"Shhh. She's still asleep," Edith whispered.
"I just need bandages, love. The cap'n's not feeling well." It was Farley's scratchy voice.
Shuffling ensued and Morgan peeked through her lashes at Farley grabbing something from a trunk and heading toward the door. He halted, cupped his wife's chin, and planted a kiss on her lips. "I missed ye last night."
"An' I you, you handsome dog." Edith swatted him on the behind. "Now, get on wit' you."
He winked and gave her a look of such love, it shocked Morgan.
No, she definitely wasn't home.
The rest of the morning went by without incident. Morgan tried to eat the porridge Edith brought, but it seemed the bowling ball that had struck her heart last night had now dropped to her stomach. She accepted the woman's apology for putting laudanum in her tea, and actually thanked her and asked her for more.
"It's not good for you. I seen many a hearty man become nothing but sniveling loobies from taking too much."
She wanted to tell the woman that she already felt like a sniveling looby, whatever that was, but thought better of it. Although Morgan realized she'd have to eventually consider the reality of her situation, she knew that in her present state, all she was capable of was to live minute by minute. For the time being, she felt safe in this tiny cabin in the bowels of this boat with this kind woman caring for her. So, she allowed Edith to dress her in more ridiculous layers of clothing, while listening to her prattle on about God's will and why Morgan shouldn't be afraid and how there's a reason for everything. In a small way, she reminded Morgan of her mother with her religious platitudes.
Only a small way, however, because Edith wasn't just repeating common Christianese, she actually seemed to believe what she was saying.
Yet none of it really mattered if God wanted Morgan dead. Which apparently He did. He was simply being creative going about it.
"But you forget, Edith, I still have cancer. Back home I would have received treatment. Now, I'm sure to die."
"Ah, go on, now, child. We's all gonna die. It's up to God to choose the time." She stopped and studied Morgan. "If anything, knowing that you ain't long for this world should take away your worries. If you's gonna die anyway, what have you got t' fear?"
Her words struck Morgan like a blast of cool air. Yet, she hadn't time to consider them when a knock on the door revealed Nick Doran's worried face. "The Captain's feverish. His wound's infected. He's asking t' see ye."
"Me?" Morgan took a step back. "I can't go to him. He's a pirate." The great Rowan Dutton, known for his brutality down through the ages. She swallowed. And she had done nothing but insult him and call him names!
Nick chuckled. "Aye, verra astute of ye t' notice. But at the moment, he's a pirate in need of ye, lass."
Morgan could not imagine why. Nor could she deny the fear spinning in her gut hearing that he was sick. She wanted to go to him, she did. But at the same time, the tingling returned to her feet and hands, and the room began to spin.
Edith nodded her approval. "Rowan won't hurt you, child. You know that."
Nick held out his hand and Morgan found hers suddenly inside of his as he led her out of her safe haven.
Chapter 15
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the stern windows as Morgan entered Rowan's cabin. The shifting light did nothing to chase away the gloom hovering over the room. Nor the smell of sickness. Her fear for her own predicament temporarily swept away, Morgan dashed to Rowan's bed and knelt, hesitant at first to take his hand, but then finally engulfing it in both of hers. Heat radiated from his skin, sending alarm through her as Nick dragged a chair over for her and one for himself.
Rising, she eased into it and stared at the robust pirate who now looked so weak and pale lying amongst his crumpled blankets. His eyes were closed, his breathing heavy and ragged, and sweat gleamed on his brow and across his wide chest. Blood stained a bandage wrapped around his left shoulder.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked.
"Came over him suddenly. Infection from the wound, most likely."
"But what has been done to help him? Do you have penicillin or any antibiotics?"
Nick frowned and rubbed his chin. "Don't know wha' tha' is, lass, but Farley applied a poultice of mashed onions an' honey nigh an hour ago."
So, that was the putrid stench she smelled. "Onions and honey?" she mumbled to herself. "What's next, leeches?"
"Aye, I agree. Wish we had some." His serious tone made Morgan's insides crumble, even as her heart raced. She'd been transported to the Stone Ages without benefit of electricity, indoor plumbing, deodorant, regular bathing, TV, computers, but worse of all ... modern medicine. If she remembered her history correctly, many people died from simple wounds.
Like the one Rowan had.
She squeezed his hand, hoping to wake him, wanting to see his smile, terrified he'd slip away before she had a chance to ... what? What did she want to say to this man who was no actor but a real pirate? A real pirate! The thought sent her blood spiraling. And from history's account, a violent, greedy pirate who was cruel to his crew and slept with other men's wives.
Yet ... a man who had treated her better than any real pirate would.
She rubbed her temples where a headache formed. "Why is he not waking up? I thought you said he asked for me."
"He did, but 'tis best t' let him rest while he can. It'll do him good t' see yer face when he wakes."
She heard fear in Nick's tone, saw the unease in his eyes when he glanced at his friend. "You care for him."
"Like a son." He smiled. "Though I'll not own up t' being old enough t' ha' sired him."
Morgan couldn't help but return his smile. All the things this man had told her about his past--the British navy, his indentured servitude, the woman waiting for him back home in Scotland--were all true. Even his belief that God had assigned him to watch over Rowan. "A son for a pirate, eh?"
"Och, aye, but as ye can see, he's so much more than tha'." The boat leapt over a swell, and Nick adjusted his chair and studied her. "So, ye've sailed through time, eh?"
She laughed despite the tightness in her chest. "You say it as if it's a common occurrence."
Leaning back in his chair, he adjusted the tartan around his neck. "I've seen stranger things on these seas."
"Stranger than a woman transported here from 2015?"
His eyes widened and he whistled. "2015! I didna think the world would last tha' long. Things must've changed a great deal."
Morgan snorted. "You have no idea." She gazed down at Rowan as sails thundered above. "You believe me, then?"
"Of course."
She shook her head. "People in my day would think I'm crazy if I told them I'd traveled through time."
"Mayhap people in yer day ha' lost their faith, no?"
Morgan studied his eyes, so full of wisdom, and allowed his words to sink in. She supposed that was true. The Age of Enlightenment they'd called it--the start of a massive move away from faith in God to faith in ideas, individuals, and eventually science and technology. Anything outside the realm of proof was discarded as fantasy and falsehood.
Shouts filtered down from above, and Nick rose and straightened his vest. "I must be off t' my duties, lass. Will ye stay wit' him? Farley's tending a topman who fell from the yards."
She nodded her yes before she allowed herself to think on it. Did she really want to be alone with the notorious pirate Rowan Dutton? Yet, he didn't look so dangerous at the moment. Nor had he done her any harm before now. Even when she'd been cruel to him. Besides, she wanted to stay.
"Mayhap ye should pray for him?" Nick said on his way to the door.
"Prayer has never done me much good."
"Could be because ye don't believe it will."
"You sound like my mother, but none of her prayers got answered either," Morgan returned, staring at the man. "You know what I think? I think God will do what He pleases, when He pleases, regardless of our petty petitions."
N
ick smiled. "He told us t' pray for a reason, no?" He shrugged. "Couldna hurt to try." And with that, he left and closed the door.
Morgan busied herself straightening Rowan's room. Yet again. The man--pirate--was the biggest slob she'd ever met. Maybe it came with the profession. Besides, putting things in order kept her nerves from exploding and sending her over the cliff of another anxiety attack.
Which wouldn't be a good thing in the middle of a pirate boat--a real one.
Order. There had to be order. When things were organized, when events were predictable, life made sense, and things worked out according to plan. Just like the code of a computer program. If A happens, then do B, else do C. Predictable. Logical. Safe.
Except when cancer suddenly appeared in one's liver.
Or a person was transported over three hundred years into the past.
Then there was no If-Then-Else clause to proceed to a desired result.
In fact, there was no desired result at all. Only chaos. The room swirled around her, and she dropped into a chair to settle herself.
I'm on a real pirate ship in the middle of the Caribbean! She took in the room, the weapons strewn about, the charts scattered across his desk, the ancient books, the nautical instruments ... the rum! And she realized the movies had been pretty accurate. She dropped her head in her hands and stared at the wooden planks that made up the floor. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. God, why are you doing this to me?
Her hands grew numb. The floor spun, and she took in several deep breaths to keep from passing out. How was she supposed to survive this with her acute anxiety and OCD? Not to mention her cancer and no way to get treatment.
The truth was, she wouldn't survive. So she might as well make the best of it.
Get a grip, Morgan. Get a grip. She stood. The deck tilted. The ship creaked, and a bottle slid slightly out of place on the desk. Morgan set it back. But what did it matter? Her life was falling down a deep, dark pit of insanity, and keeping one room in order on a ship full of slovenly pirates certainly wasn't going to help.
And so the afternoon drifted by, evidenced by the changing angle of light penetrating the windows and finally the appearance of a sinking sun. Bright and brilliant, it kissed the sea in a rainbow of colors so beautiful, Morgan couldn't help but stare.
Rowan moaned and she sped to his side, tripping over her stupid skirts. Grabbing the cloth from his forehead, she dipped it in a basin of water, squeezed it, and dabbed his cheeks and neck before replacing it. She took his hand again, a torrent of fears racing through her mind. Most of which she couldn't deal with yet, some--as they related to this feverish man--she didn't want to.
The sun disappeared beneath the horizon, stealing what little light remained in the room. Rising, she searched for the flint and steel she'd seen Rowan use to light lanterns. Sounds alerted her to Farley and Edith entering, bringing food for Morgan, and broth and fresh bandages for Rowan. After lighting a lantern, the old butcher examined Rowan's shoulder, applied more of that appalling poultice, and bandaged it up again.
When Morgan asked how things looked, Farley's expression didn't hold much hope. "We'll see." He tried to smile. "Ye should get yer rest, Miss Morgan." He swiped hair over the top of his head.
"I want to stay with him," Morgan said. "He shouldn't be alone when he wakes."
"That's a good girl." Farley patted her shoulder and started to leave.
"I'll sit wit' ye, child," Edith offered, though dark circles swam beneath her eyes. She'd probably been the one reading the Bible and praying all last night with Morgan.
"No, go with your husband and get a good night's sleep. I'll be fine."
Nodding, Edith kissed Morgan on the cheek, wrapped her arm around Farley, and the couple left. Morgan touched her cheek and smiled. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had kissed her.
Two hours later, Nick came to check on his captain but upon finding him still unconscious, left for his own bed.
Morgan was alone again. Alone with one lantern that would soon sputter out, a tray of uneaten food, and a man whom she wanted more than anything to live. Why?
Her mother would say the pirate deserved to die and go to hell.
Maybe that was true. Maybe that was true of everyone. Still, there was good in this man. Lots of it for a pirate. She was having a hard time reconciling the man she'd come to know the last eight days with history's account. Yeah, the drinking and gambling matched, but Rowan wasn't cruel or heartless or wicked. If he was, he certainly wouldn't have put up with her crazy ramblings. He would have raped her, then passed her around the crew, and been done with her. But instead, he had barely touched her, had protected her ... had saved her.
He moaned and thrashed on the pillow. Retrieving the cloth, she wrung it out and patted his chest and neck. Heat came off of him in waves, and she swallowed down a burst of dread that threatened to join her already frayed nerves. His old bloody shirt lay off to the side, the blood dried and caked, but she grabbed it and held the clean part to her nose. It smelled like him. Spicy and salty and male.
Maybe she should pray, after all. It was better than doing nothing.
She bowed her head and offered what God surely thought was a pathetic, whiny prayer, but it was all she could muster. Leaning back in the chair, she clutched Rowan's shirt to her chest and drifted off to sleep with one thought in mind. If he died, what would happen to her?
Chapter 16
Darkness as thick and heavy as ink surrounded Rowan. He couldn't see, couldn't feel, could hardly breathe. 'Twas like he'd been tossed into the hold of a giant ship lying at the bottom of the sea. Muted sounds taunted his ears. He groped forward, hoping to find a way out. But it was hot, so very hot. In the distance a flame sparked to life, and he started for it, but the closer he came, the hotter it grew until he felt his entire body would go up in smoke.
Then someone called to him ... a woman ... a sweet voice that breathed a prayer as light as a feather. That feather appeared before him, drifting up ... up ... up until it pierced the darkness, and a shaft of light spilled down upon him. With a mighty roar, the flames angrily licked the black void, while the light formed a door to Rowan's left.
He opened it and walked through.
The creak of wood, rush of water, and sound of snoring met his ears. Snoring? Rowan attempted to pry his eyes open, but pain rumbled through his head and stabbed his shoulder. The snoring continued, gentle, almost like the purring of a cat, and he attempted, yet again, to lift his heavy lids.
Lady Minx came into view, fuzzy at first, but then clear and ... dazzling. She sat beside his bed, chin lowered to her chest, his shirt clutched in her arms, fast asleep. Despite his dizziness, despite the pain throbbing in his shoulder, Rowan couldn't help but smile.
Rays of light from the stern windows oscillated over her, their angle telling him it was early morn, their pointed direction telling him they'd found an object worthy of illumination. An angel in disguise sent here from another time and place by God--or the powers that be--to befriend Rowan, to show him what he'd been missing in all his empty sordid affairs. This little minx who challenged him, matched him wit for wit, annoyed him, frustrated him, brought him more trouble than any other. Yet, when he'd seen her in Charles Town about to be tossed into the midst of a fierce battle, terror like he'd never known had turned his blood to ice.
And he knew this little lady had touched a spot in his heart, a spot unbeknownst to him until now.
He could not fathom what she was doing here by his side. Alack, when last he saw her, she was babbling nonsense--not the usual nonsense, but the demented raving that bespoke of a mind long gone. He had feared the worst and felt the loss like a gaping rent in his soul.
Releasing a sigh, he rubbed his eyes and moved his shoulder. It pained him, but naught like the agony he had felt yesterday, or was it the day before? He couldn't remember much after the fever overtook him, save for the dismay in Farley's eyes as he leaned over to tend him. The old surgeo
n had never been good at hiding fear from his weathered face.
A sail snapped overhead, and a ray of sunshine struck Lady Minx across her closed eyes.
Her lashes fluttered over her cheeks before slowly opening. Her gaze landed on him. "You're awake." She sat up straight, blinked, then glanced down at the shirt she was holding and tossed it aside.
"So it would seem, Lady Minx."
"How are ...." She gathered a cloth lying beside his head, dipped it in the basin, then leaned over him and dabbed it on his face and neck. "How are you feeling?"
Their arms touched, her chest hovered ever so close to his, and she smelled of lemon tea and woman. "Suddenly quite well." He grinned. But something in that grin must have frightened her, for she leapt to her feet and ran out the door, shouting, "I'll get Farley and Edith."
He instantly regretted his teasing but was happy to see her return with Farley and Nick. Return yes, but she remained at a distance as if he would devour her whole.
"Don't get up, Cap'n." Farley held up his hand, but Rowan had already swung his legs over the bed and sat.
"Don't coddle me, old man."
Nick smiled. "Aye, he's feeling himself again."
After Farley removed the bandage and examined the wound, the old surgeon lowered to a chair and scratched his bald head. "Well, I'll be a pickled herring. The infection be gone. I ne'er seen it flee so fast." Gathering fresh bandages, he began to wrap the wound again while Rowan noticed a knowing look pass between Nick and Morgan.
"Ye still need yer rest. An' a good meal," Farley prattled on. "I'll have Edith bring ye somethin'." He sat back to assess his work and smiled. "Warms me heart to see the color back in yer face, Cap'n. Reminds me o' the time--"
"Thank you, Farley. You do good work for a butcher." Rowan rolled his shoulder and pressed a hand on the wound.
"'Twas the lass's prayer, I'll wager, eh?" Nick glanced at Morgan, whose eyes widened. She'd backed against the bulkhead by the door as if she intended to bolt at any minute. "Ye did pray, didn't ye, lassie?"
She swallowed, then answered with a timid nod. What had happened to the brazen little minx?
The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates) Page 17