How long it had been?
Any stimulating or amorous thoughts died a sudden death.
Her gaze followed the seeping wound from his knee several inches on his bare thigh. Raw and jagged. Someone had taken a dagger to this man and enjoyed doing it. Anger coiled in her chest. She rolled him, just a bit, and carefully pulled the blood soaked pad away. More torn and marred flesh on his backside. She stared, disbelieving. Her stomach churned. Amazing he had any blood left. She wished the brutalizing monsters to hell.
She bit her bottom lip, then probed, and stitched the gaping wound. Adding the herbal medicine from Mei Li to a folded square of linen, she covered his leg.
Removing the remainder of his shabby covering, Jen quickly cleaned and dressed the rest of his wounds, losing count of the stitches it took to close the many gashes. This man was her patient. No time for timid modesty. After all, she’d been a married woman. She’d seen a man’s body. Although, certainly not like this. The task demanding, determination drove her movements.
Exhausted, she wiped her face with her arm, and pushed her hair out of her way. When finished, she stretched her neck from side to side relieving the tension. With steady fingers, she reached out to stroke his russet brow. His skin was flushed and burned her palm. Danger lay in the degree of infection causing his fever. She did have a bottle of laudanum, but she suspected he would not wake up at all. Possibly he would not live out the night.
The young girl’s words had been fitting. This stranger was in God’s hands now.
Should she pray? Pray for his soul? She’d given up prayer long ago. It hadn’t worked for her.
But then, she’d chosen to run away. She’d left her home and fled with a boy who thought he was a man. Believing love was all she needed. Believing love would last forever. Not only had she been reckless, she’d been stupid as well. If her situation was not so serious, her actions would be laughable.
Knowing there was nothing more she could do, she tidied the room. The fire had died down, so she threw on another log. Pulling her rocking chair close to the flames, she grabbed her quilt and prepared for a long night.
It wouldn’t be the first time she slept in this chair. Sadly, she spent more time in her rocker than in her solitary bed. Sometimes due to hardship, sometimes due to cold, and sometimes her loneliness was too much for her to gather the fortitude to get up.
What did she have to complain about? Just look at the man in the next room. At least she had her health. She’d managed these last several months on her own. And if the stranger died during the night, she’d be alone again.
She’d done all she could. She told herself repeatedly, until she drifted off to sleep.
She dreamed of home.
Jennifer climbed the steps in anxious anticipation. The Derbyshire ballroom dazzled with bright chandeliers while strains of music floated among the whirling couples. Excitement pumped in her veins. She’d plagued Aunt Sara with her nervous fidgeting over her hair and beleaguering decision of which dress to wear. All in an effort to please Johnny. He said he’d be here.
Impatiently, she searched until she found him. With his dapper evening attire of black silk, and his crisply folded collar, he looked absolutely debonair. Everyone else in the room faded. His blue eyes flashed his admiration, making her pleased she’d taken such care with her appearance.
Smiling, Jennifer accepted his invitation to dance. He swept her a bow and took her hand, raising it to his lips while his gaze generated alluring warmth. Ever so glad her parents had not attended that evening, for her father’s brow would have surely jutted upward in disapproval. Shivers ran along her spine. Johnny’s gaze remained on her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world. Then he slipped her hand within the bend of his arm and escorted her to the edge of the dance floor.
He was every bit as smooth on his feet as the dance instructor her parents had hired. Johnny swept her around the ballroom, turning and swirling until her mind became a blur of utter delight.
Although she’d pleaded with her Aunt Sara, she’d been denied a second dance with her handsome beau.
Immensely charming, he swept her off her feet, and swept her heart clean away.
Suddenly her father’s angry face appeared. He shouted. Tears streamed down her face.
She jerked awake.
How many times had she cried herself to sleep over her foolishness? How many times had she cried because there was no one to soften the pain? Her loss of innocence, her husband’s death—but the greatest, the loss of her family. Which she thoughtlessly threw away.
She’d been a trial to her family as much as they tried to raise her a lady. Her education stood beyond reproach. Her tutors had diligently sought to instruct her in proper English diction and etiquette. She could out read, and on occasion, out think her tutor. She frowned, remembering how she’d thought her parents overprotective.
But she’d been too smart for her own good. At the age of seventeen, she’d developed into a woman with a determination to show them her responsible nature. She had matured, and she didn’t like being thought of as a child. She’d attended many parties and balls, and then she’d met the man of her dreams. Since she was old enough to marry, she’d asserted her independence. Her father’s stern voice still haunted her. He’d denied her request to marry a second son and threatened to lock her up at the idea of her leave-taking to another country.
Now she wished she were ensconced safely back in her family’s loving arms.
She shrugged away the melancholy. The house had grown chilly. Lifting the cover from her lap, she slowly rose and carried another log to the dying fire.
Sunlight streamed in between the crack of her one boxboard window. Jennifer sighed and opened her eyes wider. The stiffness in her neck reminded her she’d spent another night curled up in her rocker. She uncoiled the blanket wrapped around her legs and jolted. Events of the night prompted her to awareness.
She cocked her head sideways. No sound came from the adjoining room. Her uninvited guest still slept. Maybe. A shiver ran down her spine at the alternative. She stood, ignoring the pain in her back, and padded to the doorway. Again, she hesitated, listening for any sound from within.
Nothing.
She gently shoved the rough door open. He appeared to be sleeping.
She hoped.
Making her way to the bed, she held her breath in anxious expectation. With every step, dread clogged her throat. His chest unmoving, she searched for any sign of breathing. As she leaned closer, she heard a raspy sound of air entering his mouth. Weak with relief, her shoulders fell and she closed her eyes in a silent thank you.
Why did she worry? Maybe death would be welcome to the man. His suffering, more than likely, agonizing. There was no way of knowing the extent of damage done on the inside. With him being unconscious, she had no idea of his pain.
She looked for signs of bleeding. He hadn’t moved, deeming his bandages still secure. If he were to recover, he needed nourishment. She tucked the coverlet around him and returned to the main room.
She had stew from the night before. He would not be able to chew, but if she could get some broth past his lips, the liquid would trickle down his throat and he would at least have a chance of survival. The poor man had been starved, his stomach wouldn’t handle much even if he were able to eat. Again, her gut revolted at the cruelty done to him.
After her morning grooming, she glimpsed the sky through her window. Heavy clouds loomed close overhead. Most likely there would be a storm today, which should keep her pestering neighbor away. Very little food in her crude larder, she attained a biscuit for herself. Preferring tea, her one weakness from England, she noted her quickly diminishing supply. Perhaps, the brew would serve a stimulating tonic for her patient. She tucked the idea to the back of her mind for later. Taking a bowl from the cupbo
ard, she added some broth. She’d accepted the task of nursing him back to health. Since he’d managed to live through the night, she decided the fellow was destined to persevere.
She pulled a chair close to the bed. Careful not to move him more than necessary, she tucked pillows around his head. Lifting the bowl of broth, she dipped the spoon and touched his bottom lip, permitting a few drops of liquid to trickle inside. She held the broth under his nose willing him to smell the aroma and hopefully stir a response. Maybe he would lick his lips. Maybe he would recognize the scent as food, and by self-preservation, his instincts would kick in and he’d want more.
She scooped more liquid. This time when she touched his mouth, he rolled his lip. The bob in his throat moved. He swallowed. Several times throughout the day she repeated the process. Sometimes his tongue laved greedily at the moisture. Other times she encouraged him to swallow pitiful amounts of water. Anything to get something in his stomach.
It was a good day for sailing. However, the matter of getting Katherine on board his ship proved more difficult than maneuvering the roughest waters. Not even his towering height or his best brooding look intimidated the young girl by his side. Despite her desperate pleading to go with him, he refused to weaken. He would not let his love for his sister sway him from doing what, he believed, was best for her.
He looked down at the girl who looked so much like their mother. Her beautiful auburn locks hung below her waist. Her face was shadowed in the evening twilight. It had been difficult enough to accept his parents’ deaths, but her pleading eyes were nearly his undoing. He knew nothing of raising a girl of fourteen. He could not take her to sea, no matter how much she wanted to go.
“Please, Stephen.” she begged. “Keep me with you. I won’t get in your way. I promise.”
“It has already been arranged. Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Albert are eagerly waiting for you.” He lifted her pelisse and strode up the boarded plank. She had no choice but to follow.
Cannon fire exploded from hell. A ship brimming with guns emerged from the windward side. She’d been lying in wait for them. Smoke. His crew fighting to their last breath. The ship is going down. “Abandon ship!”
Wide God-fearing eyes fixed on him as if in silent communication, loyal to the bitter end. His men in chains. Roaring gunshots. His crew dropped wordlessly to the ground. Limp, lifeless, slaughtered.
Chapter 4
Moaning sounds roused Jen from her uneasy nap. She swept a glance to the man lying in her husband’s bed. He twitched and jerked. His head thrashed from side to side suggesting he dwelled in the midst of a bad dream.
She laid a hand across his brow. Leaning back, she sighed in relief, no fever. But, he’d been drawn into a world of demented delirium. Taking no chances, she wiped him down with a cool cloth.
Being alone, often times the only voice she heard was her own. The sound of her expression in song had been her companion many solitary evenings. She loved music. Unfortunately, the only harpsichord within fifty miles belonged to her neighbor, Barincott. She shuddered wondering how much longer she could thwart him. Since her husband’s death, the man made regular visits, constantly assuring her she could not subsist on her own. The one thing she would not do was sell her soul for comfort. She’d already given herself to one man and once was most assuredly enough.
Another moan drew her attention back to the tossing figure upon the bed. She pressed the cloth to his forehead and hummed. Almost immediately he calmed. Encouraged, she sang a lullaby she remembered from childhood. Thinking of her mother caused a pang to her already desolate heart. Jennifer would like to think her family had forgiven her.
He mumbled. She lifted a glass of water and spooned a few drops between his lips.
“More.” The words so faint, she promptly complied. After several attempts, he quieted and slipped into an easy slumber.
He spoke.
Now that she knew her patient would live, she decided to give him a bath. Matted hair entwined with his scraggly beard. Hard to tell where one ended and the other began. She studied the man in her bed. Strong cheekbones, a crooked nose, she wondered at the color of his eyes. Profuse russet brows, she’d guess they were green.
She wondered if the color of his hair had anything to do with his temperament. Would he be a man of honor, or a blackheart? A soft spoken man or a man with a loud booming voice? Would he be gentle or would he be a hard taskmaster? Something told her he measured significantly different from her young husband. She rose to get a basin with water. A beautiful landscape painted on the base with gold trim along the rim. The colorful treasure she’d spied upon entering this land, and Johnny had bought it for her.
Gathering soap and rags, she prepared what she thought she might need. Although her supply limited, she carried her bundle to the next room. Sliding her chair closer to the bed, she pulled back the blanket. She lifted the bandages and checked his wounds. Thank goodness none of the gashes had opened during his thrashing. She dipped the cloth in the basin of water and gently scrubbed his face. She ran the cloth down his neck and across his shoulder, mindful of the scorched flesh. The burns were healing.
Tugging the blanket lower, her eyes flew wide. Goodness, she gasped under her breath. Soft and big. She quickly covered him with the linen and tried not to think of that part of him while she soaped his thigh. Red curls spiraled greedily, engaging the dampness. She rinsed and soaped the cloth again, then applied the same ministration to the opposite leg. For a moment she stared. Hesitantly, she trailed one finger along the jagged puckered flesh. Her fingers tingled. A man’s skin.
Her eyes darted to his face. His lids closed, she hoped the man slept. She lightly touched her fingers to his bruised jaw. He possessed a ridged chin. Even in his sorry state, his lush mouth made her think of kissing. She should not stare at his body, but she couldn’t help herself. Neither the gashes nor abrasions repelled her. She’d never looked upon a man’s nude body before. Even Johnny had undressed in the dark, and on those few occasions where she could have spied on him, her own timid nature made her look away. Opportunity presented her this moment. How wicked she was to take advantage.
Her eyes soaked up every inch of him. From the cords in his neck, across his wide shoulders, down his torso to the indented button just above the part of him hidden under the blanket. She stared. Temptation nagged her to lift the covering. Did not that section of him need to be washed as well?
Her mind railed. Her role as a healer declared she treat his private part the same as any other limb on his body. But her woman’s curiosity desperately wanted to look her fill. And if she touched him—there—permitting her fingers to linger . . . Oh how she craved the courage to . . .
Good Lord. Get hold of yourself. The man is helpless and you are having improper thoughts.
She shook her head and resumed his bath. She removed the wrapping around his ankles and applied more of Mei Li’s special herbs. One last place to finish. Clearing her mind of impure thoughts, she raised the linen around his privates, stuck the wet cloth underneath, and hastily washed. The thing moved. She jerked her hand away and swallowed. That would have to do. She covered him up again.
Washing his hair presented more of a challenge than she expected, but she managed. Satisfied with her work, she wiped the back of her arm across her forehead and stood. She placed both hands on her aching back above her waist and stretched.
With a heavy sigh, she grabbed the bowl and padded into the front room. She tossed some logs onto the welcoming fire. How long since she’d eaten? She retrieved a bowl and dished some of the stew for herself. Sitting at her table, she stared into the broth. At least she was not alone.
Which made her wonder what would happen when the man woke. For he had a better chance of waking now that he’d made it through another day. Who was he and what had happened to him? Would the people who did this find their way to her hom
e? Then what?
She had enough trouble with her neighbor. She did not need more men knocking at her door. The type of evildoers who tortured a man this way would show not a care for anyone who gave him shelter.
Sunlight streamed in through the window casting streaks across the figure sleeping more peacefully. Jennifer blinked. Too peacefully. With dread in her heart, she rose. Placing one finger under his nose and the other on the side of his neck, she checked her patient to see if he still breathed. She gave a sigh of relief.
Her morning ritual consisted of washing and running a brush through her hair. She drew on a pair of her husband’s breeches and tied his long shirt at her waist. A gown restricted her movements when chopping wood and other chores. Who was here to see her anyway? Except for her distant neighbor—who didn’t keep his distance.
She caught the long tresses of her hair and wove them into a knot at the nape of her neck. Then filled the kettle with water and went to her cupboard for tea. She tidied up her scant belongings, wiped her table and set about her chores.
Opening her door, she drew in a breath of crisp morning air. A new day. Only today would not be like every other. Today she was not alone. The air seemed fresher. The sun seemed brighter. Due to her houseguest? Why should she feel any different just because she had a man staying at her home? In her bed?
Memories threatened of her familiarity with Johnny. Some days their life wasn’t so bad. Sometimes she’d enjoyed their intimacy. Especially when she’d fallen asleep in his arms.
The True One (One and Only Series Book 2) Page 4