Angus McBride was the best to be had among any of his crews, with more training than most who sailed these waters. Justin held the lantern while Angus examined their patient, feeling a stab of guilt when a shudder wracked her body at the chirugien’s touch. He told himself she needed help, more help than he knew to give. He had no experience with illness, with disease that came from ill winds and unbalanced humours. The sight of her lying huddled in his bed, curled in wheezing misery with a fine sheen of sweat on her sallow face, her fingers frantic on the bedclothes as she struggled to breathe, made him curse his helplessness.
Angus lifted his head from her chest and straightened, his expression grim. “As ye feared. ‘Tis moving tae pneumonia,” he said gravely. “I can bleed her fer the fever, but I’ll be needin’ medicine I dinnae hae, Cap’n. I suggest ye look sharp fer a prize. Until then, I’ll gie her a tea an’ hope the lass is as scrappy when it comes tae fightin’ fer her life as she was standin’ up tae Rafe Quintanal.”
Word of their confrontation had spread quickly. Once Justin had assured Rafe of Christiana’s innocence in any conspiracy, Rafe had admitted a grudging respect for her feistiness, the way she’d stood her ground and looked him squarely in the eye, as if she had nothing to hide and dared him to prove otherwise.
Rafe was already back aboard the fastest sloop in his fleet, headed for Tortola on a mission to learn more. Despite what Rafe had insinuated, he didn’t know where Druscilla was before the raid, or even if she was involved. It was possible that the author of Druscilla’s letter may have been in her confidence still and alerted the authorities. Rafe had deliberately baited Christiana in hopes that she might provide answers to their remaining questions.
But she’d had nothing to reveal. She remained innocent, untainted despite the web of deceit, woven by unknown hands, that was trying to claim her as its second victim when it failed to snare him, threatening her life as surely as Ian O’Malley’s.
Mon Dieu.
The thought that he was responsible for her illness made Justin sick himself. Sick at heart, worry wrapped in guilt so intense it soured his stomach and made his throat ache. Each mindless whimper, each low moan from her lips reminded him that he’d brought her to this. If he had trusted her more, if he’d left her behind as she’d wanted instead of carrying her off, she’d have ridden out the storm in the snugness of a house rather than out on the water, at the mercy of the elements.
She’d gone without a struggle because she loved him. He knew it.
Justin raised his hands, intending to run his fingers through his hair, but found them trembling so badly, he rubbed his palms over his face instead. Clenching his fists, he stared at Christiana in silent alarm, his heart pounding. The thought of her death filled him with a distress that bordered on panic.
How could he stand to lose her, when he’d only just found her again?
On Angus’s advice, Justin hailed the next merchant vessel they met, then seized her when she failed to answer, boarding it for the sole purpose of replenishing their store of medicines. Some were put to immediate use, administered to Christiana at regular intervals either by Justin or the leech, while Caleb bit his nails and looked on helplessly, uncomfortable in the face of her suffering.
Justin kept a ceaseless vigil, watching Christiana’s decline, hearing her piteous cries when it seemed that she had plunged into the depths of hell. Tormented, she called for her mother, and for O’Malley, and for him. She cried for mercy, pleading with God not to make her burn in hell for her sins.
She loved him.
She had always loved him.
Hearing her confess it, possibly on her death bed, struck an answering chord within him, one that echoed with recriminations. He’d taken what she offered without any thought to the consequences. He’d demanded her presence in his bed yet had promised nothing in return, hadn’t bound her to him with professions of love, promises made, or spoken vows. He had led her astray, however willingly she followed.
Justin recalled the teachings of his youth, the seeds of faith planted and nurtured by his mother, rooted deeply enough that it miraculously survived as surely as Christiana’s love for him. He wondered if this was somehow punishment for his own sins, to finally find a woman who truly loved him, only to lose her. And when the fever reached its worst, when it would either break or take her, Justin did what he had not done in years.
He burned a candle through the night, and he fell to his knees and prayed.
CHAPTER NINE
“Where…am…I…?”
The rusty words, spoken with a faint Irish brogue, were sleep-slurred, barely audible, and the sweetest of music to Justin’s ears, considering that two days ago, he thought her voice would be silenced forever.
“Home.”
Christiana’s eyelids fluttered open. Her eyes were overbright but no longer glazed, just brilliant emerald green orbs fringed by opulent lashes that had drawn taunts when she had played the boy. Justin felt her cheek with the backs of his fingers, finding it blessedly cooler but too much like parchment to suit. ‘Twas as if the fever had consumed all the moisture in her body. Her skin was papery, and her lips were dry enough that he’d had Angus’s daughter mix an unguent to smear them with so they’d crack and bleed no longer.
Christiana recognized Vallé but not the white-plastered, sunlit room, or the four-post bed where she lay, hung with embroidered curtains and insect netting that had been pulled aside so that she might be more easily tended. She closed her eyes again, too tired to keep them open, too weak to ask anything more. Vallé rose quietly, padding across a hardwood floor in stockinged feet. Lifting the latch, he left the door open behind him.
That she was in a landlocked bed was as clear as the scented perfume of tropical flowers and the tang of the sea, carried on the breeze that fluttered the curtains at the opened window. A second story window, she decided, for she was above the noise of a honking goose and those haggling over its price. The sound of ascendant steps on the stairs confirmed the accuracy of her deductions.
Vallé.
And temptation.
The smell of broth made her stomach pinch, shriveled and empty. For how long have I not eaten? she thought, fighting panic. She’d been sick. More than sick. She’d regained sense enough to know she’d spent Bealtaine dancing ‘round the May pole with the Grim Reaper, but how many more days had she lost? How much closer was O’Malley to the hangman’s noose on Gallows’ Point?
In an effort to heave over and right herself, she gritted her teeth and put what strength remained into one arm and a leg, pushing against linen sheets that smelled of sunshine and lavender.
“Hold on. I’ll help.”
Vallé cursed beneath his breath when she didn’t but got to one shaky elbow and could go no further. Setting down the laden tray, he grabbed her bony shoulders, pulled her to a sitting position, and slid a sinewy arm around her aching back. Her head drooped heavily onto the muscle-padded notch where his neck and shoulder met whilst he stuffed pillows behind her, easing her against them and making certain she would remain upright before he released her.
The imprint of his fingers still burning, his male scent was replaced by the less tantalizing aroma of bouillon. Vallé gave a nod of acknowledgement at her thanks but said nothing else, simply stood, his frown as dark as the formfitting blue breeches he wore with an open-necked chemise d’homme. His feet spread, arms akimbo, he observed her dourly, scarred cheek ticking, his disapproving gaze taking in everything from her sickbed pallor to her unkempt hair—
What was left of it.
“Like old times,” he observed neutrally, watching her with an intensity that belied his calm demeanor.
Christiana raised a shaky hand to her shortened locks, her heart twisting at Vallé’s sudden look of guilty remorse. Once, O’Malley had chopped it to disguise her, and his actions had saved her life. She had no doubt that drastic measures, heroic medicines, and Vallé had saved her this time. “Aye,” she said, forcing a smile—or th
e semblance of one, as much as her parched lips allowed. “It worked. The fever broke.”
Vallé’s assessing gaze focused on the gauntness of her face, which felt thin as an urchin’s. His mouth tightened, and he turned away abruptly, busying himself with the tray he’d set on the bedside table.
“I’ve brought you something to eat.” He tossed it over his shoulder like a scrap, his tone damnably casual, as if he hadn’t been thoroughly repulsed by her ugly lack of flesh. “If you can keep invalid food down this round, Angus says that you may chew something your next. He swears the best way to put meat on bones is to eat it.”
“Angus?” She rasped the name, barely recognizing her voice, rough as it was. Her throat was so sore, it felt like she’d swallowed coral.
“Angus McBride. The ship’s surgeon aboard the Raptor.”
“Surgeon?” she croaked, fighting panic, trying to focus past the general malaise and body ache to detect if he’d resorted to bleeding her. “I told you no doctors!”
Vallé stiffened. “You were delirious,” he said tightly, continuing to prepare the tray with brisk efficiency. “It was either that or watch you die.”
Christiana closed her lids to shield her eyes, unwilling to let him see how much he’d hurt her, both with his casual disregard and his betrayal of her trust. “Did he use leeches?” she forced herself to ask. “Bleed me? Cup me?”
“He wanted to,” Vallé admitted, glancing over his shoulder. “I told him dry cupping only. I knew you would not allow anything else. It seemed to do the trick,” he added. “Although one ginger slice proved too thin for the herbs he burned on your back. I’m treating it with salve.”
Christiana forced one corner of her mouth into a semblance of a smile. “Again, I must thank you,” she said, choking down her pride again when Vallé set the tray he’d brought on the closest chair and prepared to feed her. He placed a linen napkin across her lap and sat on the bed by her legs, taking up the porringer and spoon as soon as he’d given her a sip of cool lemon-laced water.
Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, thought Christiana. She was as weak as one of Jamaica’s kittens. Although she hated to admit it, she knew she’d only make a mess of things should she attempt to drink unassisted, let alone try her hand at holding the silver spoon that ferried rich broth from the ornate porringer to her mouth.
Avoiding Vallé’s shuttered blue gaze, she ate carefully, purposefully, for nourishment would speed her recovery and help her to save O’Malley, at least. Having witnessed Vallé’s masculine distaste, she harbored no false hope that eating would pad and proportion her frame enough to make him forget how she looked at her worst. She must be an abomination in his eyes, emaciated, unfit for any man, let alone Vallé, who could have any woman he desired.
Christiana had been so long without food, she could not begin to finish what he’d brought. When he pressed her to take another bite, she lifted a pale white hand and shook her head, but movement sent the room into a tumbling spin. She leaned back, heavily, against the stack of pillows and found the burn on her back. When she tried to lean forward, the room listed again, and she gave up, closing her eyes and panting shallowly.
He quickly set the bowl aside. “Are you sick? Should I fetch a basin?”
“Non.” Christiana cracked open a lid to see Vallé’s brow creased with the same concern he’d give any invalid. “I’m fine. Full. Thank you.”
“Êtes-vous certain?”
When she nodded, the lines of tension around his mouth smoothed.
“Très bien.” Vallé saw that she would eat no more, and set aside the tray. With the chair cleared, he asked her permission to sit.
Christiana could not help recalling the times they’d conversed in French when she was young. It had seemed to ease his longing for home and made her miss her mother a little less.
“You are looking better,” he said in the language of their youths.
“Oui.” She could not argue. “Et je suis un peu fatiguée.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a reluctant smile, and he shook his gilded head. “More than a little tired, I should say. We’ve been ashore for a day and night, and this is the first you’ve been lucid since the fever took hold five days ago.”
Five days? Christiana felt panic rise in her chest.
“Time I have used well,” he hastened to assure her. “Plans are progressing but you must eat, and drink, and rest. Here.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, motioning to the corresponding corner of his mouth. When she dabbed a drop of broth from her own, she winced to find her lips so sore.
Vallé fetched a tin of what appeared to be goose grease and healing herbs. Dipping his finger, he carefully applied a swipe to her cracked lips.
“Je suis desolé,” he murmured.
“You’re sorry? I would hope so.”
Vallé stiffened at the words, thrown like a gauntlet through the opened door. The wide span of his shoulders blocked her view, but Christiana felt the tension in him as clearly as she heard the crackling animosity in the other man’s voice.
“After dragging her out in a storm so bad, you had to run under bare poles,” the intruder jibed. “Pity, that she is the one who suffered the consequences.”
“Enough, Bryce,” Vallé said flatly, setting aside the tin of unguent and wiping his finger on the discarded dinner napkin.
Christiana burrowed beneath the bedclothes, aware of the impropriety of receiving visitors dressed only in a chemise. A woman’s chemise, she dimly realized. But whose?
Bryce just laughed. “Tsk, tsk. Have you forgotten your manners, mon frère?”
Vallé twisted to face the door, allowing Christiana a limited glimpse of a man whom she’d have recognized as Vallé’s brother even without an introduction. The same silver-blond hair capped his head, but rather than tied back in a simple queue, his was carefully styled and powdered, two curls rolled tightly on each side, the rest falling in a black-ribboned queue down his back. Both men had similar tastes in the cut and quality of their clothes, but while Vallé wore his with casual elegance, Bryce was a peacock, preening in embroidered finery, each layer embellished enough to impress anyone who believed that clothes made the man.
Built more like a gentleman scholar than a seafaring man, Bryce was dressed in a finely tailored justacorps with a stiffly flaring skirt, worn fashionably open to reveal a vest heavily decorated with gold and silver threads. Snug breeches and black boots, shined to a high gloss, hugged the fine turn of his leg. He wore lace at his sleeves and neck, and above his jabot, she noted a face that held the same intriguing planes and angles as Vallé’s. But Bryce’s features were more refined than rugged—a study in classical beauty, as if she were viewing a living statue of some demigod of old. He’d been keeping company with Bacchus, from what she could tell, as he stepped into the room unbidden, unsteady boot heels clicking on the floor.
“Early in the day to be drinking, isn’t it, brother?” Vallé asked, making no move to rise.
Bryce came to stand at the foot of the bed. Ignoring the black look Vallé cast his direction, he snagged one of the carved posts and swung himself closer. With a reddened nose and the waft of bourbon strong about him, there was no mistaking that he’d been in his cups.
Peering into the gauze-draped opening to find her, Bryce slid his bloodshot gaze to his grim-lipped brother and back and smiled crookedly at her. “It seems that I must set an example once more, mademoiselle.” He lifted a finger and shook it in reproach. “Since my elder brother has failed in his duties, allow me to introduce myself. Bryce Vallé, at your service.”
He managed half a bow. Leaned precariously forward, he smiled, quite brilliantly, his expression so patently masculine that she pulled the sheet nearly to her chin, leaving only her shorn head and the top of her neck exposed. He must be drunk indeed if he deemed her worthy of his charm.
“Is there something you wanted?” Vallé asked tightly.
“I bargained your goose.” Bryce a
ddressed his brother but his gaze remained disconcertingly fixed on her. “The bâtard wants twice what it is worth. He’s downstairs waiting for his coin.”
Vallé’s jaw tightened. “I don’t suppose you thought of paying him yourself?”
“Can’t.” Bryce slanted a meaningful gaze at his brother, tinged with thinly veiled hostility. The rancor in his voice that made Christiana wonder what had happened between these two men, that they tore at each other like cocks in a pitted fight. “The cards didn’t lay right last night.”
Vallé blew out harshly, his breath escaping in an agitated gust. “Last night or any other night.” He sliced his gaze to the door but remained seated, even though he knew he must go downstairs and settle accounts.
“What’s the matter, brother?” Bryce smiled nastily until Vallé turned to face him, as if he knew just how much he could bait him without suffering the consequences. “Don’t trust me alone with your guest?”
When Vallé still did not rise, Bryce chuckled. “Have no fear. I can avow that she’ll be as safe as Felicia was—so long as she was with me.”
For a moment, Christiana could hardly believe her eyes. Vallé turned white as a ghost then crimson as an ibis, filled with quiet rage. Standing abruptly, he pushed the chair away with the backs of his legs and turned on his heel, his mouth twisted grimly, answering neither his brother’s barbed question nor her unvoiced ones. Watching Vallé go, Christiana wondered what—or who?—could sunder ties of flesh and blood, then drive brothers so far apart, they seemed more like enemies.
Without Vallé here, Bryce’s change was dramatic. Gone was the antagonism he’d shown his brother. From the foot of the bed, he eyed her with genuine concern, taking in her sickbed pallor and her hair, as short as if she were a bride of Christ. Embarrassed, she felt twin spots of color warm her cheeks.
Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1 Page 10