by Ruth Langan
“And by doing so, he may have sacrificed his own life.” Without warning the dam burst and the tears started. Once she allowed herself to give in to the weakness, she sobbed as though her heart would break.
Gryf knew what it cost her to give vent to her emotions. And though his own heart was heavy, he held her and whispered words meant to soothe. He prayed they would soon make land. For despite all his fine words meant to comfort, he knew the lad’s wounds were grievous. Whit’s chances of surviving were growing dimmer with each passing hour.
“Here, mates. Lend a hand.” Despite the wound to his leg which had him pausing between each step to catch his breath, Newton worked as quickly as possible, determined to spare Darcy the gruesome task of disposing of the dead. Using a tattered remnant of sail from the Sinner’s mast, the seamen lifted each of the bodies from the deck of the Undaunted. While Newton whispered a prayer he’d learned at his mother’s knee, the dead pirates were consigned to the sea.
He saw the sailors’ questioning looks and gave a negligent shrug. “Whether saints or sinners, we all deserve to have a prayer spoken as we leave this world.”
As the last body dropped into the waves and slipped out of sight, the exhausted sailors made their way to their quarters.
Alone on deck, Newton stared up at the thin winter sunlight, wishing it would erase this chill from his bones. He’d never felt so cold or so weary. It wasn’t the weather. It wasn’t even the battle, though it had been fierce. It was watching the lad, trembling with fear, standing up to his worst nightmare. Not only standing up, but fighting back with all the fury of a seasoned warrior. Aye, that was what stayed with the old man. The image of a little boy standing alone, willing to fight to the death, for the sake of his captain.
With a sigh the old sailor turned away, and nearly stumbled over the small yellow ball of fur that lay unmoving at his feet.
“Here, now. What’s this?” He bent down to lift the pup. Better to dispose of it now, before Darcy had a chance to see it all broken and battered. “’Twould break her heart,” he muttered.
As he straightened, he could feel the blood that had congealed, matting the dog’s coat. His fingers probed beneath the fur, searching for the source of the cut. He could find none. As he probed further, he felt a slight trembling motion. It was little more than a ripple of hide.
A heartbeat? Not likely, he thought as he knelt and carefully lay the pup on deck before beginning to probe further.
He searched the pup’s body from nose to tail, but could find no cut. And then it occurred to him that the blood was Whit’s. The lad had fallen beside his pet.
With his face so close to the dog’s, Newton felt the tiniest bit of warmth. Breath? Could the dog be breathing still, after all he’d endured?
His eyes widened as he moved his hands over the small body again. Aye. There. A faint heartbeat. And an occasional shallow breath.
It wouldn’t do to get Darcy’s hopes up. The pup had taken a terrible blow. Still…where there was breath, there was hope.
He decided quickly. He’d watch the pup while they made their way home. If Fearless didn’t survive, he’d dispose of him without the knowledge of the others, to save further pain.
He cradled the dog against his chest, and made his way to the galley, since it was the warmest spot aboard ship. He’d wrap the pup in a blanket and place it near the brazier for heat. And leave the tiny creature’s future up to the fates.
The sunlight lasted less than an hour before the clouds blew in, and with them, the icy rain. Though no one said as much, the sailors were relieved to let nature cleanse the deck of all reminders of the bloody battle.
Despite their wounds, the crew’s spirits were high, knowing that they were growing closer to land with every hour. The thought of a snug fire and shelter from this bitter storm had them sighing with eagerness. The knowledge that they would stay put for more than a day had them dreaming about a wench to warm their beds and perhaps even cook them a meal in the bargain.
The only dark cloud on their happiness was the courageous lad who lay in the captain’s cabin, fighting for his life. Hour after hour, the sailors stopped by the cabin on their way to the galley to warm themselves. They would stand in silence and watch as Darcy and Gryf took turns kneeling beside the bunk, bathing the lad’s fevered body. Then they would leave, as somber and serious as if they’d attended Whit’s funeral.
In the galley they spoke in hushed tones about his extraordinary courage in the face of such evil. By the time they reached the channel leading to port, the tale had taken on the importance of a legend.
Newton sent a crewman to Darcy’s cabin.
After a respectful knock, the sailor opened the door. “Newt says he’ll need you to bring the Undaunted through the shallows, captain.”
“Aye.” Pressing a hand to the small of her back, Darcy straightened and turned from the bunk. She’d been beside Whit for hours, praying the lad could hang on until they reached shore.
At the door she turned. “You’ll stay with him, Gryf?”
“Aye. I’ll not leave him.”
She followed the sailor above deck and took the wheel, while several sailors climbed the rigging to watch for hazards. This channel, one of the most dangerous in all of Cornwall, was littered with rocks and the hulks of several ancient ships that had been dashed upon them.
“Hazard to port, Captain.” The warning was shouted from the top of the mast.
Darcy turned the wheel slightly, and the big ship eased past the rocks lurking just below the surface. She had to pull her thoughts back from the lad lying so deathly still in her cabin. With a whispered prayer, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand.
“Hazard to starboard, Captain.” A second sailor, high in the rigging, cupped his hands around his mouth to give the cry.
Again she made the adjustment, and the ship moved steadily toward land.
“Shallows dead ahead, Cap’n.”
“Lower the sails,” Newton shouted, and the crew began working feverishly, lowering sails until the Undaunted slowed to a crawl.
“Prepare to drop anchor.”
Half a dozen sturdy seamen snapped to attention.
“Prepare to lower the skiff.”
The deck of the Undaunted was suddenly swarming with sailors eager to go ashore.
As the skiff was lowered Newton crossed the deck and lay a hand on Darcy’s. It was as cold as ice.
She gave him a thin smile, though her face felt stiff and frozen. “I’ll go below and bring up the strongbox. The crew will want their pay.”
“Leave it, lass. I’ll see to it. Ye and Gryf have but one job now. Ye must take the lad ashore at once.”
“But the ship. The crew…”
“Don’t ye worry. They’ll all be fine. Now go.”
Darcy turned to see Gryf coming up the steps, with a blanket-clad Whit in his arms. The sailors watched in respectful silence. Several of them touched a hand to the lad’s head, or called out words of encouragement as he was carried past.
“Thank you, Newt.” Darcy pressed a kiss to his leathery cheek. “I’m sorry to leave you with all this….”
“Go, lass. I’ll join ye at MaryCastle soon enough.”
She nodded and followed Gryf down the rope ladder to the waiting skiff.
As the sailors rowed across the choppy waters toward the beach, her heart began to beat overtime. She stared hungrily at the lights in every window of the fortress that stood on the finger of land jutting into the Atlantic.
Home. She had to swallow several times to dislodge the lump in her throat. She had an almost overpowering urge to weep. Instead she held herself together, though by the merest of threads. And feared, as the skiff bumped the shore, that at any moment she might embarrass herself by falling apart.
“Here, now. What’s this?” At the sound of the front door being opened, Mistress Coffey looked up from the dinner table, where she was pouring tea.
When she caught sight of Darcy s
tepping through the doorway, she spilled the tea and had to grasp the teapot with both hands to keep from dropping it altogether. “Oh, my sweet heaven.”
The others who were gathered around the table followed her direction and turned toward the doorway, then let out a series of shouts.
“Darcy. Is it you, lass?” Geoffrey Lambert nearly knocked over his chair as he leapt to his feet.
“Aye, Grandpapa.”
“We weren’t expecting you.” Bethany hurried over to hug her little sister. “Why didn’t you send us a missive, so we could have been watching and waiting?”
“There was no time.”
“Of course there wasn’t.” Ambrosia drew her close and kissed her cheek. “As sailors, we all know that there are few opportunities to send missives home when you’re in the middle of the ocean. We—”
She stopped and stared beyond Darcy to the man who remained in the shadows, holding something in his arms.
Her eyes widened. “Gray! Oh, my. Isn’t this wonderful?” She turned to the others. “Look, Grandpapa. Bethany. It’s Gray. Oh, Darcy. No wonder you’ve come home to us. You’ve found him. Where? How?”
“Nay.” As the others gathered around him, Darcy had to shout to be heard over their excited voices. “This isn’t Gray. His name is Gryf. He signed aboard the Undaunted in Wales. And the lad in his arms is named Whit. He’s been badly wounded.”
“Wounded?” Winifred Mellon pushed her way past the others and touched a hand to the lad’s forehead. “Oh, sweet heaven. He’s burning up.”
“Aye.” Darcy turned to the housekeeper. “We must get him into a bed, Mistress Coffey.”
“Indeed we must.” The housekeeper beckoned.
“Come, Libby.” She shouted to their maid. “Libby. We’ll need to make ready Bethany’s old room.”
As she led the way upstairs, Gryf followed, with the others trailing behind.
“How was the lad wounded?” Riordan Spencer, Ambrosia’s husband, asked.
“A sword through his chest.”
That drew gasps from everyone.
“I hope you caught the bastard who did this.” Bethany’s husband, Kane Preston, the Earl of Alsmeeth, swore under his breath.
Behind him trailed Noah, the lad he and Bethany had adopted as their son.
Kane suddenly turned and caught the lad’s hand, as though realizing just how precious he was.
“Aye, Kane. It was a pirate captain named Wylie York.”
“I know of him.” Riordan Spencer exchanged a look with Geoffrey Lambert. “One of the most hated pirates on the high seas. He and his band of cutthroats have been terrorizing English ships for years.”
“He’ll terrorize them no more. He lies at the bottom of the ocean, along with his crew.”
“That’s my girl.” Geoffrey patted Darcy’s arm as they stepped into the bedroom. “The king will be glad to hear the news.”
“As will every English sea captain,” Riordan muttered.
“Put the lad here.” Mistress Coffey, all business now, turned down the blankets and waited until Gryf had deposited his burden in the bed. Then she lifted a candle to study the lad. At the sight of his chest she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her gasp.
The tiny body was covered in linen. Little rivers of blood oozed through the dressings. The boy’s flesh was drained of all color. He looked as pale, as frail, as a corpse.
“How could anyone do such a thing to a child? What kind of monster was this pirate captain?”
“The worst kind, Mistress Coffey.” Darcy smoothed the hair from Whit’s forehead and lowered her voice. “Wylie York was Whit’s father, though the lad never knew it until their last encounter.”
Ambrosia shuddered and leaned her head on Riordan’s shoulder.
Bethany and her husband clasped hands and drew Noah closer, as if to shield him from such horrors.
Geoffrey Lambert cleared his throat and had to swallow several times.
It was tenderhearted Winifred Mellon who pulled herself together and took charge. “You must all leave now, while I see to the lad.”
“Nay.” Both Darcy and Gryf issued a protest in the same breath.
“Just for a little while.” The old woman kept her tone soothing. “I know you’ll want to stay with him. But I’d like to examine the lad’s wounds. You can put the time to good use. Perhaps you could bathe and change. You’ll need to eat something to keep up your strength.” She turned to the others. “Ambrosia and Bethany, you may want to save your questions for the morrow. And Geoffrey, these two young people look as though they could use some ale before they do anything else.”
“Aye. Good thinking, Winnie.” The old man led the way down the stairs.
In the parlor he poured a tankard of ale and handed it to Gryf. As he did, he tried not to stare. But it was impossible to look away at the one so like Gray.
“I believe I’d like one of those as well, Grand-papa.”
“Forgive me, Darcy.” The old man tore his gaze from their houseguest and smiled at his granddaughter, before filling a tumbler with ale and handing it to her.
“What is the lad to you, Gryf?” he asked.
“A friend, sir.”
“I see. Then, to ease your mind, I’ll tell you that Winnie has a healing touch. If anyone can bring your young friend through this, it’s our sweet Winnie. Isn’t that so, girls?”
Ambrosia and Bethany nodded, too overcome to speak.
Mistress Coffey bustled into the room. “Cook has kept our dinner hot. It’s ready in the dining room.”
Darcy shook her head. “I couldn’t eat a thing. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go up to my room.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Where would you like Gryf to sleep?”
“I have Libby preparing James’s old room right now.” She turned to their guest. “Would you eat something before you retire?”
He shook his head and set down the tankard. “Thank you. That’s very kind. But if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go up to my room as well. Perhaps I’ll rest for an hour or so. And then I’d like to sit with the lad.”
“Of course. Of course.” The housekeeper was all business as she hurried from the room, to inform Cook that her efforts had been in vain. From the looks of the others, no one had an interest in eating now.
Gryf shook hands with the men, and nodded at the women, before following Darcy from the room.
Ambrosia and Bethany, like their grandfather, tried not to stare. But the resemblance between this man called Gryf, and the young lad they’d all known, was simply too remarkable to ignore.
They waited until Darcy and Gryf were out of earshot. Then they began whispering and speculating among themselves.
Chapter Fifteen
“This is my room.” Darcy led the way up the stairs and pointed to a closed door before moving on to the room beside it. “And this was my brother’s room.” She smiled at the little housemaid who was just walking out the door. “Libby, this is our guest, Gryf.”
“Welcome, sir.” Like the others, the maid couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the man’s face. “Let me know if you have need of anything.”
“Thank you, Libby.” If Gryf noticed the maid’s probing looks, he gave no indication. Perhaps he was simply too weary. Or perhaps his mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of the lad.
While Darcy remained in the doorway, he stepped into the room and glanced around at the comfortable bed, and then at the night table, upon which rested a basin and inviting pitcher of steaming water.
It was obviously a seaman’s room. The desk was still littered with charts and maps. A sea chest stood on one side of the room. Hanging on the wall were assorted remnants of ancient sailing vessels.
Seeing the direction of his gaze, Darcy smiled. “James could never resist bringing home anything that washed up on shore. These were his treasures. They came from all over the world. They held a special fascination for him. Even when he was very young, he would roam the shore, picking up flotsa
m and jetsam from ships that had wrecked. He used to say that one day he would sail around the world, and bring us back treasures from every country he visited.”
“Did he get to follow his dream?”
She shook her head. “He died far too young.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized what she’d said. Thinking of the lad who lay fighting for his life, she felt a sudden shaft of fear. Death, at least in this house, wasn’t some distant worry. The cold hard reality of it had been felt by everyone who dwelled within these walls.
Gryf saw her sudden pallor and closed the distance between them. He took her hand in his, then looked down in surprise. “You’re freezing.”
“Just—” she shook her head “—afraid.”
“Don’t, Darcy.” He drew her close. “Don’t dwell on those things you can’t control. Just hold a good thought.”
“Aye.” She took a step back, breaking contact, and nodded toward the far wall. “My brother’s clothes are still there in the wardrobe. I’m sure some of them will fit you.”
“You won’t mind?”
She shook her head. “It would please me. Please all of us, if you can make use of them.”
She turned away and made her way to her own room, where Libby had already set up a tub.
With a sigh Darcy stripped off her clothes and sank into warm, fragrant water. At any other time, after a voyage such as the one she’d just made, she might have been tempted to linger for an hour or more. To soak away the grime of the voyage, and allow the warmth to seep back into her bones. But her mind wasn’t on her own comfort now. All she could think of was Whit. He had to come out of this. To survive. To live. He couldn’t let his cruel, heartless father win.
She washed quickly and scrubbed her hair before stepping out of the water and wrapping herself in a thick towel. Dressing in a simple gown of pale-pink wool, she ran a brush through her tangles, leaving her hair damp and curling around her face. With her feet encased in soft kid boots, and a shawl around her shoulders, she hurried from the room and made her way to Whit’s side.
Gryf was already there, seated in a chair pulled beside the bed. For a moment she felt a jolt at the sight of him dressed in her brother’s clothes. He was broader across the shoulders than James, and the shirt strained across the muscles of his chest. His dark hair and beard still bore traces of glittering water droplets from his quick bath. His hand was clasping the lad’s, and his voice was low and soothing as he crooned words of hope to one he hoped could hear.