“Yes, I suppose he does,” Hope finally admitted.
“And resourceful, too.”
Hope shot a glance over her shoulder at the shelter Nathaniel had built for them that first day. It had taken him three hours to latch together a wooden frame with vines and cover it with fig leaves and palm fronds, and another hour to make a raised floor laden with soft leaves and moss for them to sleep upon. Watertight and warm, it afforded her and Abigail the privacy they needed among so many men. Several yards away, he and Mr. Keese had slapped together another, bigger shelter for themselves and Kreggs and Hanson, the two crewmen who had joined them. The other three sailors had opted to join Major Paine’s party, although Hope could not understand why.
“Would ye like some mango, Miss Hope, Miss Sheldon?”
Kreggs grinned down at her, his teeth stained brown and his arms bursting with red and yellow fruit. Though he stood no taller than Hope, his arms were as thick as her thighs. Short gray hair stuck out in all directions around his leathery face.
“No, thank you, Mr. Kreggs, but save one for me, will you?” Hope smiled. Although the fruit appeared ripe and juicy, the sight of it made her stomach curl.
“Sure thing, miss.”
“I’ll take one. Thank you, Mr. Kreggs.” Abigail held out her hands, and he tossed the mango into them before he lumbered over to the fire and dropped the remainder into a barrel. Plucking a knife from his belt, he sat on a log and whittled away at a piece of wood.
“Are you ill?” Abigail touched Hope’s arm, her brow furrowed. “You’re pale, and you haven’t eaten all day.”
A sudden chill gripped Hope, and she rubbed her arms. Truth be told, her stomach had been doing flip-flops like a fish all morning. “Nay, I’m just tired.”
“Yes, ’twas a fierce storm last night.”
“But the shelter Mr. Mason built for us held up well.” Hope shuddered, remembering the torrential downpour pounding on the thick ceiling of leaves and the claps of thunder that shook the frame of their tiny hut. Yet only a few drops of rain trickled down to where Hope and Abigail crouched together waiting for the storm to end.
Abigail bit into the fruit, dabbing at the juice dribbling down her chin with her handkerchief, and gazed back out at Nathaniel. He thrust his spear into the water then yanked it back. A fish thrashed on its tip. Adding it to a pouch slung over his shoulder, he sloshed through the water a few paces and regained his stance. Admiration burned in Abigail’s eyes, and Hope let out a ragged breath. She had a long road to travel before she could be respectable enough to catch the eye of an honorable man like Nathaniel. And she was beginning to fear that particular road would be all uphill.
Besides, after Hope had stomped away from Nathaniel by the pond, he’d not uttered a single word to her. Clearly his interests lay elsewhere.
A loud curse drew her attention to the motley band under the direction and guidance of Major Paine. Three sailors, all bare-chested and drenched in sweat, hacked away at logs while Major Paine and Mr. Hendrick sat on a rock in the shade, periodically shouting orders to the workers. Off in the distance, Mrs. Hendrick and Elise sat beneath a huge calabash tree. Elise played with something in her lap while poor Mrs. Hendrick leaned back against the trunk, fanning herself with an oversized leaf. Hope longed to go visit them and see how they fared, especially Elise. But Nathaniel had forbidden her and Abigail to go near Major Paine without an escort.
Hope shivered and drew her knees to her chest, wondering why the weather had suddenly turned cold, yet finding no cause for it. The sun hung high in the sky. No breeze fluttered the leaves of the trees. And waves of heat rippled up from the sizzling sand. Belying the chill on her skin, beads of perspiration rose on her forehead, and she batted them away. Perhaps she was just tired, after all—tired of being filthy and hungry. What she wouldn’t give for a bath and a change of clothes. But she was complaining again, and as she gazed at Abigail, humming a tune as she took the last bite of mango, Hope realized she had a far way to go before she could claim such a sweet spirit as the girl beside her.
Leaves rustled, footsteps thudded, and the charming Mr. Keese appeared, hoisting two buckets splashing with water. Setting them down, he placed his hands on his hips and gave her a saucy wink. “May I offer you a drink, Miss Hope?” He gave Abigail a cursory glance. “Miss Sheldon?”
Hope couldn’t help but smile at the tall, robust man who, although but a few years younger than she, seemed boyish in many ways. His straight sandy hair grazed his shoulders, contrasting his dark eyebrows that seemed to be in a perpetual sarcastic arch. That, coupled with his mischievous grin, made him look both dangerous and inviting.
“That would be nice, Mr. Keese, thank you.”
“Freshly drawn just for you.” He plunged a large shell into the liquid and carried it to her, cupping the bottom. Kneeling beside her, he tipped it as Hope sipped the cool liquid. “Thank you.” She pushed the shell away. Mr. Keese leaned to hand the shell to Abigail, and his thigh rubbed against Hope’s. The grin on his face said he’d noticed the contact as well. Hope scooted back. She could not deny his attentions eased the ache in her heart, especially in light of Nathaniel’s blatant disregard, but she must resist the urge to keep returning to her old ways.
After Abigail drank her fill and returned the shell, Mr. Keese dunked it in the bucket again and poured water over his head, then shook his hair like a dog, raining droplets all over them.
“That be one way to stay cool, says I.” Kreggs chuckled.
But Hope didn’t need any assistance in that regard—not today. Brushing the water from her gown, she fought off a shiver, all the while admiring Mr. Keese’s strong jaw and his playful mannerisms, and wondered why her heart wasn’t drawn to him. They were kindred spirits, after all—carefree, wild, unbeholden to any God—and he certainly kept his interest in her no secret. But then again, Hope had never had any difficulty attracting men of his ilk.
Everyone resumed their tasks, and Hope mounded sand around her feet. “I feel so useless. Mr. Keese, you collect water and wood. Kreggs and Hanson pick fruit. Abigail weaves baskets.” She smirked toward her friend. “Next she’ll be making clothes for us all, no doubt. And Mr. Mason catches fish. I can’t even crack open a coconut.” She grabbed a handful of sand and let it sift through her fingers.
Mr. Keese plopped beside her. A whiff of sweat and the musky scent of the island wafted over her. Taking her hand in his, he kissed it. “Why distress yourself, miss? Why not enjoy the fortune of having so many to care for you. Like a princess among her admirers.”
“A condition Miss Hope should be quite familiar with.” Nathaniel’s brown eyes locked upon her, disapproval tightening the lines of his face. He held a spear in one hand, a sack of fish in the other, and he towered over them like a god of the sea emerging from its depths to punish his subjects. He chucked the spear into a tree and ran a hand through his tousled, wet hair.
“On the contrary, I wish to help.” Hope struggled to rise, but the scenery began to spin around her. She shook her head. Tiny sparks flitted across her vision as Mr. Keese assisted her to her feet. She forced her eyes to focus on Nathaniel. At least he had finally spoken to her. “I know I can’t do much, but I’m not beyond attempting any task you give me, Mr. Mason.”
Nathaniel snorted and tossed the sack of fish to Hanson, who had just sauntered into the clearing. “Skin those, if you please, Hanson.”
“Aye, sir.” The lanky sailor sank down by the fire and went to work.
“How did you learn to fish like that?” Mr. Keese asked. “And to build these shelters? Sink me, such skill. It’s incredible.”
Nathaniel shrugged off the compliment. He rubbed his left side, where a long purple scar etched his otherwise perfectly tanned skin, and Hope wondered where he’d received such a wound. On his arm, the cut from Major Paine’s sword still healed. He glanced over his shoulder toward the other camp. “I spent time on the shores of Barbados fending for myself.”
“We owe
you a great debt, Mr. Mason.” Abigail laid down her basket and rose to her feet.
“Indeed.” Mr. Keese clapped him on the back. “We have all benefited from such an adventurous childhood.”
“Adventurous?” Nathaniel snickered. “I would not call it such.” He frowned.
Hope wondered how Lord Falkland would handle himself in such a savage environment. Always adorned in the latest London fashions without spot or wrinkle, Arthur was not a man to be found half naked, thrusting a spear into the crashing surf. Hope giggled at the vision.
The smell of fish curled beneath her nose as Nathaniel’s gaze found hers again and seemed to bore right through her. Hope pursed her lips. “I may not be able to contribute very much, but I believe I shall take some food over to Mrs. Hendrick and her daughter. They don’t look well, and I doubt they’re being fed as well as we are.” She skirted around Mr. Keese, grabbed some mangos and plantains from the barrel, and dropped them into an empty bucket.
“Why not leave a platter out for them tonight?” Mr. Keese’s tone stung with sarcasm. “They’ve been stealing our food after we retire anyway.”
“They have?” Abigail’s voice lifted.
Grabbing the full bucket, Hope swerved around, then wished she hadn’t moved so fast. She took a deep breath and waited for the trees to stop spinning around her.
“Aye.” Hanson’s knife halted over the fish he was skinning. “I’ve heard ’em more than once. Thought they was rats at first. Then when I peeked out o’ the hut, I realized they were—big rats.” Mirth skipped across brown eyes that were far too big for his narrow face.
Hope had heard rustling around her hut at night, but the thought it might be some dangerous animal had kept her inside. “There’s plenty of fruit on the island. Why can’t they eat that?” She wiped the perspiration dotting her neck.
“Naw, miss.” Kreggs pointed his knife toward the trees. “We’ve scavenged most o’ the food near the shore. Ye have t’ go deep in the forest, an’ it be slim pickin’s even there.”
Nathaniel closed his eyes a moment as if frustrated with the topic. “I’m well aware of the situation.”
“And it doesn’t prick your ire?” Mr. Keese snorted.
“I says we post a guard.” Kreggs dug his knife into the chunk of wood in his hand.
“They are welcome to whatever fish we have to spare.” Nathaniel squatted by the fire and poked a stick into the simmering embers. “We can’t very well let them starve.”
Abigail sauntered over to stand beside Nathaniel. “Of course not. What’s ours is theirs.”
Setting down the bucket, Hope looked out toward the incoming rollers, anywhere but at Nathaniel and Abigail united in cause, united in temperament, united in beliefs, united in...
She sighed. The crystalline waters beckoned her.
“But they ain’t worked for it.” Hanson swatted at a fly hovering over his fish.
“And don’t forget the major drew a sword on you,” Mr. Keese added.
Nathaniel stood and rubbed beneath his chin where the major had aimed his blade. “I can hardly forget that.”
“Then explain to me why we should supply them with food when they threatened to tie us to trees?” Mr. Keese plucked a papaya from Hope’s bucket.
“Because they are fellow human beings, and we are called to forgive,” Nathaniel replied.
Abigail and Nathaniel exchanged a smile. Despite her jealousy, Hope could not help but admire a man who would share food with his enemies.
Hope rubbed her forehead against another wave of dizziness. “Mrs. Hendrick is in a family way, and Miss Elise is but a child. They have not a choice in the matter.”
Tossing her chin in the air, she started toward the other camp when a wave of nausea gripped her and stole her breath. Icicles pricked her skin. The bucket became an anchor in her hand. It slipped from her grasp. Horrified, she stared at the fruit as it tumbled onto the sand. Could she not even do this one thing right? The yellow, red, and orange colors blurred into a jumbled rainbow. She raised a hand to her head. The trees, the hut, the people, the sea spun around her—a landscape of hazy browns, blues, and greens.
“Miss Hope. Miss Hope?” Nathaniel’s voice sounded hollow and distant. Strong hands clutched her arm. “Blast it all!” She recognized his angry tone.
Hope tried to walk, but her feet turned to jelly and she collapsed, much to her relief, into the safety of welcoming arms.
A cool hand touched her forehead. Abigail’s sweet voice eased over her.
“Heaven help us, she’s burning up with fever.”
CHAPTER 16
Red flames leapt all around Hope. Crackling, sizzling, blazing. She bolted to her feet. Fiery talons snapped at her, nipped at her gown, fingered her hair. Sweat slid into her eyes. She blinked and ran the sleeve of her gown across her forehead, then spun around. The flames blurred in a flickering circle of red and orange.
The hut was on fire.
Her mouth was parched, as dry as sand. Her heart crashed against her ribs. Where was Abigail?
“Abigail!” Hope screamed. “Abigail, Mr. Mason!” Searing pain spiraled through her, starting at her feet, then cinching around her stomach and storming into her head. She tossed her hands to her ears to drown out the hammering ferocity of it.
Beyond the fire, the gray silhouette of a man shifted in the darkness. “Mr. Mason?”
The shape took form: eyes, nose, lips, hair, and clothing dropped onto the figure as he approached. The man stepped through the flames and halted before her. He stared at her—yet through her.
“Arthur.” Hope’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the man she’d once thought she loved with all her heart.
The fire disappeared and the bulkheads of a ship’s cabin formed around them.
“I tell you, Captain, I don’t know the woman.” Lord Falkland’s handsome lips flattened, and he turned to face another man who materialized from the darkness.
Captain Brenham doffed his plumed tricorn and tossed it onto his desk. “Then perhaps ye can explain t’me why she insists ye are her betrothed?”
“Preposterous!” A woman’s voice screeched from a dark corner. She emerged to stand beside Lord Falkland, annoyance marring her comely features. “My Arthur cannot be engaged when he already has a wife.” She waved a silk fan over her elegant coiffure, sending tiny curls dancing about her neck. “Why, look at her. She is no doubt a fortune-hunting strumpet.” She eyed Hope with disdain and tossed her nose in the air.
“How dare you!” Hope charged toward her, but Lord Falkland held up his cane, barring her passage. Halting, she faced him. Fear and desperation coalesced in a burning lump in her throat. “Arthur, why are you doing this? Tell them who I am. Who is this woman?” Placing her hand on his gold-trimmed coat, she searched his eyes for a hint of affection, a hint of the love she’d grown to expect, the love she’d risked everything to possess.
He would not meet her gaze. He thudded his cane onto the deck and yanked his arm from beneath her touch.
“As I have told you, Captain. I’ve never seen this delusional woman before.” He patted the other woman’s hand and placed a kiss upon it as he used to kiss Hope’s.
Blinking, Hope reeled back. Memories danced through her mind like jesters, taunting her—memories of the tender love she and Arthur had shared, of sweet promises whispered in the middle of the night, memories of being loved, cherished, cared for.
“What d’ye intend I do wit’ her?” The captain cocked his head and studied Hope as if she were a chest of gold.
Lord Falkland shrugged. “Why should I care?”
“Because you love me! You promised to marry me!” Throwing all propriety aside, Hope clung to him with both hands. The lavender scent he doused himself with snaked around her, making her dizzy. “What are you doing?” Her heart thumped wildly. Her knees shook. Tears poured down her cheeks.
“Madam, control yourself.” Arthur attempted to tug his sleeves from her grasp.
“Release my husband at once.” The woman clawed at Hope’s hand, prying it from Arthur’s arm, then shoved her back. “Captain, I protest. Must we continue to endure this humiliation?” Panting, she pointed her fan in Hope’s direction. “The woman is deranged.”
Hope fell to the deck, splinters piercing her skin. Heat surged through her, and the floor began to spin.
Captain Brenham clamped his massive fingers onto Hope’s arm and jerked her to her feet. Stabs of pain shot into her shoulder. “Me apologies, Lady Falkland. By all means, take yer leave. I’ll be more ’n happy to deal wit’ her.”
“Very well, then.” Casting one last repugnant look toward Hope, Lady Falkland turned and pulled Arthur along behind her.
Lord Falkland glanced over his shoulder, and for the first time, his gaze met Hope’s. Through her tear-blurred vision, Hope thought she glimpsed a flicker of remorse cross his features. Then he was gone.
Along with all of Hope’s dreams.
Greed glinted in the captain’s eyes. “Aye, I know jest what t’ do wit’ ye.”
Flames shot up around her again, suffocating her and consuming all her remaining strength.
Something touched her forehead. Soft and cool. “She’s dreaming,” a muffled voice said.
“Seems more like a nightmare.” A deep male tone responded. Nathaniel’s voice.
Had he come to save her? Hope tried to pry her eyes open, but someone seemed to have sewn them shut. She lifted a hand to her face, groping for the cause, and found naught but moist, simmering skin. Thrusting out her arms, she probed for the source of those wonderful voices.
A large, calloused hand gripped hers and held it tight. “’Tis us, Miss Hope. We are here.” She clung to it with what little strength she could muster, drawing comfort from the caring touch of another human being.
Thrashing her head, she tried to make sense out of her jumbled thoughts. “He left me. He lied to me.”
“Shhh ... Hope, you have a fever.” Abigail’s soft voice caressed her like the cool cloth brushing over her forehead. A spark of joy assuaged her grief. Her friends had not perished in the flames.
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