“Will he mind ye takin’ that?”
Gwen studied his face for a moment, but if Conner suspected anything inappropriate, he gave nothing away. “I think that having such a token will soothe his soul in the coming days and I don’t wish it to be lost in the sea during the trip back to the keep.”
He nodded as if it made perfect sense and gestured for her to leave.
She glanced back at the bed. “But what about Gaspar?”
“They’ll come along with him soon. Ye are to come back with me. I’m havin’ a room made up for him now.”
Feeling uneasy at the thought of leaving him behind, even for a few hours, she brushed the sensation away and led the Conner through the ship and out to the top deck. When she glanced over the side, she saw that a man stood waiting in a rowboat at the end of the rope ladder. Gwen grimaced. While climbing up wasn’t particularly nerve-wracking, she imagined the descent would be another matter.
But as she climbed down the moving ropes that would take her to the little boat, her mind wasn’t on the waves, or even Gaspar, but on the thought that she would never step foot on La Sereia again. There would be no point in it. Gaspar would come to the castle to heal then be off on his next adventures on the high seas. She would never again walk the deck, nod to the sailors who gave her respect. She would never lie beneath the brocade covers in Gaspar’s cabin or sit at the desk below the stained glass windows drinking Italian wine from the bottle. Her time on the ocean was over and Gwen was more than sad to see it go.
Chapter Seventeen
She took a few moments to sort herself out while waiting for Gaspar to be brought in. She had hoped for some time alone to bathe and dress and possibly even eat something, but Flora was already waiting in her chambers when she opened the door.
“What’s going on?” Flora began at once, her arms crossed over her chest.
She sighed, feeling a deep tiredness settle in her bones. “I assume you know well enough what’s going on.”
“No, I don’t and I wish for you to tell me. Charlotte won’t even speak of what’s happened while I’ve been gone, save for some small talk. But I have heard that you’ve been in one of those boats.”
“Yes, I have.” Gwen brushed past her and went to the washroom. She filled up a basin with water and splashed her face several times.
Flora followed. “Why did you faint and run off when you found out what happened with the Portuguese?”
“I just wanted to help.”
“That doesn’t explain why you were so hysterical. You’ve seen much worse involving men you did know. Those sailors were little more than strangers to you.”
“I was just surprised, that’s all.” She tried to leave the room, but Flora blocked the door.
“I know something’s going on, Gwendolyn. You can’t fool me. Now come clean.”
Gwen didn’t know what came over her. Perhaps it was the wave of tiredness that threatened to overwhelm her, or maybe the fear of finally saying goodbye to Gaspar, but she found the words spilling out of her. She told Flora of his advances, his promises to teach her Spanish and how close they became during their lessons. The only parts she omitted were the long afternoons in his bed. Those were sacred and belonged only to them.
“Do you love him?” Flora asked simply as they sat side by side on the edge of Gwen’s bed.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it though? He asked you to go away with him.”
“I’m engaged to the Spanish prince…well, almost engaged.”
“So? Call it off! We’ll send a messenger to Spain and you can go off to a life on the sea with a handsome captain. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
Gwen felt a lump grow in her throat. “It’s not that simple.”
“You keep saying that, but it is simple, Gwen. One letter is all it will take to end this whole farce of an engagement and allow you to be with…”
“Gaspar.”
“Yes, Gaspar. I’ll even talk to Conner for you, if you like. I’m a married woman now, so he can’t be cross with me and hold back my pin money like he used to when we were young. I’ll sort it all out for you,” Flora said proudly, moving to rise to her feet.
Gwen grabbed her arm, pulling her back down. “No, Flora. Stop.”
Flora pulled herself from her grasp. “What’s wrong, Gwen? It’s not like you love the prince.”
“I’m afraid,” she whispered, closing her eyes. It was shameful to speak such things aloud.
“Afraid of what?” Flora’s voice was gentler. “Tell me, please.”
“I can’t be the person Gaspar needs me to be.”
“That’s what I thought when I met Andrew. I believed that someone like me could never be the wife of someone so pure and kind, but he adores me just as I am. I’m sure your Gaspar feels the same, not that you have anything to feel shameful about…unless there is more you haven’t said?”
“It’s not me, nor him…it’s the ocean.”
“What about it? You’ve been on the boat for almost two days now. Certainly you’re overcoming it?”
She opened her eyes, the tears welling, threatening to spill. “Yes, but in view of land and in view of safety. I can’t do it forever—I couldn’t. And I couldn’t ask him to give up the sea for me either.”
“This is about Father.” Flora’s brows were heavily creased. “Gwen, what happened to him was a terrible tragedy. You can’t give up your one great love because of fear of things that may never come to pass.”
“Prince Eduardo could be my one great love,” she countered lamely.
“Even you don’t believe that.”
“I must because I’ve made my choice.” Gwen stood, wiping angrily at her damp cheeks. “What’s done is done and there’s no changing it. I’ll help him regain his strength and then we both will go about our lives as we were always meant to.”
Flora stayed silent for several moments. Gwen stripped off her mussed gown and dressed in a sturdy plum one. The sleeves went just to her elbows, making it perfect for the tasks she knew she would have to complete once Gaspar was in the castle. She glanced back at Flora and twisted her hair atop her head.
“Are you just going to sit there all afternoon and watch me?” Gwen asked, feeling annoyed at being thrust into such an emotional situation on so little sleep.
“I suppose not.” She bit her lip and averted her eyes.
“What’s that expression for?”
Flora paused a moment, her fingers idling toying with some lace on her skirt. “It’s just…what if…”
She groaned. “What, Flora? Spit it out!”
“What if you’re pregnant?” she hissed lowly. “You don’t need to tell me that you and he had become quite…entangled. I can see it in your eyes.”
“There are ways to prevent that,” Gwen said, her cheeks hot.
“Good. I’m glad.”
“Now you’re finished with your interrogation?”
Flora nodded.
“Then we needn’t speak of it again.”
“But—”
Gwen rounded on her, her hands clasped in tight fists at her sides. “No. There came a time when you asked me to never speak of something that pained you and I didn’t. I lay beside you and offered you my comfort and nothing more. Now it is my turn to ask the same of you.”
Flora nodded, but her lips were pursed and she let out a deep breath through her nose.
“No more,” she repeated sternly, stalking from the room to go to the guest wing.
She wasn’t sure where exactly Gaspar would be, but it only took stepping into the corridor lined with guest doors to know. One opened and several Portuguese sailors filed out. They nodded to her in respect as they passed and she slipped inside before the door had a chance to shut.
The room was at the far end of the hall, one of the quieter chambers. It was dim, but not unpleasant, with one of the windows cracked open to allow a fresh spring breeze to drift in. Gwen was almost disappointed to see that thi
s was one of the rooms that didn’t face the sea, but the inner courtyard of the keep. Then she thought that it wasn’t a shame, after all, to remind him what it was like to live on land. Besides, he would soon be back on his ship for good.
He lay upon the bed asleep, or unconscious, just as before. Even a light brush of her fingers against his cheek didn’t stir him. It was in the faint afternoon light that she finally saw the faint sweeps of blood on his stomach and a dusting of black on his arms that might be gunpowder.
Since the initial danger was gone, she didn’t see the harm in bathing him. She could have called up some manservants to take care of him, but couldn’t bear the thought of someone else touching the skin she had so lovingly caressed. It was petty, but Gwen couldn’t help it and tried to focus her energy on preparing a basin of warm water and some fresh soap.
As the daylight began to fade and a maid entered to light the fire and some lamps, Gwen slowly washed the remnants of battle and injury from his bruised body. She washed away the blood, changed the bandage on his hip, and brushed his tangled, black hair. Still, he did not wake until she had gently lifted his head to replace his cross and medallion necklace.
“Meu único ouro.” His voice was raspy and he spoke between shaking coughs.
Gwen hurriedly lifted a class of cool water to his lips. It pained her to see him this way, but she was glad to see him awake and speaking. “How do you feel?”
“Like…like I was stabbed. Like I…I was hit with the butt of a gun. And a cannonball was dropped…on my chest.”
“Did those things happen?”
He looked as it he might laugh, but stopped short, grimacing in pain. “Sim.”
“A cannonball?”
“Maybe two.”
“Do you need anything? Are you in any great discomfort? Shall I call for something for you to eat?”
His chapped lips lifted into a small smile. “This woman…I tell her I was…stabbed, beaten, and hit with a cannonball and she…she asks if I’m hungry.”
“Well, are you?”
“No.” He reached up a shaky hand and gingerly touched his swollen jaw. “Good thing I wasn’t too invested in my looks.”
“You look fine,” Gwen lied, averting her eyes from the deep blacks and purples.
“And you…look beautiful.”
“Do stop it and save your voice.” She lifted the water to him again to drink.
“Do you have a fine singing voice, Gwendolyn?”
She was pleased to hear most of the coarseness of his speech was muted slightly. “Not at all! My mother used to say that I had a voice like a band of disgruntled barn cats.”
“Soft and delicate like an angelic chorus?”
“You’ve never been around barn cats, have you?” she asked, sitting upon the stool beside the bed. “It’s like the wailing of a thousand badly tuned fiddles.”
“Sounds delightful. I am glad that it does not have…the same effect when you speak.”
“Me, too.”
His eyelids fluttered closed for a moment then sprang open as if he were trying to stay awake.
“You can rest if you like. I’ll come back later this evening to see how you’re doing.”
“No, do not go. I do not wish to sleep yet.”
“Why ever not? You’ve been terribly injured and need to rest.”
His gray gaze shifted slowly to her. “I cannot.”
“Too much pain? I’ll go and fetch you—”
“No, no pain. I just do not wish to sleep.”
“You really should.”
His lips held the ghost of a grin. “You would leave a dying man?”
“Don’t joke so,” she admonished a bit more harshly than she meant. “You’re not dying.”
“Thanks to you.”
“You weren’t dying when I found you.”
“But you came, all the same.” Gaspar closed his eyes and held out his hand, as if searching for hers.
She took it, warming the cold fingers in her palms. He was always too hot-blooded, it was strange they should feel so. “Should I fetch you another blanket? Build up the fire a bit?”
“No, just…read to me?”
Gwen was surprised. He never really struck her as a pleasure reader; most of the books in his cabin were atlases and histories relevant to his travels. “What shall I read?”
“I do not care. I only wish to hear you speak, but I fear…I am too weary to talk.”
“All right, I’ll fetch something.”
She rose, crossing the room to a set of tall bookcases that sat on either side of the fireplace. As it was a guestroom, she had no idea what was even kept on the carefully dusted shelves. She quickly skimmed the shelves, annoyed to see that Conner had placed plenty of nice looking—but rather boring—books in this particular room. German monarchs on the right, sheep breeding practices through the ages in the middle. Several of the volumes were even blank on the inside and merely for show.
Shaking her head, she plucked one at random from the right side and sat down beside the bed before looking at the title. “Well, it seems this little book covers the life of Henry IV, king of the Germans and the Holy Roman Empire.”
“My favorite.”
Gwen stifled a small laugh and began to read aloud. She told Gaspar of Henry’s life and his experience in the Saxon wars before she noticed his breathing coming deeper and more even. She stopped reading and closed the book, then placed a hand on his forehead, gauging his temperature. Still no fever.
When she got to the door, she took one last look back at his prone figure. She wished she could climb abed with him and curl around his body as she had done so many times before. But she couldn’t and she no longer had the excuse of warming a gravely wounded man to do it. Besides, they had true privacy aboard his ship and they might not have the same luxury in the MacLeod keep.
As dearly as she would miss it, she would be eternally grateful that he would live.
Chapter Eighteen
She rose just as sunlight began to creep between the curtains. It had been a restless night’s sleep and Gwen was glad to be able to leave her bedroom. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the dying men in the hold of the ship and Gaspar’s battered body moaning her name in pain. And every time she began to doze, she envisioned them all fighting crashing waves and cannonballs as she watched from the safety of the MacLeod cliffs.
Even her reflection looked back at her exhaustedly. Dark circles sat below her eyes and her skin was paler than usual. She hoped a bath would rejuvenate her, and it did help. As soon as she submerged herself in the hot, fragrant water, she began to feel a little bit better.
When the bath grew cold, she dried and dressed and readied herself to go down to the kitchens. When she finished buttoning up her gown, her fingers brushed over Gaspar’s crucifix, which still hung around her neck. Gwen made a mental note to return the gift for good, but tucked it into the neckline of her gown before going downstairs.
The kitchens had been alive for hours before she entered them. The scents of freshly baked bread and the tangy beginnings of cooking meat washed over her. She thought she should ask for help obtaining her items, but went on alone, not wishing to disrupt the breakfast preparations. They all worked together in perfect, unbroken harmony and she felt as if her requests at that hour would set things into unnecessary disarray.
But as soon as she found a serving tray to use, the plump cook was at her side, drying her hands on her apron. “Is there somethin’ I can get for ye, Miss?”
“No, it’s all right, I can manage…I think.” In truth, Gwen wasn’t much of a cook, not even a little bit. She could take inventory of the larder and prepare a meal list for the week, but if she were in charge of actually preparing the food, everyone in the castle would get poisoned.
“Just tell me what ye need, I’ll do it,” the cook said, a bit more firmly than before.
Gwen looked down at the empty tray, then around the room where the kitchen maids were busily choppi
ng vegetables, kneading dough, and stacking clean plates. She knew enough to recognize when her “help would be more of a hindrance. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you have some tea and good broth sent up to the guest room where the ship captain is staying?”
“Would he no’ wish for somethin’ with more substance?”
“No, too much rich food might make him ill. He’s not eaten for two days, at the least.”
The cook nodded and shooed her out, promising to send a maid soon.
Gwen didn’t wish to go to Gaspar empty-handed, so she went to the library to get some more interesting reading material on the chance he asked her to read for him again. But as soon as she opened the door, she felt her stomach drop. Upon the large desk where she usually did all of her work sat the portrait of Prince Eduardo.
Someone must have placed it there, thinking she would like to look upon her betrothed as she did her numbers. They were wrong. There was no one she would like to have seen less than the prince. And he looked so angry—as if he knew what she had been doing all the while their marriage contracts were being written up. She had never felt overly guilty about her doings with Gaspar, but the painted face drew up that very feeling within her.
His brown eyes seemed to glare at her from across the room and his mouth—while not the most pleasantly tilted to begin with—made him appear as if he was sneering in complete disapproval. Even his dark brow seemed furrowed coldly beneath his hair. The gaze followed her, daring her to make yet another wrong move.
It turned her stomach, but she found she was unable to tear her eyes away from it. She couldn’t. He was to be her husband, and she, his bride. In a manner of weeks, she would be in Spain with a wedding ring upon her finger and him beside her in their marital bed. This complete stranger was to be her partner in this life and the next.
She flipped the painting face down and took a deep, stabilizing breath, willing it all to happen to someone else—anyone else. But it was happening to her and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
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