Chapter 7
Simeon frowned and grabbed a cinnamon shaker from the shelf. “Mademoiselle? Are you sure Pascale won’t say a word? We don’t need any more trouble.”
“I hope so.” Abby drummed her fingers on the table, not sure of anything.
Simeon stacked bowls of soup on a tray with warm bread from the oven. “Take this tray to the gunroom. Enos and Samuel have taken ill. There is a tonic I made armed with a sedative.” He caught her arm. “I cannot caution you enough to remain vigilant and remember who you are.”
Abby picked up the tray and moved to the gunroom which doubled as a barracks. Cannons were locked into place, the portholes shuttered. She sidestepped around the munitions and found Enos and Samuel swinging in their hammocks. After laying her tray down she offered Enos a bowl of soup. He refused. She raised clasped hands to her chest. What could she do to help?
Remembering her nursemaids, she placed her palm upon his forehead. Indeed, he lay warm, his face a ghostly pallor. A day ago he’d charmed her with humorous anecdotes. Now he faded, helplessly ill, and she felt sorry for him. So far away from the comforts of home.
“You must drink.” she said, adopting the same firmness her nursemaid used. She helped him to a sitting position and encouraged him to drink the broth. Weak as a kitten, he collapsed onto his pillow. Abby patted the broth that dribbled down his chin then helped him rise again to drink the concoction Simeon had prepared.
“Are you trying to poison me?” His wrinkled face sucked hard like a balled-up prune.
Abby apologized, listened while he blew off steam then tucked his blanket around him.
“You’ll be up and feeling your sunny self in no time.” She cooed other words of comfort then repeated the process with the less stubborn, Samuel.
She took a fresh linen, dipped it into cool water, wrung it out and placed it on his head. He basked in the attention she gave him.
How natural it felt to care for them. “I’ll return with tea, so rest.”
Samuel stopped her. “She is perhaps, the most beautiful in the world. The Captain finds her irresistible.”
“Irresistible?” Did the medicine make Samuel incoherent? She cleared her throat. “A lady friend of Captain Thorne?”
“The Vengeance, the most beautiful vessel in the world, has carried terror and alarm through the West Indies and out of her wantonness; she’s chased the enemy’s far superior force.”
Abby rolled her eyes and sniffed Simeon’s tonic. The medicine talked.
She opened the portholes to allow fresh air to circulate, and then picked up the tray, thinking of her former life. Her every need was considered a bastion of fashion, privilege and disregard for those with less. Unconcerned with annoying daily errands and problems, her days were filled with parties, balls, riding horses and other pleasurable pursuits. If anyone knew of her current deeds, they would be scandalized.
And she couldn’t be happier.
To be useful was a new experience. Abby spent the rest of the day busy with chores, attempting to compensate the void with Enos and Samuel unable to do their duties. Repeatedly, she returned below decks and encouraged them to drink and sip more medicine, aware of her patients’ needs.
With her hands on her hips, she surveyed the spotlessness of the barracks. Thorne did a good job. The physical health and well-being of his crew came first. The crew had clean clothes, were fed and provided with a work environment as scrubbed and secure as possible.
The dissimilar failings of the Civis’s captain created terrible discomforts for her crew. The decks leaked from above, drenching the men who slept in hammocks, immersing them in cold and darkness. The stench compounded the reeking water in the bilge, accumulating rotting refuse and the decaying carcasses of drowned rats. It was a wonder the sailors of the Civis survived.
Reluctantly she owed the success of the Vengeance to Thorne. As commander, he upheld an exceptional example for his men, infusing discipline, a concern for his men’s safety, and a sense of fairness and cleanliness.
The next time she checked, Samuel was much better and her heart skipped a beat with the success of her ministrations. She laid her hand upon Enos’s brow. Her body tensed. His condition worsened. Shipboard sicknesses rose fatal. Something different had to be done. To heal and get uninterrupted rest, Enos needed to be isolated from the crew.
Abby darted to the quarterdeck and commenced organizing a storeroom, pilfering blankets from Captain Thorne to make a comfortable pallet. When everything was done to her satisfaction, she recruited Pascale to carry Enos to his new accommodations. In a laborious ritual, she ladled care and concern for the aging privateer forcing down liquids, applying cooling cloths and poultices.
Nothing else mattered. The captain would have to wait for his cabin to be cleaned. She would bear his wrath later. She refused to eat or sleep. Enos’s fever spiked. He gibbered through bouts of confusion. Sweat beaded his brow. Coughing spasms racked his body. He shook uncontrollably. Abby rinsed and reapplied cool cloths countless times. She begged Simeon to brew more concoctions and refused to leave Enos’s side. Simeon shook his head, a silent assent. Enos die? Tears filled her eyes. Abby prayed.
Thorne had seen occasional glimpses of his cabin boy scurrying from the quarter deck to the galley. The boy had cared for his crew. He puzzled over the boy conversing with Pascale. No one had been able to communicate with the escaped slave beyond hand gestures. Clearly the enormous black understood everything the boy commanded. In Pascale’s arms, he had seen Enos, his shipwright transported to the quarterdeck.
Simeon held up the lantern. Thorne surveyed the scene. His cabin boy lay asleep, his head pillowed on his arms next to Enos. Short shafts of blonde hair curled from beneath Abe’s cap. Supplies were stacked neatly against the far wall, providing enough room for a pallet. His missing blankets covered Enos. He wrinkled his nose. A tray with bitter smelling substances lay at his feet.
“Medicines and poultices,” Simeon explained.
“The lad has a good heart,” Enos whispered hoarsely and Jacob stared incredulously. “Wore himself out taking care of me night and day. Wouldn’t have made it without him.”
“Glad to see you back in the land of the living.” Thorne gave the old salt a drink of water, and then lifted the cabin boy in his arms. The lad was light of weight, his face gaunt. He’d order more rations for the boy. Abe moaned and nestled to get comfortable in his arms, spreading his fingers against his chest. Jacob’s skin tingled. He ducked through the doorway, so conflicted by the gesture he hurried away to his cabin.
Watching them leave, Enos said, “Has a woman’s touch, don’t you think, Simeon?”
Chapter 8
Abby woke to the bright light of day streaming through the gallery windows. Why had no one wakened her? How was she in Thorne’s cabin? She threw off the covers. Enos. Had he died and no one told her?
She flew from her bed and dashed to the quarterdeck where she found Enos, gobbling a bowl of chicken soup and warm bread, appearing a picture of health, his recovery miraculous.
“Simeon made this special just for me.” He scooped down spoonfuls. “Pardon my manners but I’m starved.”
“I’m happy to see you well.” She wanted to whirl, her arms stretched out, instead she clasped her hands together, and the first time in a long time, she had a bone-deep sense of satisfaction infuse her.
“You are a saint. I’d be visiting Davy Jones locker if not for you. I’ll never forget.”
Abby grew misty-eyed and turned away. She muttered something about chores. As she ducked into the passageway, warmth radiated through her, along with a strange euphoria. Her thoughts scattered. Suddenly, she couldn’t think straight. She headed to the bow, her private retreat where she wouldn’t be disturbed and…charged full bore into Captain Thorne. She hit him with such a force it knocked her cap off and sent him sprawling on the hard plank floor with a thud.
Dazed, Abby scrambled on hands and knees to pick up her cap, stuffing her hai
r into it a second before he recovered with a loud expletive. With a growl, Jacob came to his feet. Swearing an oath, the captain flung out a hand to catch her by the collar then yanked her up until she was eye to eye, her toes pitched above the floor. She started to slip from her coat. Her nostrils flared. He’d see her breasts bound beneath her thin shirt. There was no way she could explain it away. In his tight grip, her arms ached locked over her head, and his manhandling was the last straw.
“Get your hands off me,” she shrieked. “You got no right to lay a hand on me!” She kicked, her feet flailing air.
Like a lump of clay, she was dropped, her coat torn off and her shirt trailing out over her pants. She snatched her coat and moved into a deeper shadow.
“I’m sorry.” He began to dust himself off, chagrined at his own quick temper. “I’m sure it was an accident and−” He looked at her sharply, “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Abby relented a bit. “I didn’t see you in the dark.”
“What were you running away from?” Then he chuckled. “I’ll bet you were afraid I’d come to fetch you for a bath.”
She gulped at his words, terror struck in her chest. She turned so he didn’t see her expression as she thrust her arms and head back into her coat. Like a turtle, she emerged and entertained a well-placed boot in his rear…until she saw him clenching a bloody rag to his arm. “What happened?”
“I want you to stitch my wound.”
She shook her head. “I’ve no experience with flesh wounds. You need a doctor.”
His jaw tightened from the audacity of refusing his command. “Physicians are in short supply in the middle of the Atlantic. I have no other recourse. You stitched sails, you will do it.”
Abby paled and squeezed her eyes shut, praying the ocean would suck them down a whirlpool. Panic rattled up her spine. Sinking a needle into flesh? She stepped back. “I-I can’t.”
Jacob prodded her toward his cabin. “You can. It’s an order.” He chuckled, a deep baritone. “Why so squeamish? You’re not turning into a milk-fed, girlish maid are you?”
Abby’s heart gave a frantic leap and lodged in her throat. To refuse would arouse suspicion.
“I need a cabin boy with back bone.” He taunted.
Abby scowled then slipped into the easy banter of a fishmonger. “I guess I can do it as long as you don’t start screaming and blubbering all over me. I’d hate to have the crew know you’re really a peacock concerned about soiling his lace cuffs and pink satin waistcoat.”
The captain gave her a shove from behind.
“Pink? I hope you think I have better taste than that.” In the captain’s cabin, he eased into a chair and angled his head to the needle and thread on the table, then shrugged, a graceful movement, peeling off his shirt. “Help me.”
Abby swallowed. Outside of a chaste peck or hug from her father, she had never touched a man. Her eyes roved to his lips. Heat flooded to her face, the crush of his mouth, a lingering memory. Her finger itched to caress the smooth line of his lower lip and the firm curve of his jaw. The Captain possessed a face destined to make a woman lust.
Gingerly she helped withdraw his shirt and retreated to her shy and reticent self. His skin felt warm and he smelled of earth and sea. What was she supposed to do now?
“You have to thread the needle.”
His patronizing put enough starch in her knees to jerk her out of her musings. Her older brother, Nicholas had a wound like Thorne’s. Misjudging the height of a hedge, he fell from his horse, his leg impaled on a stick. Lacking turpentine and myrrh, her scientist brother, Anthony, poured whiskey over the wound, explaining the need to clean the injury. He further enlightened her on the use of cultured maggots to debride the wound of impurities. She wrinkled her nose. Like physicians, cultured maggots were in short supply. She opened a bottle of rum and poured a generous amount on clean linen.
Thorne found it amusing. “Haven’t you had a taste of rum?”
“Can’t say it’s been a part of my learning.” She pulled the blood soaked cloth away then stepped back and grimaced. It was an awful gash about six inches long. Her stomach fluttered. She dabbed his wound to clean off the dirt.
“What did you do, get into a fight with a chicken?” she said, her insult an attempt to ease her own panic. Aware of Thorne watching her every move, she dipped the thread and needle in the amber liquid, threading the needle the way Pascale suggested.
She stopped and stared. “What? Do you need a bite stick?”
Sinking her top teeth into her lower lip, she pushed the needle through his flesh. The two sides pulled together. She closed her eyes and swallowed down bile.
He cleared his throat. “I’d like you to finish before I’m a gray-haired old man.”
Her eyes flew open with his goading and she set to stitching. “Be lucky if I don’t sew those lips of yours shut.” She muttered beneath her breath.
He gave her a warning look then stared straight ahead, a silent affirmation to finish the task. After a few strokes, she gained her embroidery rhythm. She entertained sewing puppies or perhaps a bouquet of flowers on his bicep. How would the Captain fancy that? “I’ll have you sewed up nice and pretty so you can boast to all your lady friends how you got injured in battle. I promise not to tell anyone you got clumsy with the capstan. You do have lady friends, don’t you?”
Guessing by his insulted expression, he took her comment as a slur on his manhood.
“I have plenty of lady friends,” he said, his words laced with venom.
“Not that it’s any of my business but where do you keep these ladies?” Abby prodded.
“There was a girl in England I met,” he paused, his eyes suddenly seemed faraway and…dreamy.
“Was she one of those fancy ladies?”
“She had a pedigree a mile long. Rich, Spoiled. Beautiful. But I’d rather boil in oil than pick up with the enemy.”
Rather boil in oil?
“Ouch! Take it easy. Do you know how exasperating you are?” He glared at her, and then after a long stretched out moment, his lean cheeks flexed. “A thought has crossed my mind.”
Abby froze mid-stroke. “That thought must have been a long and lonely journey.”
“I think you’ve had experience at this.”
Abby shrugged indifferently. So he would rather boil in oil! Piqued she thought of a million other tortures. “If you count the time I watched a donkey’s rear being sewed up when a mare took a chunk out of him.”
Thorne bellowed out his laughter from her pluck. “I hope you are not comparing me to a donkey’s rear. It has the same refined ring as your statement on my attire.”
If she wasn’t so nervous, she might have admired the fascinating play of muscles that rippled along his ribs and arms. “Quit moving. I can’t stitch someone who’s so intent on braying. If you must know, I have complete respect for you, Captain. I would never compare you to a donkey’s rear,” she said, finding it interesting that he hadn’t forgotten her slur about the pink satin waistcoat. “It’s always the badly dressed that are the most interesting.”
She’d never admit otherwise. To do so would fan his vanity. His clothing was perfectly tailored and his bearing well-bred; and somehow, in spite of this polished veneer, he managed very well to resemble a complete and utter pirate.
“I appreciate your benevolence.”
He sounded like a vicar now, albeit a sarcastic one. “Your pink lace won’t help you win the war, so you might as well play dead. My advice is to play dead with the ladies, too. You could sit in an oat bin and the mules would even step back.” She suppressed a smile.
A vein throbbed at his temple. “If you’re finished,” he said, his words clipped. Sharp.
She finished stitching and surveyed her work. She wound bandages around his arm, then darting a glance at Thorne, she saw him studying her beneath his dark lashes. She turned away, busied herself with picking up the dirty linen and dishes, neglected from her days caring fo
r Samuel. “This room is a mess. It’s a wonder the rats aren’t taking bets on who gets the bed.”
“Any more compliments, Abe−” he opined, “−and you’ll have me blissfully embracing ignorance by stringing you up the yardarm.” He struggled to shrug into his shirt.
Abby sighed, then dropped everything to assist him. “You’re going to make a mess of those stitches.” She retrieved her tray and paused at the door, victory insufficient until she seized the last word. “If your ignorance is bliss, you must be the happiest person alive.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Before she could answer, he rudely hauled her back into the room and sat her in a chair. The plates and bowls on the tray clattered and she shielded the cups before they toppled to the floor. The scrape of his chair brought up to hers. “Lessons. You’ve avoided them the past couple of days.”
She plunked the tray on the table with a loud clunk. “I played nursemaid to your crew if you’d noticed.”
“I noticed. I’m also grateful. My cabin boy needs a decent education.”
Abby snorted. “And you have decided my education?” She didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary with the captain. He’d been scrutinizing too much.
“You’ll eventually work in my shipyard. You’ll need basic reading and ciphering skills.”
“Shipyard! Since when do you have a shipyard? I thought you’re too busy being a thief.” Thorne looked like he was ready to throttle her.
“I do hold an honest occupation. You could be a little more grateful,” he warned.
“What do you do in a shipyard?” She was all ears.
“Build ships.” He stalked across the room, grabbed a parchment, slapped it on the table and unrolled it.
Abby studied the fine architectural drawing, the skeletal framing of a ship and the finished product. She ran her finger along the drawn hulls, masts and bowsprits. Mindboggling were the numerous details, every peg and screw, right down to the type of wood used for every joint. Thorne’s name signed at the bottom with a flourish. Was this his design?
Sweet Vengeance Page 8