Sweet Seduction hmtl

by Patricia Pellicane

  Dr. Morgan pushed the captain aside. "I can't come now. Bush's hand was cut off. If I don't stop the bleeding, he'll die"

  In a panic Tristan cursed and swore he didn't give a damn about Bush. But that wasn't true. He did care, but at the moment it was Meg's welfare that occupied all his thoughts. He had to get her help.

  "You've got to come. I don't know what to do."

  Is she bleeding?"

  "A little."

  "Just keep her as comfortable as you can. I'll be there shortly."

  "You sonofabitch! I'm the captain of this ship, and Fm ordering you to go below." Tristan was clearly losing control.

  Dr. Morgan shot his captain a sharp look even as he bent over the injured man. In truth, the captain of any ship had little power over the doctor on board, for they ranked equally. "I know you're upset. Just be calm. I'll be there in a few minutes."

  Tristan, short of carrying the man below, had little choice but to allow Morgan to attend his patients. He returned to his quarters alone and sat at the edge of the bed. He took Meg's hand in his. God, she was so white. What would he do if she died?

  Tristan shook away the horrifying thought. She wouldn't die. He wouldn't let her die. Tristan didn't ask himself why, but this woman was never going to leave him.

  Meg gave a low groan of pain as she came out of her faint. Her leg throbbed unmercifully. She gritted her teeth against the burning anguish.

  "Don't worry, sweetheart, Doc Morgan is on his way," Tristan said as he hovered over her, rubbing her hand.

  "Oh God, it hurts."

  "I know. Don't worry. He'll be here in a minute."

  Meg tried to free her hand from his hold. "Tristan, it will hardly help matters if you crush my bones and rub the skin off my hand."

  "Sorry," he said sheepishly as he eased his hold. "And your leg?"

  "It's throbbing." Meg glanced down at the sheet tented by the piece of wood. "But I imagine I can stand it."

  "It won't be long now."

  Meg gave a tentative smile, and Tristan suddenly felt the almost overwhelming and quite astonishing urge to cry. He knew she was in excruciating pain. God, but he'd never known a woman so brave.

  Twenty minutes later a haggard Dr. Morgan walked into the room.

  Tristan turned at the sound and sneered in disgust, "You took your sweet time getting here."

  "What the hell did you want, Hall? Should I have left the men to die?"

  Meg looked with some surprise from one man to the other. They glared at one another, each appearing ready to start punching.

  "Did many?"

  Both men looked at her.

  "Die, I mean," Meg asked, and Tristan knew a moment's shame. He'd never thought to ask. All he could link of was this woman.

  "Six. A bloody miracle it wasn't more." He looked at Tristan. "Twenty-one injured, Captain. Most will lake it, I expect."

  Tristan nodded and then moved aside so the doctor light reach his new patient.

  Dr. Morgan administered morphine. It wasn't until Meg had fallen deeply asleep that he pulled the wood free. Tristan held back the need to vomit as he heard the sucking sound as her flesh gave up its hold.

  The doctor worked over her for a long time, cleaning the wound of small fragments of wood and cloth and then sewing the injury closed. Soon he was wrapping a white linen bandage around her thigh. He looked up at Tristan's gray face. The doctor's mouth split into a grin at his captain's obvious weakness, He'd never seen the man so concerned. "You'd better sit down."

  "Will she be all right?" Tristan asked with a sigh as trembling knees forced him to obey. He sat on the edge of the bed, not the least concerned at appearing weak in this man's eyes.

  ''She'll be fine if fever doesn't set in."

  "And if it does?"

  "I have quinine."

  "Then give it to her now."

  ''Captain, quinine isn't a preventative measure. It only help after the fever comes."

  Tristan never realized he groaned.

  "Don't worry. She'll be fine." Dr. Morgan took two powder-filled envelopes from his bag. "When she awakens, give her a spoonful of this in a glass of water for the pain."

  Tristan nodded as he watched the man prepare to leave. "Tell Mr. Crain I want to see him."

  The doctor nodded and left the room.

  Two hours later, Meg awoke to find Tristan still at her side.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Wretched. My leg is on fire."

  Tristan nodded. "Here," he said as he fixed the laudanum in a glass of water. "You're to take this for the pain."

  Meg made a face as she tested the bitter brew. "My God, that stuff is awful."

  "You have to take it. It will help."

  Meg did as she was told, choking and gagging against every drop that found its way down her throat. "Lord," she gave a violent shiver, "I hope I won't be needing that again."

  "Haven't you ever taken a headache powder? I thought all women did during their monthlies."

  Meg's cheeks turned cherry red, her eyes widening with shock. Surely the beast wasn't talking about what she thought he was talking about. "I don't get headaches."

  "And . . . ?"

  "And what?" she asked, glaring into warm brown eyes filled with concern, silently daring him to be so crude as to actually speak of so private and delicate a matter. "I told you, I don't get headaches. At least I never did till now."

  Tristan grinned. "Am I giving you a headache?

  " You give me many things, Mr. Hall. Headaches appear to be one of them." "And the others? What might they be?"

  "Aggravation and frustration are at the top of a growing list."

  Tristan nodded. "Why did you save my life? If you allowed the man to kill me, you'd be free now."

  If Tristan thought her cheeks were red before, they were nothing compared to now. "I did no such thing," she denied hotly.

  "You did." He nodded. "What I want to know is why?"

  "If I saved your life, it was unintended. I was ... I was . . ." She swallowed as tears glistened in dark eyes and her color grew a sickly gray. "Oh God, I killed two men!" she said in a choked voice as she remembered all she'd done.

  Tristan reached for her and brought her into a sitting position so that her upper body rested against his chest. He felt the soft shudders of silent sobs. "Aw, sweetheart," he gently soothed, "don't feel bad. You were wonderful."

  "Don't tell me I was wonderful" she said, her face buried in his chest. "I'm a murderer!"

  "You're not. You were only trying to protect me. Otherwise you wouldn't have shot the gun at all."

  "Why were you standing there out in the open?" she hiccuped, as she tried to control her tears. "You could have been killed." Her arms reached around his

  shoulders, and she clung tightly, possessively, to him.

  "And you were afraid for me?"

  At his question, Meg realized what she was about. She pulled back and shoved him away. Her teeth gritted in anger. If asked, she couldn't have honestly said why she suffered the emotion. "No, I wasn't afraid for you. As a matter of fact, nothing could have pleased me more then to see a bullet lodge itself . . ." She couldn't finish but gave a violent shudder while her throat closed off at the thought. Meg forced back the lump in her throat and the ridiculous urge to cry, then shrugged, continuing on in another vein. She never realized her words only confirmed his suspicions, for she recited them in a voice filled with pain. His heart swelled with an emotion he dared not name.

  "A woman would have to be insane to worry over a man who cares so little of his own welfare." Tears blurred her vision. She wiped them away with an impatient swipe. "But that's your business, isn't it?" They stared at each other for a long silent moment before she tore her gaze away and gave a great yawn, sighing tiredly. Meg lay back on the pillow again and closed her eyes, determined not to answer, not even to acknowledge the question in his eyes. "I think I'll sleep for awhile."

  The pirates were shackled against the walls of the hull,
deep in the bowels of the ship. Two guards watched over them. Tristan had only just come from a ceremony that honored and then buried the dead, after which he visited the injured. Thank God, most were not badly hurt and would soon report back to duty.

  There'd been no time to eat. And now it was too late to awaken Cook. Tristan was tired. He slumped into the chair behind his desk and reached for a bottle of rum. Pouring an inch or so into a shot glass, he swallowed the liquid in one gulp and then grimaced against the burning heat sliding into an empty stomach.

  Tristan shook his head, a worried frown creasing his forehead. He'd sent half of the men he had left to the schooner with orders to follow the merchant back to Baltimore. Now each ship with an impossibly small crew of seven sailed across the Atlantic toward America. If they encountered no more obstacles, neither natural nor human, both ships should make port within five or six days. Tristan could only pray they would.

  "What time is it?"

  Tristan's gaze moved instantly toward the shadowy half of the room and the bed. "It's about two in the morning."

  Meg made a sound. "Are you in pain?"

  "A little."

  Tristan was on his feet and moving toward her. "Is it your leg?"

  Meg frowned and then remembered her injury. Oddly enough that wasn't what awakened her. She was offering the most abominable cramps. Good God, couldn't remember ever having so much pain.

  "I have to get up," she said as she moved over to the edge bed.

  "No, you don't." Tristan pushed her back. "I'll get whatever you need."

  "What I need is privacy."

  "Meggie," Tristan said, "you're not strong enough to be left alone. I can't let you walk around. If you fall, you'll rip open the stitches in your leg. What do you need?"

  She didn't answer him.

  "The chamber pot?"

  Meg nodded. Her cheeks fiery red. "Bring it over here and then leave. Please."

  The last word was uttered in such extreme emotion that Tristan didn't have the heart to refuse. He sighed in annoyance, unable to understand why women cringed at the mere mention of the body's normal and natural functions. "Don't move. I'll get it."

  He did as she asked and a moment later, after making sure she could stand, left the room.

  "Oh God," groaned Meg as she brought herself to the bed and lay back. There was blood everywhere. It ran in rivulets down her legs, and even though she'd stood for only a second, it had already puddled on the floor. How could it be? Her monthly time never came on so strong. What was the matter with her?

  Meg had no time to think on this unusual happening. She had to find something to absorb the blood. Going to the edge of the bed, she took a step toward the trunk which held her petticoats, thinking she'd make a padding from a torn cotton ruffle, when the door suddenly opened.

  "What the hell?" muttered Tristan as he instantly noticed the red stain on the back of his shirt. Blood was running down her legs. It puddled between her feet.

  "What did you do?" Tristan grabbed her and put her immediately upon the soiled sheets. "What the hell you do?" he repeated. "Nothing! What are you yelling about?" she yelled return.

  "Where are you bleeding? Did you fall? Did you rip open the stitches?"

  Meg shot him a dirty look, her cheeks catching fire again. She'd die before she told this man or any man it plagued. "No, I didn't fall. And where I'm bleeding from is none of your damn business."

  Meg groaned, besieged by yet another cramp.

  "Lord," she whispered in a breathless gasp as the pain bean to ease. She glared at the man towering above her.

  "I don't need you here. Get out."

  "Let me look at your leg."

  "No."

  "God damn it! If you aren't the most stubborn female."

  "While you, of course, are congenial and—"

  He ignored her sarcasm. "Lie down and raise that shirt."

  "Get out."

  "Gypsy, I don't want to get rough."

  Meg's laughter was devoid of humor. "No. The mighty, or should I say the Almighty Captain Hall, self-appointed god of the Atlantic, would never consider such a thing."

  Tristan moved over her and pushed her back to the pillows. Her hands weakly fought his as he tried to raise the shirt. She heard his soft gasp of surprise as realized the wound was fine. The blood was pouring from between her thighs. "What the hell is happening?"

  "None of your business."

  "Do you always bleed like that?"

  She answered without thinking. "No." And then faltered. "I . . ."

  "So it's not your monthly flow."

  "I . . . I . . . Oh God, go away," she wailed in despair.

  "I'm getting the doctor."

  It was then that she was hit by the worst pain yet. Meg groaned again, rolling to her side, suddenly doubled over with cramps. "No. Don't go. Don't."

  "What is it? What's the matter?"

  Meg could hear the panic in his voice, but she couldn't offer a consoling word. She grabbed the hand that touched her shoulder and pulled it to her chest, hanging on for dear life. "I don't know" she gasped just as another cramp tore into her stomach. She was covered with sweat, chilled to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. "Maybe I'm dying."

  "The hell you are." His voice was loud and angry as fear clutched him. He never noticed his shout as he sat on the bed and brought her upon his lap, not caring that her blood soaked into his trousers. His hands trembled as they rubbed her back. "Tell me where it hurts."

  "My stomach," she grunted. "God, it's my stomach."

  "I've got to get Morgan," Tristan said helplessly, not wanting to leave her and knowing he had no choice.

  "Yes." She breathed deeply and calmly. "Yes," she said as the pain eased at last. "Get him. Hurry and get him."

  Meg was in the throes of yet another agonizing cramp when Tristan returned to the room not three minutes later. "He's coming. The doctor's coming. You'll be all right."

  God, he prayed he spoke the truth. He didn't have the slightest idea what was wrong, so there was no way he could be sure she'd be all right.

  Meg groaned as Tristan sat again on the corner of the bed and lifted her into his arms. Her hands reached around his neck, searching for the security and comfort found only in his body, and she pulled him close.

  On occasion, she'd suffered menstrual cramping, but never anything like this.

  "What's happening to me?" she asked, her face buried in the hollow of his throat.

  "Don't be afraid, Meggie. It's all right." Dear God, he hoped it was all right.

  Meg knew she was going to disgrace herself. No doubt she'd later be mortified, but right now she couldn't stop the need to bear down. She grunted as she pushed, and a second later thick, warm blood oozed between her legs. Her head fell against his moulder and her body shuddered, wet from perspiration, weak from whatever plagued her.

  Just then, the doctor knocked and entered.

  Every bit of color left his face. He was startlingly as his hand reached for the wall.

  He slumped against its support. "Do you mean she lost a baby? My baby?"

  Dr. Morgan shrugged. "If she were pregnant, she wasn't more than three weeks along. At that stage, it's impossible to know for sure. But judging by the excessive bleeding and the pain you said she suffered, I'd say she probably was."

  "God," Tristan whispered weakly, mournfully.

  Dr. Morgan shrugged. "Maybe it was for the best. You weren't married, after all. And the girl wouldn't have had an easy time of it."

  Tristan closed the door after the doctor left and groaned as he leaned his back against it. His gaze fell to the sleeping woman across from him. What the hell was the matter with him? What had he done? Did he imagine no child would come of those endless nights of steamy passion? Good God, was he insane? Why hadn't he realized before that this proud woman would suffer untold prejudice if she'd found herself unmarried and in a family way. But no, that wouldn't have happened. She wasn't ever going to get away from him. If he'd r
ealized she was with child, he would have married her.

  But would she have married you? came a voice from the back of his mind. Tristan shook the thought away. She would and she will., he silently returned. There was no way that a child of his would be born a bastard. Especially not with a woman like Meg as its mother.

  He had only one choice. If he wanted her with him, and he did, he had to marry her. Tristan knew she wouldn't take kindly to the idea.

  Well, too bad, he mentally remarked, feeling himself grow angry at the thought of her refusal. He didn't want to get married anymore than she did. And certainly not to a woman who snapped at him every chance she got. Who never had a kind word to say. Who lied with almost every word spoken. And judging by the clothes she was wearing when he'd taken her from England, stole as well. Who was grumpy upon awakening, unless of course, he awakened her in certain delicious ways. Tristan shook his head as those memories threatened. He couldn't think about that now, not with her so ill. He cursed, his voice low as to not awaken her, for the truth of it was, he wasn't likely to think about much of anything else.

  "I'm going."

  Tristan's head snapped at the sound of her voice, and his eyes blinked as he shook away the fogginess of sleep. "What?" he said while praying she wasn't talking wild again. Her voice had sounded clearer this time. Where are you going?"

  "To visit Nanna."

  Tristan sighed as he took the dry cloth from her forehead, dipped it into a bowl of water, squeezed out I the excess, and replaced it. She was burning with fever. And no matter how much quinine she took or low often he bathed her face and arms in cold water, he'd seen no difference in more than two days.

  "Father can't stop me, I'm of age."

  "Ohhh, sweetheart. Go to sleep."

  "I'm so sick."

  "I know," he answered automatically, even knowing she was in her own private world and never heard.

  "He's got me. Oh God, please help."

  "Rest easy, Meggie. I'll take care of you."

  "Papa? Is that you?"

  "It's me," Tristan said for the thousandth time in two and a half days. Did she hear his voice? Did she think he was her father? Tristan couldn't know for sure. He only knew she often rested more easily when he spoke the words.