“I don’t beg from anybody,” Martin raged. “I’ve sworn out a Warrant for your arrest on charges of abduction and kidnapping. Now that you’ve spent the night with the harlot, I can throw in rape as well. I’ll see you in irons before dawn. You’ll never be able to show your face in London again.”
“No!” Kate croaked.
“Don’t be such a fool,” Brett ordered. “After abusing your sister in front of so many witnesses, you couldn’t get a conviction with a jury of your own choosing.”
“She’s my ward, and as long as she’s underage, anyone who takes her from my protection is a seducer and a thief.” The force of Martin’s emotion was so heavy that his voice cracked under the strain.
“That may be the law in England, but we’ve been drifting out to sea ever since you boarded,” Brett drawled. “In a few minutes well be in open water and beyond the reach of your sheriff.”
Tearing his gaze from Brett’s contemptuous countenance, Martin’s eyes searched the gathering night for the dock, his link with England and the force he was sure would destroy Brett Westbrook for him. He was stunned to see the shoreline had fallen well away from the sides of the yacht; they had reached the mouth of the cove where the placid water of the inlet gave way to the restless swells of the Channel. Brett had slipped out of his grasp yet again.
The last tenuous thread of Martin’s reason snapped and he could understand nothing beyond his consuming hatred for the laughing man before him. He drew his pistol and fired.
Chapter 9
When she saw him reach for his pistol Kate launched herself at Martin’s arm with an ear-splitting scream, but she was too late. Her terrified eyes sought Brett, and she watched in helpless dismay as he sank to his knees, a dark patch of blood spreading over the front of his shirt.
Martin gave a shout and lurched forward, only to be brought to a wrenching halt at the sight of the small pistol in Brett’s right hand. He heard the explosion and felt the bullet tear into his flesh as Brett slumped to the deck; Martin staggered and fell against the rail. He made a feeble attempt to stand, grabbing at the rail in his frantic efforts to keep his feet, but he stumbled and rolled over the low barrier. For a few heartbeats he hung suspended over the sea, his loosening grip that of a dying man.
Kate was too stunned to move. One sailor, transfixed by the violence of the scene which had unfolded so rapidly before his gaze, recovered his wits and rushed forward, but he was too late. A choking sound shook Martin’s body, and losing his hold on the polished wood, he tumbled overboard. The dark waters engulfed his body and the sea gathered yet another soul to her watery bosom.
Kate’s eyes remained on Martin as he hung poised above the rail, but the spell broke when he plummeted into the water, and she rushed to where Brett had fallen.
“He can’t be dead,” she muttered frantically. “Please, God, not him, too.” She pushed her small hand inside his coat. His heart was still beating, but the pulse was faint and irregular and he was bleeding heavily.
She struggled to stave off the panic threatening to paralyze her brain. Think, she ordered herself. Don’t sit here moaning and let him bleed to death. You’ve got to remember what they did when Martin’s gamekeeper was shot. Gunshot wounds can’t be but so different.
Kate forced her mind back to a day nearly ten years ago. They had brought the gamekeeper in from the woods on a stretcher, but their main concern then had been only to stop the bleeding until the doctor could get there and not actually treat the wounds. Even now, Kate could clearly see the thick pads his wife had held firmly over the wound until the doctor arrived.
“Carry him to his cabin,” she ordered the sailors who had gathered around. She then followed, giving Orders to anyone within hearing distance to boil water, bring clean linen, prepare bandages, lay him down gently, strip him to the waist, and turn the ship around immediately and head back to Dover.
“How bad is he, miss?” the captain asked when they had laid him on the bed.
“I don’t know. We’ve got to get him to a doctor at once. He’s bleeding terribly.”
“I’ll do the best I can, but it takes about eight hours to make the crossing.”
“I don’t mean France,” Kate said impatiently. “It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to find a doctor in Dover.”
“But we can’t turn around, miss. We have to go with the tide.”
“But you’ve got to turn around,” Kate insisted. “He may be dying this very minute.”
“Even if I could turn the ship around, I couldn’t sail against the tide, miss, not to save all our lives. We’ll be in France by morning, and I’ll see you get to a doctor as soon as we land. But you’re going to have to take care of him until then. We don’t carry extra men on this crew, and none of them knows anything about taking care of sick people.”
Kate was stunned. What was she going to do? She couldn’t let him die.
“I can help, Miss Vareyan.” For a moment Kate didn’t recognize Brett’s valet. “My name is Charles.”
“Thank you,” Kate said, recovering quickly and turning back to the captain, “but I’m going to need at least one other person to help me.” He started to Protest, but Kate cut him short.
“Don’t tell me you can’t spare anybody. Find someone. This man had better not die without you lifting a hand to save him.”
Brett’s wound was bleeding again. Kate grabbed his discarded shirt, folded it into a thick pad, and pressed it tightly against the wound. “Somebody open his baggage and get me some more Shirts. No! Rip the sheets on his bed. Now!” she cried when no one moved. “I can’t do everything myself with him bleeding so much.” The blood had already soaked through the shirt. “Find me some handkerchiefs, lots of them,” she ordered Charles. “I can use them as pads. I need lots of long strips,” she told the two sailors who were speedily reducing the sheet to rags. “I’ve got to make a bandage that will hold until we land.”
“I have some sticking plaster,” the captain offered.
“Send it along with whoever is going to help me. You might as well get back to your Station. If you can’t get us back to England, at least make sure we don’t end up in the North Sea.”
The captain departed, grateful to escape the Company of this imperious, sharp-tongued female. She was young and breathtakingly beautiful, but he would just as soon do battle with the Atlantic as spend the evening in the same room with her.
“Put four of those handkerchiefs together and hand them to me,” Kate directed Charles. She exchanged the soaked shirt for the clean pad. “Now make up another and put it within reach. When you’ve finished tearing strips,” she said to the sailors, “make a large, thick pad out of what’s left. I’ve got to have a big one for the bandage. How am I going to clean the wound?” she asked Charles. “I don’t dare take the pad away.”
“I think the blood will clean it,” he said.
“I hope you’re right.” Kate replaced the now-soaked pad with a new one, and was relieved to see the bleeding had slowed down. “If it will just stop until we can get him to a doctor, maybe he’ll be all right.”
As soon as the men finished with the sheet, Kate directed them to remove Brett’s boots, but they fitted so tightly that Charles was forced to cut them off. Afterward the sailors departed, nearly colliding with a nervous young boy carrying an armload of lint, sticking plaster, and other materials.
“I’m Mark,” he said nervously. “The captain sent me to help with Mr. Westbrook.” He looked uncertainly at Kate. “Do you know anything about nursing? You look awfully young.” He was embarrassed by his words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but he was even more distressed when Kate’s Shoulders slumped and she seemed ready to burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “The captain swears he’s going to cut my tongue out someday.”
“But you’re right. I don’t know anything about nursing sick people,” Kate said, recovering quickly, “but somebody has to take care of him.”
“By the
way, the captain says to tell you there’s a squall Coming up,” Mark said. “Shouldn’t be bad, but it might shake you up a bit. Anything you want me to do?” Kate refused to even let herself think about a storm.
“We’ve got to make a bandage tight enough to keep the pad from slipping and to keep enough pressure on the wound so it won’t bleed,” she said. “Help Charles hold him up so I can wrap these strips around him.” It was impossible not to hurt Brett as she wound the bandage tightly around his chest and over his Shoulder. The pad soon turned red, but when it turned brown, she knew the bleeding had stopped. She heaved a large sigh and offered up a silent prayer.
“I’m going to my cabin to change my clothes,” Kate said, standing up. “Call me if there’s any change.”
When she came back, she had shed her cloak, brushed out her long golden hair, and put on a pale-blue gown of soft muslin which tied loosely under her bosom and allowed greater ease of movement. Charles admired her openly, but Mark was so startled by the vision, he jumped up from his chair stammering in confusion.
Kate couldn’t help smiling. It was nice to know she was attractive, even to young boys, but she didn’t have time for such vanities, she told herself, not with Brett so ill. The few minutes alone in her cabin had given her time to think and organize her thoughts.
“Charles, see if you can find a basin of water and a sponge. I’ll need it in case Mr. Westbrook develops a fever. And I’ll need another one for myself. If this boat pitches any harder, I’m going to be sick. Mark, ask the captain for a board so Mr. Westbrook won’t roll out of the bed. I’ll never be able to hold him down. And stay close by in case we need you.”
The boat was pitching more severely as it headed out to sea, and Kate began to feel decidedly unwell. She had gotten used to the gentle swells of the cove, but the waves were bigger in the Channel. How could she take care of Brett if she was sick? She couldn’t just leave him and go stick her head out the window. After all, he wouldn’t be lying here with a bullet in his chest if it hadn’t been for her brother.
Kate was conscience-stricken when she remembered Martin. Although she regretted his death, she had ceased to love him years ago. Still, she felt guilty that all she felt was relief that he was no longer a threat to her. There was nothing she could do to help him now, and if she saved Brett’s life, she would have avoided one horrible consequence of his mad behavior.
Mark came back with the bedboard and fitted it into a groove already there for the purpose. The captain says you’re to tell me what you want to eat so the cook can fix your dinner before it gets too rough.”
“I’d rather not eat anything if we’re going to have a storm,” Kate said, looking acutely ill at ease. “There’s no point in putting food in my stomach if I’m going to turn around and throw it up.”
“No, miss,” Mark grinned. “I’ll be just down the passageway when you need me.”
She pulled a chair over to the bed. She hoped that once they reached France they’d be able to find a good nurse to take the responsibility of his recovery off her inexperienced Shoulders. His extreme pallor worried her. Brett was naturally dark, but he looked so pale and drawn she was afraid he had already lost too much blood. And he was bound to lose more when the bullet was taken out. His face looked so peaceful and relaxed, without the scowl of anger that usually marked his features, she wondered if he might not already be dead. But when she placed her ear close to his face, she could hear his rasping breath and feel the gentle warmth on her ear.
“Dear God, don’t let him die,” she implored. “Not away from his family. And not with Martin’s bullet in him. I don’t think I could bear that. Please let him get well so I can at least tell him how sorry I am.”
Brett stirred, tried to turn over, but the pain tore an agonized moan from him and he fell back. Kate gently wiped the tiny beads of moisture from his forehead and tried to soothe him.
“You’ve got to lie still,” she said softly. “If you toss and turn, the wound will start to bleed again, and you can’t afford to lose any more blood.”
He lay still, but, without warning, the boat lurched crazily and Kate’s stomach leaped to her throat. A swift plunge to the bottom of a swell sent Brett crashing into the wall. “Charles, where are you?” she screamed. She tried to hold Brett still and cover her mouth at the same time. Charles burst into the room a Step ahead of Mark, and the two of them held Brett on the bed as the boat bounced and dipped crazily. Kate dashed for the basin and was violently sick.
“Looks like we’ve got two patients on our hands,” Mark observed. “But don’t you worry, Miss Vareyan. We’ll get you through this yet.”
Kate retched again.
The next several hours were the worst she had ever lived through. All she could remember was the ceaseless tossing of the boat and retching long after there was anything left in her stomach. In between trips to the basin, she checked Brett’s pulse and sponged his forehead; his skin was so hot it seemed to burn her fingers. Through her mind ran a constant litany: “We’ve got to get him to a doctor in time.”
The sun rose from the frigid ocean, and with its emergence came the rebirth of hope. The sea had repented of her turbulence, but the air was thick with a cold, clammy mist that penetrated the cabin and compelled Kate to cover Brett with a blanket. The night’s ordeal had convinced her they must find an inn the moment they landed. Brett couldn’t possibly get well on this tossing boat.
The captain entered the cabin wearing a cheerful smile. “Morning, Miss Vareyan. Mark tells me you passed a bad night, but it looks like you held up right well.”
“How I fared is of no consequence,” Kate responded listlessly. “The only thing of importance is to get Mr. Westbrook to a doctor as soon as possible.”
“That’ll be in France in about a half hour. We’re headed for a small village a little way down the coast. I’ve taken Mr. Westbrook across several times before, and he always uses the same place.”
“You’ve got to take him to Calais,” she objected. “He’s got to have a doctor as soon as possible, and an inn where they can take care of him. How can I possibly find that in some out-of-the-way village?”
“We’re too low on the coast now. I’m afraid it would be impossible to turn back to Calais without losing a lot of time.”
Kate’s endurance was at an end. She had spent the last two days in a coach and the last two nights awake, all under circumstances utterly beyond her experience and at a tension level sufficient to unbalance even the most experienced woman of the world. Now this captain, who was responsible for the most harrowing night of her life, meant to abandon her in some tiny village; they probably didn’t have a doctor or a nurse. She turned on him, her anger fueled by fear, anxiety, and exhaustion.
“You insensitive dolt. You’ve been at cross purposes with me ever since I got on this accursed boat. And now you calmly announce you’re leaving me in some dinky little village just like Mr. Westbrook’s life wasn’t hanging by a thread and it didn’t matter whether the local doctor could tell a man from a horse. You’re cold-blooded, contemptible, and probably simple-minded as well. As soon as he’s well, I’m going to have Mr. Westbrook see that you’re never allowed to captain anything larger than a rowboat again.”
“Now listen here, young woman, you cant talk to me like–”
Kate advanced upon him with upraised fists. “Get out of here,” she hissed as he hurriedly backed away from her. “Set foot in this cabin again, and I’m liable to Scratch your face to ribbons. If this man dies because of your callousness, I’ll personally put a bullet between your eyes.”
The captain was livid, but he left the room. He didn’t know who this hair-raising female was, but she surely wasn’t the common doxy he’d first thought. Only a real lady would look at him like he was vermin and throw him out of a cabin on his own ship. Still, he had to give her her due. If she stayed around to look after him, Mr. Westbrook was guaranteed attention worthy of a king.
He opened the door of t
he adjacent cabin. Charles was sitting in a chair sound asleep. He pounded on the door. “Miss Vareyan wants you. Mark, too. We’re landing in half an hour, and I want you and everything you own off this ship immediately.” Never again was he going to hire out to a gentleman, not even Mr. Westbrook. Most aristocrats were bad about paying late, but none had ever showed Kate’s regal disregard for his position of command. His only consolation was that none of the crew had been present.
Minutes later, Charles and Mark entered the cabin to find Kate pacing the floor.
“Charles, do you speak French?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God for that. How about you?” she said, looking at Mark.
“Pretty good, ma’am. I’ve been doing these crossings for more than five years and I’ve pretty near picked it up on my own.”
“Wonderful. Now, do either of you know this village we’re going to?”
“I do,” Charles answered. “Mr. Westbrook has landed here several times.”
“Then go to the best inn, hire enough rooms for all of us, and arrange for Mr. Westbrook’s removal. Mark, I want you to find the doctor and take him to the inn immediately. There is a good doctor here, isn’t there?”
“Yes, ma’am. There’s a small English colony in the village. One of them used to be a big London doctor with a fancy practice, but he gave it up. Now he only works when he likes or if something interests him. I don’t know if hell come, but he’s the best.”
“Tell him we have a wounded man who’s dying. Tell him anything you have to but bring him,” Kate ordered. “Now, where is the inn and what is it like? Will the landlord help us? Can we hire the whole inn?”
Mark looked rather Startled. “It’s a small inn, but it’s the only one in the village.”
“It’s called the Chére Madame,” Charles informed her. “Mr. Westbrook has stayed there before, and the owner, one Madame Marcoule, knows him well. She’s a peculiar old woman, but she took a liking to Mr. Westbrook the first time he stayed, and I know she’ll do anything she can to help.”
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