by ML Guida
She wished her powers could make her father well, but she was ineffective in healing. Tears threatened to slide down her face. Her father needed her. This was no time for self-pity.
She turned him, staring at the back of his head, inspecting Doc’s handy work. The three inch wound had been cleaned and neatly stitched, such a tiny wound, but enough to bring her father to his knees.
She grabbed another blanket on a swinging hammock and wrapped it around her father. “I know ’tis cold.”
Doc returned, holding a tray in his hands. He shook his head. “There’s a storm brewing outside.”
He put the tray on the table and the scent of broth, garlic, and chicken filled the damp quarters. “We need to get da fluids down him, lass.”
“He keeps shaking.” Hannah rubbed her arms. “’Tis so cold.”
“Aye, ’Tis a ship lass. And Poseidon is angry today.”
Hannah picked up the pitcher and cup off the tray and filled it with water. The ship rocked and water sloshed out of the cup onto the floor. Hannah grabbed the hammock to keep from teetering. She held the cup to her father’s lips. “Drink Father,” she urged, but his head lolled to the side, and the water dribbled down his slack lips.
She wrapped her arms around his large shoulders and lifted him off the hammock. She pushed the cup in between his cracked lips and lifted the cup. Water streamed down between his lips, but she managed to get most of it down his throat. Her father coughed, but kept the water down.
Doc laid the tray down next to the wooden bowl. Water and soup sloshed inside their bowls. “Chicken soup, laced with garlic, sure way to help bring him about. He needs food.”
“You’re very kind, Doc.”
“Captain, wants to see me, lass,” Doc said. “I see he’s in good hands with ye. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Hannah nodded as Doc left, but kept her eyes on her father. She remembered not so long ago when she had been ill with pneumonia and her father cared for her. He had never left her side and fed her chicken soup. He said it had been her mother’s recipe and swore it fought back any cold. Tears welled in her eyes. Her father rarely showed he cared and although she had been deathly sick, she treasured the memory. “I won’t leave you father, I promise.”
For the next few hours, Hannah waited on her father. She bathed his sweat, forced him to drink and kept him warm. Exhausted she napped in a hammock next to her father, but his groans awakened her. Sweat dripped down her forehead and into her eyes. Kane’s shirt stuck to her skin and her stomach growled, but she couldn’t eat now. Not with her father’s life in the balance.
Hannah dabbed his forehead. Had she imagined it or had her father’s grayish skin regain color? His eyes fluttered. Hannah’s arm stilled.
“Father?”
Her father blinked. His eyes glossy, he stared. “Hannah?” He frowned. “What happened? Where are we?”
“Oh, father.” She draped her arms around his neck. “You’re alive.”
He hugged her. “I’m fine, daughter. Now tell me, where are we?”
Hannah released him and quickly recounted the past events.
Her father put his hand on his forehead. “Damn. A pirate ship?”
Hannah nodded.
He frowned and gritted his teeth. “Where are we headed?”
“I don’t know, father.”
He grimaced.
“Are you in pain?”
“’Tis, this infernal headache,” he said. “Go get your mother.”
She blinked. “What?”
She felt his forehead. Hot. “Father?”
His glossy eyes focused on her and he grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I want your mother. Where is she?”
“I’ll get Doc.”
Her father gripped her wrist. “Be careful lass. Your mother will know what to do.” He closed his eyes and his breathing grew shallow.
Hannah swallowed back her panic. A fever meant an infection. Untreated infections killed people.
She rushed out of the crew’s quarters and ran up the steps leading to the deck. Her heart beat hard and her stomach hurt. “Doc, where are you? Doc?”
With each step she took, cold air wrapped around her. Water trickled down the steps and outside thunder roared. Lightning flashed as she stepped out onto the deck. The sails fluttered and flapped in the howling wind. Lines banged against the mast as crewmen tried to tie them down. The ship shifted, and Hannah slipped. Screaming, she fell onto her knees, pain jolting through her.
Rain pelted her face. Another flash of lightning lit up the churning black ocean. “Doc, where are you?”
She clamored to her feet, but the ship rocked and she lurched forward, skidding on the wet deck. Her body slammed into the portside railing. She grabbed the railing and hung on.
“Lassie,” Doc boomed from behind her. He grabbed her arm and whirled her around. Water splashed up onto the deck, spraying them both. “What are you doing up here?”
“My father…,” she cried. “He’s delirious.”
Doc’s eyebrows knotted and concern spread across his face. “’Tis not good lass.”
Lightning crashed again. Hannah cringed. She didn’t know if ’twas from the storm or Doc’s grave face. She bit back a sob. Her father lay dying. She clenched her hands into fists. Trembled all over. He was the only person she had left.
Her knees weakened and she thought she might vomit. No. She must not give into despair. Her father would not die.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s get out of this storm.”
He jogged back to the stairs and disappeared inside. She ran after him, a wave slapped her. Her feet slipped and she fell onto her knees.
“Doc,” she cried, but thunder and pelting rain masked her voice.
The ship lurched and Hannah rolled across the deck, smashing into the mast. Pain jolted her hip. The ship rocked and she slid on her bottom towards the portside railing. A bucket rolled past her, bounced onto the railing, and fell into the ocean.
Her stomach tightened. She screamed, but thunder masked her cries.
Her feet slammed into the railing, jolting her. She rolled onto all fours and crawled towards the doorway, the ship tilting high on a wave. She slid into the bulwark. Her heart pounding, her fingernails dug into the wet wood and she pulled herself onto her feet. Rain stabbed Hannah’s face, blurring her vision. Her soaking clothes clung to her. She tossed her head and stared at the doorway leading to the dry deck below, but her hands refused to let go of the mast. She wanted to be with her father, to make sure he wasn’t sinking into delirium or going into convulsions.
“Flatten the sails and hoist the jib,” the captain commanded.
She turned. The captain’s strong voice slowed her pounding heart. He stood on the deck. A wave splashed onto him, staggering, he shook his head, but he flipped his head back and put his hands on his hips, his feet shoulder length apart. His fierce face reminded her of John—another man willing to face the elements.
Men scrambled up rope ladders and grabbed bow lines to comply with his orders. A large foresail reached half past the mast, overlapping the mainsail. As the wind blew, the rising triangular foresail rippled.
Taking over the helm, Kane steered the Phoenix, through the swirling sea and hammering rain. He braced himself against the deck, his hands gripping the wheel. Could he steer them through this?
The captain’s fierce face fueled her determination. She released the mast. Using her arm as a shield to cover her face, she fought to get to the doorway against the sleeting rain. She was about to enter the doorway when a wave smashed onto her. Screaming, choking on seawater, she somersaulted down the stairs, rolling around like a runaway barrel, hitting every hard blasted step. Her head slammed onto the bottom of the stairs. Her vision blurred. She put her hand on her splitting head, wetness covered her hand.
She tried to stand, but her arms slipped. Her right eye refused to open.
“Bloody hell,” harsh voice growled. The captain? Was he here?
<
br /> A firm hand clutched her shoulder and rolled her to the side. “Mother of Mercy, lassie.”
Dark green eyes glowered at her. She moved her head, pain shot through her head, blinding her and she groaned, closing her eyes.
“Hannah,” a male voice cried. “My daughter, my daughter. You hurt her, you bastard.”
The captain growled, “What? You’re bl…”
The captain jerked and swore. She opened her left eye and tried to focus. Was the captain rubbing his chin?
“Doc, take this fool to the brig.”
“But Capt'n…”
“Now,” the captain demanded.
Pain blinded her. “No, my father,” she whispered. “He’s delirious. He needs help.”
“Doc’s with him,” the captain murmured. Strong arms wrapped around her, lifting her off the wet floor. She curled against his wet chest. His thumping heart matched hers. His masculine scent mixed with salt air. His body warmed her through his wet shirt and she wished she could lean against his naked skin and bathe in his heat. He carried her down the hall and kicked in a door. Where was he taking her?
Chapter Six
Lightning crashed outside. Hannah trembled and her fingers clutched someone’s wet shirt, but ’twasn’t hers. Rain pelted against a window or was it against the walls. The beating of a heart matched the rain. Was the heartbeat hers or someone else’s? Her brain refused to unravel the situation.
“Easy lass.” She liked the roll of the male voice rich with an Irish timbre and snuggled deeper into a wet chest.
He laid her gently down on a soft mattress. “You foolish lass,” he whispered, his spicy breath washing over her, as he brushed her hair out of her face.
The captain? Kane, yes that’s right. He had picked her up. His face came in clearer. His wet hair dripped down onto his soaked shirt. His damp eyelashes outlined his emerald eyes, the same eyes studying her with concern. Why was he concerned? She wanted to say something, but couldn’t form the words and a moan escaped her.
“Blimey,” he uttered.
“Have I done something wrong?”
His handsome face turned grim. She blinked, struggled to rouse herself, and shook her head, but the dull ache refused to allow her to focus on anything but Kane’s stormy eyes.
His soft fingers, brushing hair away from her eyes, sent shivers down her. “What were you doing out there? One angry wave could have carried you out to sea where only Poseidon himself could find you.”
Kane's words were more like an endearment than a scolding. Pain gripped her and her jumbled thoughts and blurry vision played havoc with her senses.
’Twas a sin, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his tempting lines. His mouth was angular, firm. What would it feel like to kiss him? She had never been kissed. How strange if a pirate was the first man to kiss her. Why was she thinking about kissing?
Inappropriate. Completely inappropriate.
“You’re wet,” he murmured. He wrapped his arm, around her, pulling her to a sitting position, steadying her on the bed. She put her hand on her forehead, her other hand resting against his chest. His white shirt was so creamy against his tanned skin that she leaned forward, stuck out her tongue, and licked him.
He sucked in his breath. “What are you doing lass?” His accent heavy and strained.
“I wanted to see if you tasted like cream.”
“Jaaysus, do I?”
“No, you taste like wet pirate.”
He pushed her back. Nimble fingers undid her shirt. “What are you doing?”
“You’re shivering,” he murmured. “We have to get you in dry clothing.” He gently slipped her arms out of the sleeves.
Damp air gripped her and her teeth chattered. Cold sweat broke out around her. How could she be cold when sweat ran down her body as if she were out on deck in the hot sun?
She opened her eyes or at least one did. Her right eye throbbed and remained shut. Why couldn’t she open it? She grabbed his hand. “No.” He shook off her limp hand.
“Hmmm, you’re wet, too.”
The mattress was surprisingly soft against her back and he was so handsome. Her naughty arms longed to reach up around his neck and pull him down on top of her where she could indulge in exploring his sinful lips. A shocked giggle escaped her mouth.
He scowled. “Are you laughing at me?”
She shook her head, suppressing a grin. “Not at all.”
His tanned, leaned fingers went to the buttons at her untied the laces of his tunic she wore.
She froze. “What are you doing?”
“Don't worry, lassie, you're treasures are safe from me.”
Her mind refused to answer. Kane jerked off her boots and undid her breeches. Was he going to rape her?
She tried to scream but her words caught in her throat. Mother of God, she was naked.
She swayed on the bed and tried to summon her anger or her power, but all she could feel was the splitting pain in her head. Closing her eyes, she whispered, “I can’t think. Pain keeps clouding my thoughts.”
Kane ran gentle exploring fingers through her hair and she sighed.
His soft touch dulled the pain and she leaned into his hand. “That feels so good.”
His finger ran over the back of her skull and a sharp pain stabbed her head. She winced. “Ow.”
“You’ve got a nasty bump on the back of your head, lass.” He parted her hair, sending chills through her. “’Tis not bleeding. A good sign, but your thunderin’ head won’t thank you in the morning.”
“I like your fingers playing with my hair.”
His fingers slid across her head and glided through her damp strands. “You do?”
“Your hands are gentle. Soft.”
“Soft?”
She clasped his hand, caressing it with her thumb. The roughness spoke of his days in the sun, but he wasn’t always rough. She brought his hand to her cheek, nestling against him. “Maybe not soft, but you’re gentle with them. I like the feel of your hands on my skin.”
“Lassie,” he said. “You’re testing my limits.”
She opened her eyes. She couldn’t fathom why his face had turned stern. “What have I done?”
He slowly removed his hand and held her gaze. “Now sit still, lass.”
Kane wrapped a soft blanket around her and sat beside her, rubbing her skin, chasing away the wetness. He dried her soaked hair, his fingers pulling the strands and squeezing out the excess water. “Why are you doing this?”
His callous hands were as gentle as her mother’s when she used to dry her after a bath.
His wet hair and shirt clung to his shoulder, molding to every hard muscle. She wanted to reach out and touch him.
Kane tossed the wet blanket onto the floor and drew back the covers on the bed. Her head sank into a goose down feathered pillow. The slight movement sent pain through her and she grimaced.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said as he draped the blanket across her shivering body.
She put her hand on her forehead and tried to focus, but her mouth failed to utter the words of gratitude. Her tongue was thick and large in her mouth and her lips were swollen.
Hard steps marched across the floor. A door opened and closed. Why had he left her? She tried to sleep, but her pain kept her awake.
The door creaked and she peered out her good left eye. Kane had returned and held a bowl in his hand. He hurried to her side and brushed her hair away. His shirt was missing. What happened to it?
She gazed at his carved muscles. This was a man used to hard labor, his thick arms and chiseled chest, glistened. He dipped the rag into the bowl, twisted it, releasing a stream of water. The scent of rum filtrated through the room. He stared. “This is going to sting, lass.”
His strong fingers gripped her chin. He dabbed the rag on her lips and she jerked. “Ow.”
“I know it hurts,” he whispered, but his grip remained secure. “But you’ve a cut on your lip.”
Spots of h
er crimson blood stained the white rag. He doused the rag into the water and squeezed again, a red stream drizzling into the bowl. “Why is there so much blood?”
He dabbed her forehead again. “You came out during a squall.”
Wait, that’s right. She fell. Or was she pushed? No, the storm. That’s right.
He cleaned her cheek and around her eye, his spicy breath caressing her skin. She licked her lips as he gently brushed her cheek with the rag, and jolting when he touched the sensitive spot.
“Be still,” he urged. Did she imagine the huskiness in his voice or his thumb caressing her cheek?
The blankets weighed heavy upon her. Sweat pooled between her breasts and down to her belly. Her hand ran through her hair. Fuzziness clouded her vision and she shivered. How could she be so hot? She kicked at the blanket. “I’m hot.”
His eyes narrowed. He loosened his fingers on her chin. “Hot?”
Cold air rushed over Hannah’s naked skin. She turned her head side to side on the pillow. She put the back of her hand on the back of her forehead. “Now, I…I…I’m so cold,” she muttered.
He put his palm on her forehead. “Bloody hell,” he said. He sat on a chair and pulled off his black boots. They fell onto the hardwood floor. He unfastened his belt with his sheathed sword and pistol and hung over it a chair.
“I’m so cold, never been so cold,” she whispered.
“You’re freezing,” he said. “The quilt isn’t enough to warm you lass.”
She shivered, her teeth chattering. “Wh…wh…what are you doing?”
“You need body heat before you freeze to death.”
“Body heat?”
“Aye,” he said.
Her eyes widened as he slid off his breeches, revealing his tree-sized thighs and hard calves and his manhood.
“No, don’t hurt me.” He had been so gentle and now he would rape her.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me, lass,” he said. “My only goal is to keep you warm. Body heat warms you faster than anything else.”
She had never seen a man nude, not even her father. Propriety reigned in the Knight household. Staring at his beautiful body, she frowned. Sinful. Delectable. Tempting.