by Kris Tualla
“She went first, right after you left.” Frank rubbed his eyes and his chin trembled. “Then he started to cry, so quietly it was eerie. After a while, he just stopped breathing.”
When Frank said those words, Dagny began to move toward Martin, unable to stay away from the man she had kept breathing through all of the previous night.
“Don’t worry, Frank,” Dagny soothed. “You’ve done very well.”
His forehead reddened above his scarf and the corners of his eyes lifted. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Sara carried the soiled cloths to the nursing station and dropped them in a bucket to be washed in lye. Before Dagny could remind her, Sara wet her hands and began to scrub them clean.
“How in God’s good name did you do all of this by yourself for the last several days?” she blurted. “Why didn’t you ask for help?”
Dagny shrugged, embarrassed by the implied praise in the question. “I have Frank.”
“No wonder you looked like you had died and been dug up,” Astrid commented from her feeding post. “You had to be exhausted, poor thing.”
“Well, you have us as well now,” Sara stated. Her matter-of-fact tone made no allowances for argument.
Even so, Dagny tried. “I have experience. From living in an abbey. I couldn’t ask either of you to do this sort of work.”
Astrid wiped her patient’s mouth and stood. “You didn’t ask us. So there is nothing more for you to say.”
Dagny reached her husband’s cot. She gave him a look of exasperation. “Will you tell them?”
He shook his head. “Not me. These two run a very tight ship and I have no intention of crossing them. Right, Frank?”
Frank pulled off his scarf, obviously ready to bolt. “I’ll bring your supper, ladies,” he declared before disappearing through the doorway.
“Coward,” Dagny muttered.
Martin chuckled.
Dagny pinned him with an evaluative stare. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“How long have you been sitting up?”
“Since before the dinner bell.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Broth.” He winked at her. “With bread.”
“No more expulsions, then?”
Martin blushed, the color of his discomfort an encouraging sign in Dagny’s estimation. “I must say that discussing the quality and frequency of my shit with my new wife is not a topic I anticipated when we married.”
“Get used to it,” Astrid interjected as she walked past them. “There is a lot more intimacy to marriage than anyone anticipates.”
Dagny bit back her smile. She felt her face heating. She had not yet been fully undressed with her husband. It would seem there was even more to come than the women discussed.
“When am I allowed to come back to our cabin?” Martin asked. The hunger in his eyes shot straight to her womb and made it vibrate pleasantly.
“Tomorrow night,” she promised. “As long as there are no setbacks in your recovery.”
Martin nodded his understanding, adding, “Thank you for making me drink that awful stuff.”
“I don’t know if it made any difference.” She took his hand in hers and flipped it over. She traced the lines in his palm with her index finger. “But I did know it couldn’t hurt you.”
“Be careful, Dagny,” he whispered.
Her finger stopped, hanging over his hand as her eyes met his. “What’s wrong, Martin?”
He blew a breath. “As weak as I am, your touch might drive me to more than I should attempt.”
“Don’t tease me, Martin,” she objected. But she dropped his hand.
His eyelids drooped. “I’m not teasing, Dagny. I am so attracted to you I don’t have adequate words to explain it.”
Dagny gave him a slow smile of seduction, one she learned from Tor—that other man whom she chose at this moment to practice forgetting. “I do look forward to your full recuperation, husband.”
Martin let out a small moan. He laid down on his cot.
“Martin?” Dagny asked, her concern rising. “Are you unwell again?”
“No,” he assured her with a crooked grin. “I’m working on my ‘full recuperation’!”
Satisfaction filled Dagny’s frame to overflowing. “See that you do.”
June 30, 1749
By the end of the next day, Martin felt well enough to return to the cabin. He asked for hot water and the tin tub. Not only did he badly need a shave, but he wanted to wash all remaining remnants of the dysentery from his body. Until he did so, he felt like imaginary fleas were crawling all over his skin.
Martin had never been so close to death in his life and he hoped to never be so close again. At least not until he was ninety years old. Or older. Dagny’s revelation that she kept shaking him to make him inhale explained his odd and unusually ethereal dreams. If she had not been so diligent, he would now be singing with the angels he saw so clearly in his slumber.
Martin soaped his chin and methodically scraped his jaw clean. For some reason he felt as if tonight was his wedding night all over again, though there was no way he had the stamina to swive his wife. He would wait until he was strong again before he attempted lovemaking.
Dagny deserved his best efforts.
He sensed a change in her. Perhaps that was due to their forced separation. Or perhaps her earlier responsiveness to his touches no longer frightened her. Martin would like to think that she was forming an attachment to him, but he daren’t hang anything on that hope just yet.
For now it was enough for him to know he had fallen in love with his wife. He would wait for her to fall in love with him—and until she did, he would do everything in his power to make that happen.
His shave completed, Martin poured all of the hot water into the tub. He dropped his clothes on the floor, wondering briefly if he should burn them like plague victims did, and eased into the bath. The hot water made his skin pucker with pleasure. The heat relaxed his muscles. He laid his head back against the tall back of the tub and closed his eyes, content to simply sit for a while and soak in the soothing warmth.
When the cabin door opened, he looked up into Dagny’s widened eyes.
“I’m sorry, Martin! I didn’t realize…” Her gaze jerked around the cabin. “I’ll leave you to your, um…”
“You don’t need to leave, Dagny,” he said. “I’m your husband. There is every chance you will witness many of my baths in the coming years.”
Dagny stepped forward, eyes downcast, and closed the door behind her. “I only wanted to rest a bit before supper.”
“As you should,” Martin approved. “Go ahead and lie down.”
“I don’t want to disturb you,” she murmured as she stepped past the tub.
He saw her furtive glance at the water. Her curiosity obvious, and yet Martin knew he had to be careful not to show her too much. Right now, tucked into the container with his knees nearly at his chest, he knew they were both safe.
“Could I ask you a favor?” he asked with sudden inspiration.
“Of—of course,” she answered from behind him.
He held the soap over his shoulder. “Will you wash my back?”
Dagny didn’t reply but her fingers claimed the slippery object from his. Wordlessly, she began to run the bar over his shoulders. Then down the center of his back. Then down his sides.
She handed the soap back to him before running her palms over his skin, massaging and kneading him in the process. Her touch was firm, smooth, enticing. He closed his eyes and heaved a contented sigh.
“Will that do?” she whispered.
Do? He was hard as stone. To know that part of his physique was unharmed by the ravages of the flux was a relief.
“Yes. Thank you,” he murmured.
Dagny used water in the pitcher to rinse her hands, reminding Martin a bit too late of their ill-treated condition.
“I’m sorry, Dagny, I should not have asked that of you,” he s
aid as she picked up a towel.
Her expression turned tragic. “Why not? Did I do something wrong?”
“No!” he hastened to assure her. “I forgot how raw your hands are from all the scrubbing this last week. It was insensitive of me to request that you abuse them further merely for my convenience.”
“Is that all?” Relief pinkened her cheeks. “I’m fine. I have done worse.”
“Will you use the salve on them?”
Dagny hesitated. “Do you think it will help?”
Martin laughed. “Better you use it on your hands than force me to drink it again!”
She grinned. “That’s true.” She opened her chest and retrieved the pot.
“Before you rub that on your hands,” he asked, “will you hand me a towel?
***
Dagny’s stomach did a flip, banging into her heart. It was enough of a shock to her naïve sensibilities when she opened the cabin door and saw her husband in the tin tub, his lightly furred chest and nicely muscled arms on display.
Now Martin was about to get out of his bath. Naked. And stand in their tiny cabin to dry himself. Naked. And then he would put clothes on his naked body. Which was completely male. And completely naked.
She grabbed the largest of the folded linen cloths and handed it to Martin without turning around. After prying the cork out of the pot of garlic salve, she scooped some into her palm.
Water cascading into the tub signaled Martin’s rise. She heard the soft rasp of fabric on skin as she rubbed the oil mixture over her hands. Despite its slight sting, her skin felt instantly soothed. Unlike her composure.
Part of her screamed turn around slowly and look. The weakness of her character, a constant thorn in her side, forbade her from doing so. She concentrated on massaging the salve into all the reddened areas of her hands and wrists and tried not to think about what the rest of her naked husband might look like.
“Dagny?”
The soft sound of her name was like a clanging gong. Do it now. Go on. Don’t be such a coward.
“Yes?” She turned around to face the man who called her so tenderly.
Martin stood in the tub, holding the linen towel low around his hips. Dagny saw his belly, sculpted with sloped ridges but flat between the bones of his pelvis. A line of hair flowed down from his chest like an arrow and disappeared under the towel.
“Would you put a towel on the floor for me to stand on?” he asked when her eyes finally moved up to his. The slight curve of his lips proved that he noticed where else her gaze had traveled. “I don’t want to leave a puddle.”
Dagny grabbed a towel from the stack and laid it out on the floor. She selected another one and used it to wipe the excess salve from her hands. Her shaking hands.
“I’ll go tell the cabin boys you have finished with your bath,” she said over her shoulder. “Go ahead and get dressed.”
She tried not to rush out of the cabin too obviously but knew she failed in that endeavor. She leaned against the wall in the hallway and closed her eyes. The image of her husband reappeared as she hoped it would. She perused it at her leisure.
The sound of approaching footsteps startled her back into the hallway. As she turned toward the front of the ship, she prayed that Martin’s strength would return in full and with all miraculous speed.
Chapter Thirty Two
Martin laid down on the bunk and closed his eyes, preserving his tentative vigor while Dagny washed for supper. Her curious glance at his bathwater, combined with the way her gaze roamed over his nearly nude frame, proved to him that her fears were subsiding.
The way her lips parted portended an appreciation for the male torso in general—and his in particular. Though he wasn’t in top form after these past weeks of inactivity, and the bout with the bloody flux hadn’t improved things, Martin was nonetheless very encouraged.
He looked forward to sleeping with Dagny by his side again. Perhaps he would go to bed without his shirt tonight.
“Martin?”
He blinked his eyes open and realized he had fallen asleep. He stretched as far as he could in all directions then turned toward Dagny. “Yes?”
“Do you have the strength to eat in the dining hall?” Concern wrinkled her pretty brow. “Or should I bring your food here?”
Martin sat up slowly and swung his feet to the floor. “I want to eat in the hall.”
She stepped between his knees. Tucking one knuckle under his chin, she tipped his head upward and peered into his eyes. “Are you certain that’s not too much effort too soon?”
“I want to eat in the hall,” he repeated. “And after that, I want to go to bed. For many, many hours.”
Dagny gave him a crooked grin. “I will hold you to that, Mister Hansen.”
Martin stood and saluted her. “You are welcome to join me, Mistress Hansen, when your labors are through. But don’t expect much conversation.”
Dagny’s smile straightened. “Leave me a little room on the mattress, will you?”
Martin offered his elbow. She looped her arm through his. Together, they walked down the hallway and into the dining area.
Conversation among the diners dissipated like steam on a breezy day. Chair legs squeaked on the floorboards as people turned to look at them. Martin laid his hand over Dagny’s arm, holding it securely in his. He lifted his chin, straightened his back, and began to walk across the room to the Thomassen’s table, daring anyone to challenge him.
Stig Thomassen stood, and his gaze focused on Dagny. He lifted both of his hands in front of his chest. Then, with fierce determination, he clapped them together. The sound was as alarming as a gunshot.
He clapped again. Again. And again. Astrid rose to her feet and joined him. Her smaller hands made a smaller sound, but it startled even so.
Dagny looked up at Martin, confusion flushing her face. “What are they doing?”
Another couple stood and made the duet of applause into a quartet. Another woman stood. Then two men. Singly or in pairs, passengers at the tables rose to their feet until everyone in the room was standing and clapping their appreciation for Dagny.
The thundering sound drew curious onlookers who had dined earlier. They filled the doorways, craning the necks to discern what was happening. Whispering to each other as they realized what was going on, they added their ovations to the raucous orchestra of gratitude.
Captain Gilsen barreled into the room. He stopped, looked at the beaming faces at every point, and turned to Dagny.
He smiled. And then he bowed.
“I think you have been forgiven,” Martin said in her ear.
She shook her head. “I don’t deserve this.”
Martin winked at her. He raised one hand and held it up until the roar of palms quieted. He pushed Dagny in front of him. She glared at him over her shoulder before addressing the crowd.
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. Her hands grabbed and twisted in front of her. “I don’t understand why you are doing this.”
“It’s our way of apologizing,” Stig offered. Martin noticed he very charitably said our instead of their. “Your character was unfairly judged, and you were ostracized.”
Dagny’s back stiffened. Her chin lifted. Stig gave her a little bow of apology.
“Through this crisis you proved us all to be very, very wrong.” He lifted his wine glass and his gaze swept the room. “Mistress Hansen has spent the last week nursing herself to exhaustion. Her singular efforts saved several lives, and prevented the dysentery from spreading any farther than it did. I give you our heroine, Dagny Hansen.”
Arms lifted around the room. Glasses clinked together. Wine was gulped.
Dagny lifted the sides of her skirt and produced the most perfect court curtsy Martin had ever witnessed. She remained in the low position for a few seconds, and then straightened. Her cheeks were flushed and wet with tears.
“Thank you…” Her voice caught. She looked back at Martin, helpless to say more.
“As a recipient of my wife’s ministrations, I must agree with your praise. She undoubtedly saved my life.” He slid his hand around her waist. “And now, I shall continue my recuperation with a hearty meal, followed by a good night’s sleep.”
***
Martin shooed Dagny from the cabin, insisting he could tuck himself into bed.
“Go finish your work and then join me. Just don’t wake me when you do,” he admonished with a smile.
He pushed the door shut and fell backwards onto the mattress. Their simple meal had turned into an impromptu banquet in Dagny’s honor, and Martin drove himself to the edge of collapse by staying at their table so long.
Now he lay on the bed, pulling off his layered clothing one uncooperative article at a time.
Deciding that his situation was too far gone to rectify, he tossed his clothes onto the little table and crawled under the tufted blanket without donning his nightshirt. To do so would require more energy than he had in reserve.
The lavender scent of Dagny’s pillow made him smile. He pulled it close to his face.
His wife was certainly the unforeseen queen of the evening.
Martin knew from the beginning of their marriage that the truth would never come out about the convoluted relationships between Dagny, Torvald, and himself. Even so, he was content to live out the lies about Dagny and Torvald being siblings, and about his own supposed affair with Dagny. Her subsequent shunning was predictable, and its voyage-long duration bearable.
Tonight, however, Dagny’s selfless service to the passengers on the ship—including those who had snubbed her—changed their collective opinion to one of extreme gratitude. Thanks to Stig Thomassen, that gratitude was expressed.
Dagny’s confused and humble response only endeared her further. Had she owned a different sort of character, she might have snubbed them all in retaliation. Instead, she accepted their accolades with a respectful curtsy commonly reserved for royalty.
Martin slowly shifted his weight until his back was close to the wall, onto the side of the mattress which Dagny occupied on their first nights as husband and wife. The action made sense. Forcing her to climb over him when she came to bed did not.