't see Will, but there were gentlemen in rich clothing, leather-faced seamen, and red-cheeked ladies in silk and satin. One elderly woman was trailed by a black boy wearing a purple turban and purple tasseled boots.
Dark-skinned wenches carried heaping trays of oysters and fried shrimp. Others hawked crabs, meat pies, or sweet buns. Half-naked slaves rolled monstrous wooden barrels, sweated under hundredweight sacks, and drove bleating sheep down the quay.
The noise was as overwhelming to Angel's fever-sensitive ears as the myriad of odors: fresh-cut lumber, cinnamon, beer, dead fish, and tar. From the right, a smithy's hammer rang against an anvil.
A din of voices surrounded her, cursing, shouting, laughing, chattering in English, French, Spanish, and a dozen tongues she'd never heard before.
The racket was overwhelming. Angel let the curtain drop and sagged back against the cushioned headrest. She felt lost in this buzzing hive of tall buildings, rumbling wagons, and painted carriages. Every step her captors took carried her farther and farther from the sea, away from the clean ocean wind and trackless beaches.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilled over, and rolled down her cheeks. I don't belong here, she thought. I don't belong here. She had to make them understand that this was a mistake... that they had to stop and let her go. She was as much a part of the islands as the birds and the wild ponies.
"Please," she whispered. "I don't want... don't want to be in this place."
But no one listened to her, and it was impossible to shout loud enough so they would hear. The chair bounced and rattled until Angel clutched the edge of the seat with her good hand. Gradually, the sounds outside the covered box subsided. She still was aware of the clop of horses' hooves, but the clamor of the harbor had faded.
Only half conscious, Angel felt her cage come to a stop, heard the squeak of iron, and then slid back as the compartment tilted and moved uphill. She heard new voices and the sound of a door opening.
"Up here. Be easy with her," a woman's slurred, smokey-soft voice ordered. "You're not totin' a barrel of rice."
More voices filtered through Angel's clouded mind. The chair bumped to the floor, and the door opened. A sympathetic dark face greeted her. "Come out, miss. Don't be afeered of me. I'm Delphinium. Folks call me Delphi. Mr. Will wants us to look after you," she said. "You're mighty sick, and you need to be in bed."
Angel nodded. Somehow she summoned the strength to climb out of the sedan chair, but when she tried to take the few steps to the high poster bed, her legs failed her. She would have fallen if Delphi hadn't caught her.
Pain exploded in Angel's arm. A tide of red swept over her, drowning the vast, high-ceilinged room, the giant bed, and all the folks staring at her.
A fierce undertow swept her away in tumbling waves, finally casting her up on an unfamiliar beach without birds or trees, sun or moon. Bewildered, she lay as still as death. Time and grains of sand whirled silently around her.
"...Bett... Bett... Papa's pet..."
Someone spun her around, and Angel giggled. "I'll catch you!" she cried. "I will!" Reaching out, she made a dash toward the chanting.
"Over here."
"No, here."
"This way, Bett."
She smelled the roses in the split second before her fingers closed around the leafy stem and thorns pierced her palm. Then pain and the sweet fragrance mingled. She tumbled over and over amid showers of rose petals that turned slowly to shells and finally to drifting sand.
* * *
Angel blinked, trying to get the sand out of her eyes. "Bett?"
"It's about time you woke up."
That wasn't Bett, it was Will. His voice was a lifeline, dragging her safely to shore. "Will?"
She shivered as he laid his strong hand on her forehead. "Your fever's broken. Dr. Madison says the infection is nearly gone. He thinks you have a remarkable constitution to heal so quickly. You frightened me, woman. You haven't been fully awake in three days."
"Three days?" She drew in a ragged breath and licked her dry lips. "I've been here three days?" Her lower lip trembled as she tried to recall the lost time. "I thought I heard someone..." She trailed off as she realized where she was. Bett couldn't be here. She was back on the islands with the Brethren, while she was here with Will Falcon.
Her head pounded, making it hard to recall what had happened after Will had climbed into her bunk. She wondered if she had lost her maidenhead without knowing it. She'd invited him in, but had he taken what was ripe for picking? She ached all over, so much so that she couldn't tell if she was sore between her legs.
She swallowed. If he hadn't slid between her thighs, he was a man of more substance than she'd ever known before.
"You may have a scar," he said, "but luckily the wound was on the underside of your arm. It won't show."
"How did... oh..." Angel sighed. "Archie's blade. He..."
"Tried to kill you." Will scowled. "Yellow bastard. He's locked up in jail. If he and the others committed murder to steal that sloop, Archie will hang. We give pirates short shrift in Charleston."
She met his gaze. "Did you... did we... on the sloop... after... damn me, but my head is all amazy." Trembling, she took hold of his hand and whispered, "Did you futter me while I—"
"Hell, no! What do you take me for?"
"Oh." She swallowed again, feeling foolish. She didn't think he'd do anything she hadn't agreed to, but he was after all a man, and most men thought with their pizzles, didn't they?
"You should know me better than that," Will said.
"Aye. Mayhap, I should. 'Twas not meant as an insult."
"It sounded like one to me."
"All right." Flustered, she stared wide-eyed around her. The room was very large with five big windows, all hung with swathes of rich material. The chamber furnishings were of polished, dark wood, as was the high bed. Leaves and sheaths of rice were carved into each post, and clouds of spotless white netting graced three sides. "Be this the governor's palace?" Angel asked.
"Hardly." His tone was still sharp, and she knew he hadn't forgiven her for asking if he'd swived her.
"It's my home," he continued. "My family owned it for generations... until we lost all our money. Now my neighbor owns it, and I rent it from her."
The house seemed a safer subject, and she asked, "This is but one chamber in your house? And there are more?"
"Many more rooms. Twenty-one, twenty-two, something like that."
"So many, like the castle." She looked back at Will. He was so changed from the husband she'd known on the island that he'd almost become a stranger to her again.
Will's hair had been neatly cut to curl at the nape of his neck, and he was clean-shaven. Knee-high leather boots covered his handsome calves, and doeskin breeches clung to his thighs like a second skin. His coat and vest were robin's-egg blue. His shirt was white lawn, his collar starched, his stock of Irish linen.
"You look like a prince," she said.
"How many princes are you acquainted with?"
"I can't recall none but you."
"Flattery will get you everywhere in Charleston." He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it gently. "You're a brave woman. I won't forget what you did... or the time we spent together on the island."
Won't forget. His words rang hollowly in her ears, and she gripped his fingers as tears clouded her vision.
She bit her lower lip and tried to keep from weeping. She didn't know if it was anger or sorrow that made her so undone. She was still so angry at him for kidnapping her, for treating her as though what she wanted didn't matter.
Theirs had been a temporary marriage. She'd
known it must end, that she had no chance of holding him. But she'd never guessed that giving him up would be so hard. Or that the hurt would be as real and painful as the knife slice to her arm.
"What's wrong? Are you in pain?" Will's stern expression became anxious.
"I want to go home."
"Angel, Angel."
He put an arm around her shoulders, and she buried her face in his chest. He smelled of tobacco and leather and other unfamiliar scents she couldn't place, but under it was the clean male odor that was his alone.
"Shhh, shhh," he murmured. "I'll look after you."
"Nay. You don't understand. I won't let you."
There was a rap at the door, and Will pulled away from her. As one, they glanced toward the doorway.
"It's just Sukie," Will said, motioning to the serving girl. "She's awake, Sukie. You can bring in the tray."
Angel wiped her face with the hem of a linen sheet as the black girl entered the room, heavily laden tray in hand.
"You need rest and food." Will gave her hand a warm squeeze. "You'll feel better soon."
"I can take care of myself."
"This isn't the Outer Banks. It's different here, but you'll learn. You'll be fine, I promise."
Angel looked down at her arm. She was wearing a sleeveless gown of pale green silk, and her left arm was bound tightly from elbow to shoulder with a thick bandage. The arm ached, but the devils with the pitchforks had retreated, at least for the moment.
"This is a truce, Will. Ye haven't bested me. Not yet."
The maidservant set down the tray and uncovered a steaming bowl. "This is Miss Delphi's special crab soup," she said. "Awful good." She unfolded a square of white linen and tucked it under Angel's chin, then took a spoon full of the soup and brought it to Angel's lips. "Jest take a taste."
Reluctantly, Angel opened her mouth, then inhaled sharply as another person stepped into the room. Angel knew at once that this slim woman in the high-waisted silk dress was no housemaid.
"Will!" the stranger cried. "Oh, Will, I know it's not proper for me to come uninvited, but I thought..."
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