Sapphire Sea

by Kelsey McKnight

  “I’m glad to have you here. It’s been so quiet without you.”

  “Poor hen,” Flora clucked. “You’ll just have to come stay with us in London once we’re settled. Wouldn’t that be fun? We can get you married off and living in a townhome beside mine. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

  Gwen bit her lip. She had so much to tell Flora—some of which she wouldn’t dare, but other things her elder sister needed to know. So much had happened, she had no idea where to start.

  “Is something a matter?”

  “No…not exactly.”

  Flora frowned and raised a brow. “Don’t try to lie to me. What’s happened?”

  “I…you’ve missed a lot, I hardly know where to begin.”

  “At the start, I think.”

  Gwen took a deep breath and drew her knees up to her chest. “Well, there’s an engagement in the works now.”

  “Really? Who is getting married?”

  “Me.”

  Her deep blue eyes widened. “You’re getting married?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” she chastised, feeling her cheeks burn. “It all came about rather fast and I believe the match will suit us both quite well.”

  “How romantic,” Flora murmured dryly. “Who is the lucky man?”

  “Prince Eduardo of Spain.”

  “A prince!” she shrieked in glee. “You’re going to be a princess? My bossy, wee sister will be a princess! You lucky duck!”

  Gwen laughed, ignoring that it didn’t sound right to her. “I suppose so. He’s a minor prince, mind you, far removed from the throne. But we’ll have land and a nice income.”

  “I can’t believe it. Where on earth did you meet a prince? I’ve only been gone a little over a month.”

  “Oh, I haven’t met him exactly. Many men inquired on my martial status after your wedding. I assume my dowry lands sound quite attractive. Prince Eduardo merely seemed like the most attractive suitor of the bunch.”

  “You’re going to marry a man you’ve never even seen?” Flora sounded so…sad. Pitying, even. It embarrassed Gwen, but she wouldn’t let it show.

  “I have seen him, in the painted sense. There’s a portrait in the library if you’d like to see for yourself.”

  “What does he look like? Is he dreadfully handsome?”

  “He…um…” She suddenly couldn’t recall more than the basic facts of the prince’s appearance. “He has…brown hair and brown eyes.”

  “And…?”

  “Ears and a mouth and a nose,” she shot back tartly.

  Flora peered at her strangely. “All right then. And when is the wedding?”

  Gwen shrugged. “As far as I know, Conner is sorting out the details of the dowry and I could be married in the coming months.”

  “How queer. I never imagined I’d come home to visit and find you an engaged woman. Does that mean you’ll be living in Spain soon?”

  “As far as I’m aware, yes. But as I said, he’s the fifth son, so it’s possible that we’ll have a bit more flexibility where our housing situation is concerned.”

  “Does he write you romantic letters?” Flora questioned with a sly smile on her lips. “I heard that distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “He and I haven’t exchanged correspondence, actually. I recently learned that he has no English.”

  “Then however will you communicate? Will you learn Spanish with a tutor?”

  Gwen’s heart flipped at the remembrance of Gaspar’s lessons, but she swallowed it down. “Yes, I plan on employing a lady’s maid who’s fluent in the language as soon as the engagement is firmly set. She can travel with me and instruct me on the voyage.”

  “Are those ships down at the docks Spanish? I can’t say I know anything of their flags.”

  “No. They’re Portuguese.”

  “Ah, yes, the traders.” Flora slid off the bed then and crossed to the wardrobe. “By the way, I passed a maid as I came up to greet you. She said that you were going to dine in your rooms? Obviously, I told her you would be eating with us downstairs instead.”

  Gwen fell back against the pillows. “But I’m exhausted!”

  “No excuses.”

  “But I’ve been riding all day,” she moaned.

  Flora pulled a cream gown from the wardrobe and threw it down upon the covers. “Up!”

  Groaning, Gwen complied. She knew Flora to be quite stubborn. So she let her sister dress her up in the pale gown and affix some heavy diamonds into her ears. Flora had tried to take the cross, citing that the strong chain would clash with her delicate features, but Gwen batted her hands away and tucked it into her dress.

  “I feel a tad bridal,” Gwen complained as she brushed out her still-damp hair at her dressing table.

  “Nonsense, you look exquisite.”

  When Gwen was deemed fit for public view, and tucked neatly within a tartan shawl, the sisters left for dinner. “We started our trip in France, then took a train to Austria,” Flora was telling her. “The architecture is amazing and Andrew was telling me all about the Hapsburg family. Apparently they’re so interbred, they’re very sickly.”

  “I think I’ve read about them. They rarely marry outside their family tree.”

  “It’s more like a family bramble bush.” Flora giggled, putting her head close to Gwen’s. “They don’t branch out enough to be a tree.”

  Gwen thought it was rather grand having Flora home again, even if it was only for a few days. She didn’t know she was in need of a kindred spirit at the castle until she saw the ships docked among the cliffs. Flora would be a lovely distraction.

  But when they reached the landing, Gwen knew something was wrong. Andrew and Conner stood together, muttering softly, while Charlotte was waiting by the bottom of the stairs. Her lips were pursed and she balanced Alec on one hip. When she spied Gwen, she passed her baby to a maid and stepped closer.

  “Is everything all right?” Flora asked. “Aren’t we going in to dinner?”

  Charlotte trained her eyes upon Gwen. “No, we’re not. There’s been an accident.”

  “What’s happened?” Gwen began to feel uneasy and clutched her plaid tighter round her shoulders.

  “Conner told me why the Portuguese came back,” Charlotte whispered carefully. “A few of the sailors came to speak with him this morning. They don’t have much English, but from what he could understand, they were set upon by some manner of pirates. We were the closest friendly port, so they came straight away as soon as they could.”

  Her blood ran cold and she leaned against the stairway wall for support. “What else has happened?”

  “Nothing good. They lost a ship and a dozen or so of their crew,” Charlotte told her gently.

  “And the captain? He was still aboard his own ship, yes?” She pulled the cross from her dress and clutched it tightly. She couldn’t imagine Gaspar ever leaving his boat, which she had seen clearly docked and firmly in one piece.

  She put a hand on Gwen’s shoulder. “Conner went down to the docks and to the ship where the injured men lay to offer them food and the help of the local healer. He thinks that the captain was on another boat when the pirates lay siege.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Gwen…Conner believes…he thinks that in the fray, the captain left his ship and boarded the one being attacked. The boat sank, Gwen. There were no survivors.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Gwen came to, she was in her own bed. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, as the only light came from the dying embers in the fireplace. She saw Flora asleep by her bedside, her arms crossed on the edge of the bed and her head lain atop it.

  Gwen was about to wake her up and ask why she was there, but a jarring wash of horrid recollections tore through her mind. She vaguely remembered slumping to the floor. Conner had carried her upstairs—she was slightly sure of that. But the memories were hazy and unclear. However, the only thing she was truly concerned with was Charlotte’s terribl
e news—news that Gaspar was dead, taken by the same sea he loved so much.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth as she stifled an anguished wail. She had been able to handle Gaspar sailing off for good, as she was comforted by the idea of him living his life on the ocean, forever the bronzed Adonis who captured her heart—never aging, always looking upon her with laughter in his gray eyes. But now that picture had been torn to shreds. He had been snatched from the world of the living, taken down to a watery grave.

  And what of his body? Had they found it like they found her father’s—bloated and rotting? Or was it still out in the water, food for hungry schools of fish?

  Gwen felt sick. She leaned over the side of the bed, opposite Flora, and retched quietly into a chamber pot. The thought of Gaspar out in the great blue sea alone was one of the most grotesque imaginings that had ever crossed her mind.

  Taking several sobering breaths, she slid from the sheets and padded out to the washroom. She rinsed out her mouth and splashed cool water upon her face. When she rose from the basin to pat herself dry, she caught glimpse of her pinched face in the mirror. But it wasn’t the dark circles beneath her eyes that chilled her, nor the pink blotches upon her pale cheeks. It was the small crucifix and medallion that made her feel faint.

  She had his good luck charm. He had told her, Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of sailors and merchants. He will not let you sink, and neither will I. Gaspar had an ornament to ward off the dangers of the ocean and she had it instead. She had killed him! The reality of the situation was too cruel for Gwen to handle.

  Gaspar deserved to have it back in any way she could return it. She knew it was possible his body was aboard a ship, awaiting a proper burial as befitting a captain, so it was probable she could at least give him back his cross before he was truly gone for good. Or if he was truly lost, and there was no hope of recovering his body, then she would release it into the sea.

  ***

  When Gwen had slipped from the castle, wrapped tightly in a dark cloak, the rain had stopped. She daren’t bring a light, so she relied on the crescent moon to keep her from stumbling too much among the uneven rocks of the hill.

  Oddly enough, she didn’t shed a tear, nor had she since the moment Charlotte told her of Gaspar’s untimely demise. It was almost as if she was too torn to cry—too wretched to even put her feelings into productive action. The only thing she could think of was reaching one of the ships and inquiring as to what really happened to Gaspar. While it would be painful, she had to know about his final moments.

  As she reached the docks, there was only one great ship tied tightly to the wooden posts. The other three were anchored near the mouth of the cove. But it wasn’t the boat she had been on. Gaspar’s was out in the distant water. Still, she guessed this was the one that held the injured and possibly dying men.

  “Hello?” she called out as she reached the bottom of the gangplank. Then she remembered she knew a bit of Portuguese. “Olá?”

  A dark figure appeared at the open deck above, holding a lantern. “Sim?”

  “I am here to see your captain? Seu capitão?”

  “Capitão?” The man motioned for her to climb the strip of wood that would lead her onto the ship.

  Gwen paused. She had never been on a boat without Gaspar. And although she would be happy to never be aboard another, she owed it to him to return his gift. She gripped tightly to the worn rope that served as a makeshift railing, and made her way cautiously to the deck.

  “MacLeod?” the unfamiliar sailor questioned.

  Gwen nodded. “Yes…sim. My name is…” She wracked her brain for some more of the Portuguese Gaspar had taught her. “Meu nome é Gwendolyn MacLeod.”

  The sailor’s eyes widened. “Gwendolyn? Ùnico ouro?”

  Gwen gasped at being addressed by Gaspar’s pet name for her. “How did you know that?” Then she shook her head. “Never mind that. I need to see….where is…onde está o capitão?”

  He motioned for her to follow, and she did, passing the somber faces of the men who were standing about the deck. They walked down the small set of stairs, much like the ones of La Sereia, but instead of a small landing, it opened up into a wide crew area. Hammocks and pallets were scattered about the dimly lit cabin, and most contained wounded men.

  Gwen put her hand instinctively to her nose as the putrid scent of rotted flesh and ill bodies slapped her full in the face. It smelled of blood, sweat, and fear—a rancid stink that made the air seem thick and too corrupt to breathe. She peered around at the men, looking for Gaspar, and many looked back. Those who were capable of moving leaned upward to see who had entered their sickbay.

  Some didn’t appear too badly hurt, but it was hard to tell in the faint light. Some had burned arms, scraped torsos, or bandaged heads. She wasn’t sure of exactly what had happened, but she knew it was something violent and probably unnecessary. Her heart tore for the young ones who were no older than herself, all of them nursing cuts and gashes.

  A particularly bruised young man caught her eye. He sat against a beam, his knees drawn up to his chest and his gaze glued to the floor at his feet. Gwen took a lantern off its peg and crouched down beside him. While he didn’t appear too injured, she knew some of the worst wounds were sometimes hidden well.

  “Olá,” she began gently. “Are you hurt? Ferido?”

  The man—boy, really—looked up at her, his brown eyes blank and empty. “Não. É meu irmão,” he whispered, nodding over to something on Gwen’s right.

  “Irmão,” she repeated. “Brother? Your brother?” Gwen glanced to where the boy gestured and saw a long bundle, wrapped tightly in cloth. Whoever was in there was clearly dead. She turned back to the boy and placed a hand on his trembling arm. “I’m sorry…eu sinto muito.”

  Gwen was about to move on to the next man, rolling up her sleeves as she went, but the sailor who bore her into the makeshift sickbay shook his head and pointed toward the back of the cabin. “Não…capitão, sim?”

  She bit her lip, taking in the dead and dying. She was loath to leave them. “Have you a healer?” she asked. “Curador?”

  He nodded and pointed to an older woman who was crouched in the corner over a pair of badly burned men. It was Sorcha, the woman from the village. She was a fine medicine woman and it eased her heart a bit to see these men in her capable hands. They shared weak smiles before the sailor touched Gwen lightly upon the arm.

  “Capitão.” He led her through the lines of moaning sailors, back to a private cabin beside what served as the kitchen.

  Gwen took a breath, although a shallow one, before opening the door. She prepared herself for the sight of Gaspar’s body, and almost wondered what shape she would find him in. Would he be broken and bloody like some of his men? Would his skin be cold and gray—the appearance of one who had been too long in the waters? Or would he look as if he were merely sleeping? She prayed it was the third.

  When the lantern hit the figure lying prone in the bed in the small chamber, Gwen’s knees almost failed her. It wasn’t Gaspar she saw, but the man she had first met on the morning of Flora’s wedding—the one sailor, save Gaspar, who knew perfect English.

  She knelt by his bed, seeing the slight movement of his chest. He opened his eyes as she drew near, but it took a moment for him to focus and he coughed a bit before he spoke.

  “Senhorita, you should…you should no be here.”

  “Please…I am looking for your captain,” she said in a low, but clear, voice.

  “Capitão…” He grimaced. “His ship.”

  Gwen leaned in farther, careful to avoid the wrapped arm, which she was sure must be broken. “What of his ship?”

  “He is there…his ship.”

  She sat back on her heels, unsure of what to think. He could be dead and it would only be his lifeless body. But he could be…she daren’t even think it.

  “Is Gaspar on La Sereia?”

  “Sim…La Sereia.”

  “Does he…” Gwen s
wallowed, holding on to the edge of the bed for support. “Does he live?”

  “Sim.”

  ***

  Minutes later, Gwen was back on the dock, waiting restlessly for one of the able bodied sailors to prepare the small rowboat that would take her to La Sereia. She could barely stand still. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, refastened her cloak, ran her fingers through her hair to untangle the windswept knots, and paced the length of the dock before the sailor finally called for her.

  She refused to look down at the pitch-black water as they glided over the small waves that rocked them. Instead, she focused her gaze upon their destination. She could see the strip of stained glass that she knew made up the windows in Gaspar’s quarters. It was lit from the inside and she saw it as a lighthouse—the beacon of hope that would bear her over the unknown and into safety.

  The sailor yelled something up to the ship as they stopped beside it and a rickety rope ladder was tossed unceremoniously over the side. The wooden slats that served as rungs clattered noisily against the hull as they came to rest just above the edge of the water.

  Gwen glanced at the sailor, who pointed upward. When she didn’t immediately climb, he mimed scaling a ladder, seriously saying something to her in Portuguese. It was then that she appreciated never being overly afraid of heights.

  The wind made for an unstable ascent, despite the sailor holding tight to the foot, to try to keep it steady, his eyes tactfully turned to the side. Her skirts billowed up and around and Gwen wished she owned a pair of breeks, or at least wore a thinner or shorter skirt to make the climb a bit easier.

  She heaved a sigh of relief as two men helped her over the side and onto the main deck. Gwen took a moment to acclimate herself to the slight movement beneath her slippers before brushing past the curious sailors and into the depths of La Sereia.

  Her fingers shook as she turned the knob to the captain’s quarters. Although the English speaking man had said Gaspar lived, she wouldn’t allow herself to truly believe it until she looked upon him with her own eyes. Until that moment, he was still gone from her, and from this world.