And that meant ...
Hands gripped her and turned her away from the sight as Rowan's face filled her vision. "Are you alright, Lady Minx? Are you wounded?"
But she couldn't answer. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
"What's wrong wi' the lass?" Nick said from somewhere far away.
"I don't know. But we have to get back to the ship and set sail."
"Ye think tha' bloodthirsty cullion'll come after us?"
"I know he will. Bloodmoon won't give up until we are all dead."
Rowan shrugged out of his coat and flung it over her shoulders, but she barely felt it. She barely felt anything as he placed an arm around her waist and rushed her back through the puddle-strewn streets, down the dock, and onto his boat.
She was thankful when the numbness reached her mind, for if what it was telling her was true, she doubted she'd feel much of anything ever again.
Chapter 14
Sweeping Morgan into his arms, Rowan jumped onto the railing of the Reckoning and dropped to the deck. He heard his men thump in behind him as he began spouting orders for the night watchmen to wake the crew who had remained on board and ready the ship to set sail. Confound it all! He'd have to wait until Abbot and Terrin rounded up the rest of his men from the taverns and punch houses before he could leave. He'd give them an hour. 'Twas all he could risk before Bloodmoon attempted another attack.
Sleepy-eyed men popped up from hatches, and seeing the urgency in their captain's face, began untying lines and leaping into the shrouds to unfurl sails. "Scratch!" he called the skinny man to his side. "You've been promoted to first mate. Prepare the ship. Post guards on every quarter, and alert me when the crew have arrived. I must tend to the lady."
Scratch's eyes twinkled above a gap-toothed grin as he nodded and darted off.
Though the rain had stopped, the woman moaned and shivered in his arms, staring up at him as if he were a ghost. "Lady Minx, by all that is holy, what were you doing in town?" He started for the companionway.
She made no reply.
Kerr. Rage broiled in Rowan's gut at the memory of his first mate--and friend--raising arms against him. Betraying him! But he couldn't think of that now, or he'd storm back into town, find the bedeviled muck-rake, and slit his throat. And that would only delay their exit and ensure a battle.
Navigating the narrow ladder, he headed down the companionway, kicked open the door to his cabin, and lowered Morgan into a chair, all the while wondering what magic stilled her shrewish tongue. Yet 'twas her silence that worried him most of all. Surely she should be berating him for putting her in such danger, or even demanding to see this illusive father of hers. Alack, mayhap he had finally found something that exceeded the limits of this lady's bravery. Grabbing a coverlet from his bed, he swung it over her shoulders and knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. They were cold ... so cold. Yet the woman made no complaint, didn't moan, didn't even look at him. Instead, she stared off into nothing.
When he'd first spotted her in the grip of one of Bloodmoon's henchmen, his heart had nearly exploded in his chest. The ensuing battle prevented him from going to her rescue, but 'twas his fear for her safety that had empowered his rum-dazed body to defeat such an overwhelming force. That same terror began to rise again, surprising him with its intensity ... along with the affections that fed it.
Nick entered, dragging off his saturated tricorn and slapping it against his knee. "How is she?"
"Lady Minx, Lady Minx." Rowan snapped his fingers in front of her face, but still no response. Easing back the blanket, he examined her for wounds but found none. "I have no idea," he answered Nick. "'Tis like she's asleep with her eyes open."
"Real," she mumbled so softly, he barely heard it. "It's all real."
"Weel, the lass looks awake t' me, no?" Nick set down his hat and shrugged out of his wet coat, spraying drops over the deck. "'Tis ye I'm worried aboot." He gestured toward Rowan's bloody shoulder. "Farley's on his way."
Rowan barely felt the wound for the fury raging through him. After adjusting the coverlet tight around Lady Minx, he rose, lifted the satchel from his shoulder, and tossed it to the deck. "At least Bloodmoon didn't get the map."
"Och, is that what the scamp was after?"
"It had to be. He has no other argument with me. At least none that he knows ..." Rowan gazed out the stern windows where lanterns reflected a golden sheen off the wet sand. "But if he knows about the map, then he also knows ...."
"That ye slept wit' his wife?" Nick arched an incriminating brow.
Rowan ran a hand through his wet hair and grabbed a bottle of rum, bringing it to his lips.
Morgan groaned, her eyes finally meeting his. Terror fired across them--real terror. "You're real," she said before blinking and dropping her gaze again.
"I do not gainsay it, Lady Minx." He felt none of the usual annoyance at her ludicrous words. Something was terribly amiss.
"Perhaps give her some rum?" Nick offered.
Rowan poured a cup, knelt, and attempted to bring it to her lips, but she only coughed and turned her face away.
Pain throbbed in his shoulder, and he pressed a hand to his blood-saturated shirt.
Dropping into a chair, Nick wiped mud from his face and then stared in disgust at a spray of blood on his normally-pristine shirt. "'Tis Bloodmoon's map. Maybe if ye returned it, he willna continue his bloody vendetta?"
"'Tis my map. His wife Marianne gave it to me as a gift."
"For services rendered?"
Rowan frowned at Nick's lofty tone. "'Twas but a business exchange in which both parties were more than satisfied." But, in truth, Rowan felt rather vile at the moment as memories of Jorg, his guts spilling onto the street, assailed him.
"Poor Jorg." As usual, Nick's thoughts followed his own.
"'Tis Kerr's fault he is dead," Rowan shot back, tossing the rum he'd poured Lady Minx to the back of his throat, hoping it would numb his guilt.
Nick growled and leaned forward on his knees. "Kerr. I canna believe it. Traitorous dog! He almost got us all killed!"
Distant thunder rumbled.
Rowan lifted his baldric over his head and set the pistols on his desk, ignoring the pain searing down his arm. His gaze took in Lady Minx again, but she still stared blankly at the deck, looking like a wilted flower with her wet hair matted to her head and mud splattered on her skirts. The vision only increased his guilt. "Kerr must have overheard about the map. And also that the woman could decipher it."
"So, the rat traded us in like sacks of rice."
"The man's loyalty shifts with his greed." Rowan leaned back on the top of his desk and released a sigh. "'Tis my fault. Kerr didn't hide his lack of character. And now Jorg is dead, and I've made an enemy of one of the vilest curs on the seas."
"Shoulda thought o' tha' before ye sampled his wife, no?"
Rowan scowled and was about to offer a retort when Farley hurried in, satchel in hand, his face tight with concern. His gaze quickly sped to Rowan's shoulder, and he waddled toward him.
Edith ran in behind him and darted to Morgan. Kneeling, she grabbed her hands and peered into her face. "What have you done t' the poor child?"
"Nothing." Rowan said, putting up a hand to halt Farley, lest the man ram right into him. "Kerr brought her into town. She saw too much bloodshed for any lady, even her." Another prick to his guilt.
"Real ... this is all real." Lady Minx said to no one in particular, her tone hollow.
"Sit down, Cap'n. I need t' tend yer wound." Farley all but shoved him onto his cot. Rowan pulled off his shirt--the effort sending a hot dagger through his shoulder--and tossed the bloody cloth aside.
"It be a deep one, Cap'n. Hold still." Farley opened his satchel and sifted through the contents. Pulling out a needle and twine, he then grabbed Rowan's bottle of rum and poured it on his wound.
A fire ignited on his shoulder, but he kept his face staunch and focused on Lady Minx,
Farley inspected t
he wound. "This reminds me o' the time I pulled that spear out o' ole Willard. The man was so large, the fisherman thought he was a whale swimmin' in the bay an' shot him clean through!" He chuckled as he threaded the needle.
Edith helped Morgan to her feet and started for the door. "I gots to git her out of these wet clothes, or she'll catch her death."
"What ails her?" Rowan's eyes clouded from pain as Farley began his stitching.
"I dunno." Edith shook her head.
"I have an idea." Nick rubbed the back of his neck and glanced from the lady to Rowan. "The lass just figured out where and--more importantly--when she is."
An hour later, with his wound stitched and a half bottle of good rum wasted on its cleaning, Rowan stood on the quarterdeck, feet spread on the heaving deck, surveying their progress sailing from Charles Town harbor. He'd been forced to leave ten of his fifty men behind, but there was naught to be done for it. Any further delay would put them all in danger, for he had no idea what Bloodmoon was planning. But he was sure the devilish toad would attack hard and fast.
Sails drummed and shifted above, seeking the full force of the Trade Winds as the Reckoning burst from the protected port into the open sea. Rowan's hair slapped his face, and he snapped it aside and gazed at the half moon disappearing and reappearing behind the teetering foretopsail.
Shouts from the main deck brought his gaze to Scratch, his long mustache tossed by the wind as he marched across the deck, shouting orders. Rowan knew the man would make a good replacement for Kerr. The men respected him, and his many years at sea forbade him from making foolish mistakes.
Unlike Rowan.
He'd certainly mucked things up good.
"Where should we point her, Cap'n?" Nick asked from beside him.
"Petit-Goâve."
"But isna that French territory? "
"Aye, and Bloodmoon's wife is French."
"Och, have ye gone mad? Why would ye visit her?"
"Because, my dear friend, if I know Bloodmoon, his rage will need immediate release. And since we have slipped from his grasp, he'll seek out the next best thing."
"Then why go where the madman will most likely be?"
"Because he'll kill Marianne. And I'd not forgive myself if I didn't warn her."
Nick gripped the railing and stared at Rowan. "If he catches ye there, he'll kill ye too, no?"
Rowan huffed and raised a brow. "Then you best pray to that God of yours that I don't get caught."
♥♥♥
The room spun around Morgan as she allowed Edith to pry off the layers of her wet clothing. Chill after chill wracked her damp body, even as her palms grew sweaty. Edith assured Morgan she was safe, and soon she'd be warm and dry and then Edith would go fetch some tea. But her voice sounded muffled and distant, as if Morgan were living in a dream world. But this wasn't a dream. The constant pain in her chest, her shallow breath, and the tingling in her fingers and toes told her she was having a panic attack--something all too familiar. Along with the feeling of doom that chased the thoughts around and around in her mind. Thoughts she didn't wish to land, for she feared if she acknowledged them, she'd drift off into blackness, never to return.
"It's real." She heard herself mumble.
"What's real, child?" Edith unlaced her stays and yanked off the stiff fabric.
Wood creaked, and the floor tilted as water gushed against the hull--sounds and movement which convinced her of the truth. "I'm on a pirate ship."
"Aye, and that's better than being in town, if you ask me, wit' all thems miscreant fools who jist as soon shoot you than pass you by."
Morgan's heart cinched tighter, if that were possible. She gasped for air.
"Now, now, child. You sit down righ' here." Edith led her to a chair and swept a blanket around her.
"I can't breathe. I need my meds!" Yet even as she said the words, she knew there were no meds. There would never be any meds. The realization caused her heart to fold in on itself until she thought it would dissolve. "My chest hurts. I'm having a heart attack." She leaned over and stared at the wooden floor, but even that blurred in her vision.
"Now, now child." Edith sat in a chair beside her and took her hands. "Nobody's attacking your heart. You's perfectly safe here. Try to breathe. Steady, now. In ... out." She drew in deep breaths and blew them out slowly, and Morgan tried to do the same. But it wasn't working. She gripped her throat, wheezing. "Help me," she managed to squeak out.
Grabbing her skirts, Edith darted out the door, and for a moment, Morgan thought she'd left her to die all alone. But the woman returned and set a kitten in her lap.
Blackbeard! Just the sight of the cat helped settle her breathing. He looked up at her with his green eyes, then nuzzled his head against her arm and began to purr. "Thank you," she said as she stroked his fur and drew in air.
"Now, lemme git you some tea t' calm your nerves, an' then you can tell me what has you so riled." Edith smiled and stopped at the door. "You alright alone for a bit, child?"
Morgan nodded, even though the room was still spinning, and her heart felt like someone had dropped a bowling ball on it. Still, she tried to breathe deeply and concentrate on Blackbeard until the lady returned with two mugs of tea.
She handed one to Morgan, but it shook in her hands and spilled over the edge onto her damp chemise. Clutching it tighter with both hands, she took a sip and allowed the warm liquid to slide down her throat.
Edith sat and clasped her hands over her stomach. "Now, what's got you in sich a state, child."
Morgan stared at her, unsure what to say, unsure how to voice what she desperately didn't want to believe. "I thought all this was"--she glanced over the tiny cabin, still not believing that the wooden beams and lanterns and port hole were actually part of a real ship. A pirate ship!--"Never mind. What year is it?"
"Year?" Edith's face wrinkled. "Why it be the year of our Lord, sixteen hundred and ninety-four. What year do you think it be?"
Morgan did the simple math in her head. Three-hundred and twenty-one years. She'd skipped back in time over three hundred years.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Setting down her tea, she dropped her head into her hands and resisted the urge to cry. Blackbeard began licking her chin. "I traveled through time. It doesn't make any sense. It's utterly ridiculous, actually." She pressed her palms to her temples. "I must be going crazy--lock me up, throw away the key kind of crazy."
"No one's going crazy. And no one's gonna lock you up again. Not if I have my way of it." Edith sipped her tea and set down the mug. "Now, tell me, child, why do you think you in the wrong time?"
"Because I was ... I was ... in San Diego attending a tall ship festival with my friends right before I ended up on this boat." She hesitated and bit her lip. "The year was 2015." She waited for Edith to barrel over laughing or finally admit that Morgan was nuts or even dismiss the topic and move on, but the slight rut that formed between the woman's eyes indicated she pondered the information. Finally, she grunted and shook her head.
"I seen many things in my life, child. I believe God can do whate'er He wants. Even send someone through time."
"God? You think God did this?" Morgan drew Blackbeard close as if the kitten were her only link to sanity. "Why? What a cruel thing to do to someone like me."
"First off, God ain't cruel. An' what d'ya mean by someone like you?"
"In case you haven't noticed, I have anxiety and OCD." Morgan noted the confusion in Edith's brown eyes. "I guess you wouldn't know what that is. But it means I'm crazy and I have cancer, and I can't be in 1694 on a pirate ship!"
Edith smiled. "Yet seems you are, child. Why are you so afraid?"
"Are you kidding me? I'm on a pirate ship three hundred years in the past!" Morgan pressed a hand on her tight chest and shook her head. "But honestly, I've been afraid of everything my entire life."
Edith placed a hand on her arm. "There's nothing to be frightened of. If God sent you here, He'll surely take care of you
. Now, have some more tea. You'll feel better soon."
Strangely, Morgan did feel slightly better when she finished her tea, and even more calm after she drained Edith's cup too. At least her head no longer spun, and her heart had settled to a rapid staccato beat instead of a war drum. Edith busied herself preparing the small wooden bed attached to the wall with fresh blankets and a stuffed sack for a pillow.
Morgan's eyelids kept dropping. "You drug...ed...me," she said, finding no other explanation for the slumber that now lured her like a siren's song.
"I would never drag you nowheres, child. I jist gave you something to calm you down."
In a hazy blur, Morgan felt Edith help her to stand and then lower her to the bed where she drew blankets up to her chin. Blackbeard snuggled beside her.
Darkness swallowed her whole. Sweet, sweet darkness where there were no pirates or boats with tall sails or sword fights or ... cancer. But the peaceful nirvana was not to last. Images flickered through her mind like an old silent film--cannons blasting, water gushing into the hold, sewage rising up her pant legs, pistols firing, swords chiming, blades thrusting, giant snakes crushing her bones, and Jorg's intestines pouring onto the muddy street.
In the middle of the night, she thought she heard someone reading Bible verses--the Psalms, if she recognized them from her many years at church. Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.
Someone prayed for her. Morgan's mother? Could Morgan be waking from this nightmare? Ah, home sweet home, where all was ordered and safe. Smiling, she drifted off to sleep again.
Sometime later, the creak of wood, gurgle of water, and light drifting over her eyelids lured her back into the chaos. Squeezing her eyes tight, she longed for the sweet oblivion of slumber. But it was not to be. Shouts, a bell clanging, and the crack of sails yanked her unconscious mind from its hopes even as she heard the door open and Edith's cheerful humming.
More footsteps followed in after her.
The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates) Page 16