by Untamed
Hitching up his ragged canvas pants, he displayed bleeding ankles. Barbara gave them a cursory glance.
“You’d better pour some rum over those scrapes.”
“I already did. Poured a good measure down my throat, too.” He took a couple of turns about the small cabin. “Ah, Christ, it feels good to walk like a man again.”
Shoving back her bedraggled hair, Barbara sank onto her heels. The thrill she should have felt at seeing Harry shed of his leg irons after so many months of imprisonment couldn’t make it past her desperate fear for Zach.
Her brother didn’t fail to note her lack of joy in his newfound freedom. Joining her on the floor, he propped his back against the bulkhead and stretched out his legs.
“What happened, Babs? How is it I sent you off to fleece a woman of her inheritance and you return with her son in tow?”
“It’s a rather complicated tale.”
“Tell me.”
With a weary sigh, she dipped the rag in the bucket and dabbed at the sweat beading Zach’s forehead.
“Louise Chartier wasn’t the ignorant half breed we thought she’d be. She’s shrewd and sophisticated and not about to be taken in by the sudden appearance of a long-lost niece by marriage.”
“She didn’t buy your story?”
“Not entirely.”
“What about the affidavit from the bishop of Reims? Did she challenge its authenticity?”
“I never showed it to her.”
Harry sent her a sharp glance. “What’s that?”
“By the time I came face-to-face with the woman, I’d already tangled with her son.”
Her touch gentle, Barbara drew the damp cloth over the stubble darkening Zach’s cheek. He hadn’t taken a razor to it this morning. There hadn’t been time.
“He’s fiercely protective of his mother, Harry, and well versed in the law. I knew he’d challenge the affidavit in the courts. I couldn’t spare the time for that. You couldn’t spare the time for that. So I smiled and pouted and seduced him into providing the funds I needed to buy your freedom.”
“How much did you get out of him?”
She turned then, fury licking at her veins. “Did you hear me? I said I whored myself.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
The utter callousness of the reply stunned her. Her brother’s months in the hulks had toughened him, she realized with a sense of shock, then immediately berated herself. He’d spent months in leg irons. He’d nourished his tall, once-muscular frame with one watery bowl of stew and a few crusts of moldy bread a day. He’d fought to stay alive while the men around him dropped from starvation, exhaustion or disease. The wonder would be if he hadn’t grown hard.
Or perhaps the coldness had always been there, and she’d never seen it. The awful truth of that became apparent when he gave a careless shrug.
“Why do you look so stricken? I avenged your honor the first time a man abased you, didn’t I?”
Icy dread spilled through her veins. Those footpads in Naples… She’d always wondered, always suspected. Now she knew.
“I would avenge it this time, as well.” Harry flicked a glance at the man in the bunk. “Fortunately, a royal marine has already done the job for me.”
Dear God! It wasn’t enough she’d lied and cheated and drawn Zach into danger in an effort to save her brother. Now she’d set him up as a target for the vengeance of the very man he’d taken a bullet for.
“Listen to me, Harry! Zach didn’t abuse or abase me. I accomplished that entirely on my own. Despite my lies, despite everything I tried to steal from him and his family, he stood by his vow to aid me. He’s a good man. An honorable man. If he survives…”
Her voice cracked, her fury with it. She stared at her brother with wide, frightened eyes.
“He will survive,” she whispered hoarsely. “Tell me he will, Harry.”
Shrugging, he pulled her into his arms. As effortlessly as that, they slipped into their old, familiar roles. She leaned her cheek against his bony ribs, seeking the security and comfort he’d always provided, finding it in his grudging admission.
“He’s a tough one, I’ll give him that. When those marines came charging down the road from the naval base, Morgan threw me across his shoulders like a slab of beef and took off at a dead run.”
“Why did the marines appear so suddenly?”
“I’m damned if I know.”
He fell silent, reliving his desperate escape, Barbara guessed. Moments slid by undisturbed except for the rasp of Zach’s labored breathing.
“Tell me something,” Harry said at length.
“What?”
“When you aimed that pistol at me, would you have pulled the trigger?”
She eased upright and looked into the eyes so like her own. “I’m damned if I know.”
He gave a hoot of sheer delight. “By damn, Babs. You’ve grown into a woman worthy of the Chamberlain name.”
Indeed she had. Unlike her brother, she took little joy in the fact.
“You may as well know the rest of it,” she said. “There will soon be another to bear the Chamberlain name. I’m breeding.”
The amusement left Harry’s face. Anger chased across his gaunt features. “So Morgan dropped a bastard on you, did he? Well, that can be attended to easily enough once we reach dry land.”
“No!” Barbara crossed her arms over her belly. “I promised I’d return to his family’s home until the babe is born. I intend to keep that promise.”
His forehead creased in a frown. She could almost see the moment his anger gave way to cold calculation.
“Are you set on that course?”
“I am.”
“Then we’ll make them pay. Handsomely.”
“They’ve already paid! Zach financed your rescue from his own funds. I can’t… I won’t take any more from him or his family.”
“Very noble, my dear sister, but what about your child? Do you intend for it to scrabble for its dinner as you’ve had to so many times?”
With everything that had happened, she’d all but forgotten the package Zach had slipped her at the Somerset Arms.
“The child won’t have to scrabble for anything.”
Her coat still lay in a sodden heap where she’d dropped it hours ago. Snagging one of the sleeves, Barbara dragged it across the deck and rooted through its deep pockets. The package was still there, right where she’d shoved it. She passed it to Harry without bothering to unwrap it.
“I suspect there’s more than enough here to keep a body clothed and well fed.”
He yanked on the strings, rifled through the stack of banknotes and let out a low whistle.
“Very well fed, indeed. I’d better keep this safe for you.”
He tucked the package inside his canvas jacket and shot Zach another glance. It was tipped with respect and the envy great wealth had always engendered in him.
“You hooked a ripe one this time, Babs. If Barrister Morgan here becomes shark bait, as I suspect he soon will, we’ll give the bishop’s affidavit a try. Between that document and the child you’re carrying, we should be able to milk the Morgans of most of their worth.”
His good humor restored by the prospect of another scam, Harry lifted the latch and left the cabin.
Barbara sat on the floor, unmoving. She felt a hundred years old, with a body as withered as the Egyptian mummies on display at the British Museum. Her glance lingered for long moments on the cabin door before shifting to the traveling valise stashed in a corner.
On hands and knees, she crawled across the tilting deck. The oilskin packet was in its hiding place. She’d tucked it back inside the lining after Zach had tossed it at her in disgust. She’d held some vague thought of presenting it as a gift when they said farewell.
Unwrapping the oilskin, Barbara extracted the document and tore it into tiny pieces. She dropped the bits into the slop bucket and watched them settle to the bottom before crawling back to the bunk
.
“Hush,” she murmured to her restless, delirious patient. “Hush, Zach. I’m here.”
Once more she dipped the rag in seawater and wrung it out. The bitter irony of her actions didn’t escape her. Not three weeks ago, Zach had bathed her face and held her while she retched and heaved. She’d been certain she was dying and in her darkest moments had wanted only to end the agony.
Now Zach lay dying. She could shriek at Harry and deny it all she wished, but she couldn’t shut out the sight of that horrific smear of black pitch. The skin around it was burned and seared. Blood still seeped from under the tar.
“I’m here, my darling.” Gently, she drew the damp cloth over his face. “I’m with you.”
The voices drifted in and out of Zach’s head.
He heard them above the burning agony that consumed him. Clung to them through the darkness that spun madly, dragging him into its vortex.
One voice returned again and again. Always calm. Always gentle. With it came the blessed relief of a damp cloth moving over his burning body and a few drops of water or rum dribbled onto his parched lips.
Every once in a while he could see the face that went with the voice. In his most agonized moments, it was that of a golden-haired angel, soothing him, smiling at him. In his rare, all too brief moments of lucidity, it was that of a hollow-eyed, tangled-haired hag.
There were other voices, too. Some raised in excitement. Some in anger. Some with bluff, hearty tones he almost recognized. He tried to make out the words, but the mere effort sent waves of fire leaping up his back to eat at his brain.
The hag was there the next time he fought his way out of the flames. He could see her sagging against his bunk, one arm curled under her head, her hair straggling over her elbow. He lay still, breathing as shallowly as possible, and studied the face just inches from his own.
Slowly the tired, wan face took on the features of the woman who’d come to both bedevil and bedazzle him.
How long had she sprawled like that? How long had he? Zach couldn’t separate the hours from the days. Not that it mattered. Whatever time he had left was slipping away as steadily as his strength.
He was a solider. Despite the pain clouding his mind, he understood why he was lying flat on his face, his guts afire. He’d taken a ball to the back. He didn’t know what the bullet had hit or how much blood he’d lost, but the fact that he couldn’t so much as lift his head told him all he needed to know.
“Bar…bara.”
The mere effort of whispering her name sent black waves sweeping over him. He longed to let them take him, to sink back into the darkness forever. Sweat beaded on his temples as he forced another hoarse whisper.
“Barbara.”
She jerked her head up, her eyes wild and staring.
“Dear God! You’re awake!”
She flopped onto her knees and scrabbled for something on the floor. A crudely fashioned rag teat, Zach saw, sopping with some liquid. She held it to his lips, but he didn’t have the strength to suckle.
“Just a few drops,” she begged. “There’s sugar in it, and a powder Throckmorton swears cures every one of his crew’s ills.”
“Fetch…him.”
“The captain?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
He couldn’t explain. He didn’t have the time or the endurance.
“And…another,” he got out through gritted teeth. “To serve…as witness.”
The blood drained from her face. She stared at him with wide, haunted eyes before struggling to her feet.
“I’ll fetch Throckmorton and one of the crew straightaway. Hang on, Zach. Just hang on.”
Barbara stumbled into the passageway. She knew why he wanted the captain. He’d guessed he was dying. He wanted to make a last will and testament, with a witness to swear to it. Someone he trusted. Someone other than her.
Her heart as heavy as stone, she brought Throckmorton and his mate back with her. They crowded into the small cabin. Barbara pressed her back to the bulkhead as Throckmorton bent over Zach.
“I’m here, Morgan. Want me to hear your will, do you?”
“Not…will.” Zach raised his head a few, tortured inches. “Marry Barbara…and me.”
Throckmorton’s jaw dropped. Barbara felt her own sag in sheer astonishment.
The captain recovered from his shock first. “Here now! I never married no one afore, not even the three women what call themselves my wife. And if there’s anything resembling a Bible aboard this vessel, I’ll eat my vest.”
“You’re…captain. Just say…words.”
“No, Zach!” Barbara dropped down beside him. “You don’t have the strength for this.”
He drew in a shallow breath and let it out in slow, agonized pants.
“Won’t be…bas…tard.”
“What?”
She could barely hear the mumbled words. She stooped closer, her ear almost to his mouth.
“The…child. Not…bas…tard.”
Barbara Chamberlain and Zachariah Morgan were married aboard the sloop Chesapeake as it pitched and rolled through the Atlantic.
Word of the ceremony had raced through the boat like St. Elmo’s fire. Every member of the crew except the watch crowded the passageway outside the cabin, tossing wagers back and forth as to whether the groom would cock up his toes before old Jiggs figured out what words to say.
The bride’s brother shouldered his way into the cabin as well. Arms folded, eyes alight with speculation, he watched the proceedings with something that could have been a smile playing about his mouth.
To the intense delight of those who’d wagered on him and the bitter disappointment of those who’d bet against him, Zach survived the ceremony. Throckmorton left the cabin sweating from the ordeal of finding words with a matrimonial ring to them. Once in the companionway, he and his second in command exchanged glances.
“You’d best dig some canvas from the sail locker,” the one-eyed captain advised. “You’ll need to start sewing a shroud.”
21
Looking back, Barbara could never quite pinpoint the hour or the day she began to believe Zach would survive his horrific wound. Certainly not while the Chesapeake cut like a blade through the green waters of the Atlantic. Nor during those first hellish days in Charleston, which Captain Throckmorton had made for with all speed.
Harry took rooms for them in the city and Barbara hired a succession of surgeons to attend Zach. The physicians’ admission they could do nothing for him sent her tentative hopes plummeting. Zach’s bad-tempered snarl when the last one poked and prodded his wound set them soaring again.
Every day she forced liquids down his throat. Every night she stretched out on a pallet beside him. As December gave way to January, the festering skin of his back began to heal.
Barbara barely had time to exult over her patient’s slowly improving condition before he began to test both his fragile strength and her threadbare nerves. Ignoring her strenuous objections and the grinding pain in his back, he attempted to sit up…and promptly pitched over onto his face.
When he regained consciousness, he began to push himself mercilessly. He would sweat and strain and exhaust himself trying to force his lower body to move. Barbara hovered over him until he snarled at her, too, and told her to get out. Harry stalked into Zack’s room, then, and slammed the door shut behind him.
Barbara didn’t know what was said. She suspected she never would. But Harry emerged with fire in his eyes and Zach’s face was masked with fury when she reentered the sickroom. Thinking he wished for someone other than a Chamberlain to attend him, she offered to write his parents and advise them of his condition.
Zach almost bit her head off. “No!”
“They should know about the injury to your spine.”
And about his marriage. Although both she and Zach knew the arrangement to be temporary, she suspected Louise Morgan would not take the news well.
“There’s no need to worry
them,” Zach growled. “When we’re ready to start back to Indian Country, I’ll write to tell them we’re coming home.”
Home.
She refused to let the word unsettle her, but the bargain she’d struck with Zach weighed more heavily on her mind with each passing day. He’d held to his promise to help free Harry. She’d hold to hers and return to Indian Country until the babe now swelling her belly was born.
After that…
She and Harry would go the way they always had, she supposed. Without her baby. In her heart of hearts Barbara knew the child would be better off with the Morgans, raised in a home filled with love and laughter. Yet the idea of walking away from Zach and her child filled her with almost as much dismay as the thought of returning to her harum-scarum life with her brother.
Bit by bit, Zach built up his strength. By early February, he’d regained some use of his lower limbs and could drag himself across the floor. By the end of the month, when he, Barbara and Harry boarded the train that would take them from Charleston to New Orleans, he could stump along on crutches.
Midway through the steamboat trip upriver from New Orleans, Zach tossed the crutches overboard and began to shuffle with a cane. Despite his best efforts, though, he still couldn’t manage the steep gangplank. At each stop, he remained on board rather than submit to the indignity of being carried off the boat on a crewman’s back.
So when the Memphis Wheeler steamed up the Grand River and arrived at Fort Gibson the first week in March, Barbara made her way down the gangplank on Harry’s arm. Her bonnet strings blew about her face as she stepped onto the rock shelf that constituted the fort’s riverboat landing.
The outpost looked little different from the first time she’d seen it five months ago. Fingers of dirty snow lay in the shadows of the palisade walls and scattered outbuildings, but tender green shoots pushed up through the parade ground. Soldiers detailed to garden duty hacked at the earth with long-handled hoes. Others hewed logs or chinked mud as part of the ever-constant task of maintaining structures at the mercy of rain and rot.