She did not want to be confined in Gibraltar, weak and incapacitated, a woman alone in a strange town with a vampire ashore. She wanted to leave this horrible place and him with it. If she could make it to the ship and know that he went overland, that there were hundreds of miles between them . . . “I shall do, I am sure,” she said with all the firmness she could muster. “Mrs. Pargutter will see to me once I am aboard, and the surgeon, of course.”
His brows drew together briefly. Then he glanced to the bedside table and took up the tankard. “Porter is said to be valuable in restoring strength. I have seen it used with men in an exsanguinary state from wounds.” He hesitated, then sat beside her, raising his brows in inquiry.
He was too close. “No, no,” she breathed. “You must go, sir. Go this instant.”
Shame suffused his face. He handed her the tankard. “When you have drunk this.”
She took the tankard in both hands, the metal cool and damp against her palms. It was all she could do to lift it, but if this was what it took to make him go, then she would drink. The porter was so thick you could almost chew it. The yeast and burnt grain taste was smothering. After a few gulps, she sputtered and lay back. “Now, see to your promise,” she murmured.
A sharp rapping on the door behind them made them both start. “The room has got to be made up, which is to say there is a gentleman bespeaking it below, if free.”
Rufford swung to the door and jerked it open to reveal a shocked young man, fingers dark from boot blacking. “Tell the gentleman to go to the devil,” Rufford said. “Miss Rochewell is not to be disturbed this afternoon.” He looked back at her. “Rest. I will let no one intrude.”
Indeed, her eyes were heavy even now. She felt like she could sleep for days. Days? What if she slept through the ship’s sailing? “Tell them to call me . . .” But now her exhaustion was such that she slurred her words. Or maybe it was the porter.
The last thing she heard was his apologetic mutter: “It is the least I can do.”
Ian sat in the dim taproom with a bottle of claret, his second of the afternoon. Damn her! To be so frightened of him, so dependent upon others, at this awkward juncture! She had outlined his choices only too clearly in her artless conversation. She placed all her faith in Mrs. Pargutter and the surgeon of the Beltrane. That she did not want to stay alone in Gibraltar he could understand. She would certainly get no medical help here. But he had even less faith in the surgeon of the Beltrane. Would Granger not bleed her? He had bled Callow. Since Ian had not taken half so much blood from the ship’s boy, there was no lasting harm.
Miss Rochewell could not sustain the same. As for Mrs. Pargutter . . . But it looked very like he would have to engage that lady to help Miss Rochewell. She and the maid were the only allies Miss Rochewell would have on the ship. He had his doubts. He was considering how much to tell Mrs. Pargutter when that lady sailed into the taproom like a frigate before the wind, with the maid, loaded above her head with parcels, trailing in the larger woman’s lee.
“There is hardly time to pack before we must be at the quay.” Mrs. Pargutter’s black silks exhibited great dark half circles of sweat beneath her arms, and beads winked upon her forehead under her fat, unnaturally colored curls. “I have hardly a moment to refresh myself.” She collapsed upon a bench and waved weakly at the barman. “A glass of negus, sir.”
Jenny peered around the bandboxes for a place to set them down. “No, no!” Mrs. Pargutter exclaimed. “Take those upstairs and pack my things. There is not a moment to be lost.” The urgency in her voice was almost comic. “And do check on dear Miss Rochewell.”
That sounded promising. Ian rose and took the glass of negus from the barman. “Madam,” he said politely as he set it down. “Allow me.”
“Oh, you young men are always trying to ingratiate yourselves with a pretty woman,” she simpered. “Do join me, Mr. Rufford, in a glass.”
He sat across from Mrs. Pargutter.
“You should have seen the clever little reticules I found, made entirely from feathers. And lace as fine as any in Madrid or Barcelona. I purchased several ells, in black, of course.”
“Miss Rochewell is ill, madam. A physician was summoned to her this morning.”
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Pargutter exclaimed. “Is it catching? I sat next to her in the boat.”
“It is not contagious. And she has you to sustain her on the ship.” Ian peered at her.
“Me?” Mrs. Pargutter’s eyes widened in shock. “I am a very bad sailor, sir, as you must have noticed.” She shook her head. “I could not possibly attend a sickbed.”
“Perhaps Jenny?”
“But she will be busy attending to me.” Mrs. Pargutter placed the tip of her forefinger in a dimple just under her mouth, considering. “Miss Rochewell had best stay in Gibraltar until she recovers. No one will have time to bother about her on board a ship.”
“Staying in Gibraltar does not seem suitable for a young lady alone.” Ian rose. It was much as he suspected. Still, the crew of the ship adored Miss Rochewell. They would care for her if the doctor could be kept at bay.
“Well, perhaps a good cupping would set her up in form,” Mrs. Pargutter offered. “Landlord, another glass.”
Ian turned away in exasperation. What was all this preoccupation with letting blood? Lord, they didn’t even drink it. This woman was of no use. Miss Rochewell had no protector, no one who could even see her back to health. What was his obligation here?
But that was only too evident. He was the cause of Miss Rochewell’s malaise, and he must protect her. It would mean breaking his promise. He set his lips. Well, that was for later. He strode out of the inn without a word to Mrs. Pargutter. Her indignant harrumph pursued him.
The streets down to the quay were crowded with soldiers, sailors, passengers, and merchants all engaged in seeing the convoy once more to sea in the late afternoon. Ian supported Miss Rochewell, half-fainting on his arm, toward the barge that flew the Beltrane’s number. Under his other arm he hefted a crate of porter. His neck cloth slipped and he almost cried out as the waning sun struck his face full on. He dared not stop to pull it up. He noted dimly that Mrs. Pargutter waited at the wrong dock.
“Ho there, are you for the Beltrane?” he called.
The Captain’s cox’sun turned, took in the situation, and motioned several hands forward.
“Miss Rochewell is not feeling quite the thing,” Ian muttered, through the searing pain.
But they had her already in hand. “Put a foot just here,” one said as he lifted her in. Did she wish to sit there by the stern? This extra cloak might be welcome in the freshening breeze. It would be but a moment until they had her aboard, they said. They glared at Ian as though they knew that he had caused her malaise.
“A physician recommended porter,” Ian lied. He handed over the crate he’d purchased from the landlord. It took two men to stow it. They looked at him with even more suspicion.
Behind him, Mrs. Pargutter bustled up, wailing. “Wait!” she called. “Wait for me!”
“Full up,” the cox’sun barked. “Take that there skiff.”
The boat pushed off. “Stretch out!” the cox’sun barked, and the men pulled at the oars. Miss Rochewell huddled in the huge woolen cloak, not even waving to him. He pulled up his neck cloth and stepped into the skiff with Mrs. Pargutter and Jenny. He had eyes only for the Captain’s barge. He was relieved to see that the cox’sun called for a bo’sun’s chair for Miss Rochewell before his boat ever kissed the ship’s side. They bundled her into that contraption tenderly, then scrambled nimbly up the side to take her out on deck. She was already in her quarters by the time Ian had run up the side himself.
In the fading light Mrs. Pargutter was shrilling about the stowing of her parcels. Ian strode to the forward hatch and so down to the surgeon’s domain below the waterline, stripping off his gloves, cravat, and hat. “Granger!” he barked. The surgeon smelled of spirits. A hanging lantern cast wild shadows as it swung
with the roll of the ship. The air was close down here, stinking of alcohol and the vile concoctions he poured down the sailors’ throats. Granger raised bloodshot eyes to his. “Miss Rochewell is ill,” Ian said. “You will be called. You are not to bleed her. You will instead prescribe sustaining food five times daily, to include both meats and vegetables, and porter whenever she can take it. Am I understood?”
Granger managed to get to his feet. “You dare to dictate to me, sir?”
Ian’s anger swelled. This man could harm Miss Rochewell, even cause her death, with his stupidity. With the anger, Ian felt a singing along his veins. The song buzzed in his ears, even blurred his vision. Granger shrank back and Ian knew his eyes had gone red. “You will not bleed her.” The whisper would echo in Granger’s mind. “You will consult me before any treatment.”
Granger nodded blankly.
“And stop drinking.” Ian whirled and climbed up to the deck. He would order some gruel and chopped boiled fowl to be taken to her cabin. Could she eat on her own? The ship’s rigging groaned. He felt the pull of her sails. The convoy was under way. The next stop was Brest.
There were no secrets in a ship. The moon sank in a sky streaked with clouds. The steady creak of rigging and spars and the slip of water past the keel were the only sounds apart from the whispering crew. He stood at the bowsprit, the very apex of the ship, where he was most nearly alone. In the middle watch, Ian’s newly sensitive hearing had picked up ing the thick copper-tanged liquid slide down his throat, their bodies twined in ecstasy?
He must convince her not to bear witness against him. Her goodwill could disarm the crew’s suspicions. Her silence in England would allow his dream of home to blossom. But how? He racked his brain, every lie, every possible excuse, only sounding lame in his own ears. What fabrication would a woman like that believe?
He closed his eyes against the round of fruitless thoughts as the sky grayed. An image of her, frail against the quilts, gnawed at him. Her chess game, played to win, but thoughtfully, rose to mind, and her practical acceptance of his healing powers. He saw the flash of her eyes as she told him she had seen the mysteries of the Levant and explained her theory about the Sphinx.
The key to his dilemma lay in who she was . . . a searcher for truth, no matter how strange, a practical woman, more intelligent than most men he knew, who accepted no condescension. He sighed as the conclusion became inescapable. He would have to tell her at least part of the truth.
This was bad. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done. It would put him in a woman’s power to an even greater degree—something he had vowed never to let happen. He turned and paced back toward the waist, the crew melting out of his way. The price to his pride was too great. He couldn’t do it, no matter the consequence. The pipe called the morning watch up to clean the decks. It was his signal to retire for the coming day.
On the other hand, how badly did he want to go home to England?
Ten
Beth woke to painful light streaming through the window hatch. Tapping sounded at the door. The roll of the ship was a comfort. She must be a hundred miles away from Rufford now. She had escaped. She was glad to be away from him. Absolutely ecstatic. She felt a little better today. Redding had brought her a bit of roasted chicken last night and more of that vile porter. And she had slept the night through, with only a couple of disturbing dreams she would not think about. One had to be forgiven for one’s dreams, did one not? In some ways, those dreams seemed to be her blood, her Egyptian blood, calling to her.
The tapping came again. “Yes?” she called, amazed at the smallness of her own voice.
“Redding, miss. The cook thought you might fancy a boiled egg and a bit of gruel. And the doctor is here to see you.”
“Just leave the tray.” She sat up and pulled the quilt to her chin. “I am not dressed.”
But the door opened and the doctor brought in the tray. “I am a medical man, my dear. It makes no difference whether you are dressed.” He filled the narrow stateroom, looking haggard this morning but not drunk. He set the tray on her lap. She had no desire for another examination. At least Rufford could not interrupt and throw the doctor bodily out the door.
But the surgeon showed no signs of wanting to examine her. “I thought you would require bleeding, but I find you much improved,” he said, looking nervous somehow. “I think just a diet filled with red meat to stimulate your bodily functions, some good strong porter, and perhaps a tonic bolus of Peruvian bark should set you up.”
She nodded warily. “I’m glad you decided against bleeding. . . .”
“As am I,” a familiar bass voice rumbled. “Miss Rochewell, you seem improved.”
The doctor started as badly as Beth. Rufford loomed behind him.
“I shall look in later with your bolus.” The surgeon practically scurried from the room.
“What are you doing here?” Beth said, trembling, when left face-to-face with Rufford. “You promised you would go overland. . . .”
“I regret I had to break that promise.” He slipped into the room and closed the door. Beth shrank away. “I could not trust the good doctor not to bleed you and there seemed no one to see to your needs.”
“Mrs. Pargutter—”
“—could not be bothered even to see you to the launch,” he cut her off brutally. His face was reddened and a little swollen, as though he had been in the sun. Which he had, she remembered. He had come to the inn in daylight to see how she did and walked her to the barge.
“Well, you had no need to worry. The doctor did not want to bleed me, and Redding brought a most sustaining supper from the cook last night. You might have kept your promise after all.” She was almost sure she was frightened to death that her tormentor was on board the ship. Certainly her heart was pounding, and the telltale black circles floated in her vision.
“Calm yourself, madam.” He squinted against the light from the small window. Now he reached for the little curtain, drew it, and cast the cabin into twilight. He was planning to stay.
“Go now,” she ordered.
“I must talk with you.”
“Go this minute or I will scream.” The black circles threatened to close in on her.
“If you would calm yourself and let me explain—”
“What can you explain?” He had sucked her blood, though she didn’t like to say that where others could possibly hear. He loomed over her. “If you kill me they will know it was you,” she whispered. “They will clap you in irons.” An empty threat, with his strength.
He looked at his hands as though to gather courage. They were strong, square hands. She remembered the feel of his fingers on her throat. If he had wanted to kill her, it would have been easy then. He raised his eyes. They were filled with such dismay she was startled.
“You think I would kill you?” His mouth was mobile. “I would not harm you. I have sought only to remedy my . . . my indiscretion.” He took a breath. “No. No excuses—my inexcusable sin.” He continued when she could think of no reply. “You may call the Captain, of course. You have the marks on your neck and Callow’s for corroboration. The sailors distrust me since the pirate attack. They might believe you.” He seemed to gather courage. “I want to go to England—to get back some version of a normal life. I am guilty of my needs unless—no, until a doctor cures me of what I have become. If you desire it, I will confess.”
Why? Why would he confess? All he could expect was incarceration, which for him would be death without blood to sustain him. Or being torn limb from limb by a mob here on the ship or when he was tried in England. Unless his healing powers could preserve him. But still—to expose himself to that risk, the physical pain . . . Her gaze darted over his face looking for an answer. She did not have far to look. It was in his shame, in the distress that had lurked in his eyes since the moment she first saw him. He said he wanted to justify himself, but underneath he believed he deserved the worst.
She blinked. “I shall consider your offer t
o confess.” She should demand he leave.
He looked down again, awkward. “You have a scientific curiosity. Perhaps you will find my story . . . interesting,” he murmured. “Listen, then do what you must.” He grabbed the stool from beneath her basin and pulled it between his legs before she could say yes or no. His knees touched her cot. His thick lashes brushed his cheeks as he stared at the wood floor. “I did not choose to become what I am.”
Beth said nothing.
His brows drew together. “I was taken out of a Navy sloop two years ago by Barbary pirates and sold as a slave. You have guessed as much.” He stopped, unable to go on.
Beth realized that the mystery she had so wanted to unravel now wanted to explain himself. Suddenly she wanted to hear his story very much. How had she let fear stand in the way? “You have been cruelly treated.” Would that make it easier for him to say what he wanted so much to tell her, yet obviously dreaded telling?
He took a breath, dared a glance at her. She nodded encouragement.
“I was sold as a pack animal to a caravan, or so I thought.”
Beth checked a sharp intake of breath. “How horrible!”
He gave a chuckle he meant to be rueful. It cracked in the middle. “Oh, that was not the horrible part. The keepers beat me, of course, and the life was hard. No one spoke to me until Fedeyah wanted to practice his English. They treated me like a mule or an ox. But they fed me well and watered me so that I could bear the work. I grew used to the drudgery and the whip. One can grow used to almost anything, you know.” He studied the hands he had clasped before him. “But this was a special kind of caravan. It traveled by night and did not carry goods to trade, but only supplies for an endless journey through the desert. The owner of the caravan rode in a strange litter. Slaves sent into the owner’s tent came back dead, drained of blood.” He swallowed. “One slave at a time was chosen to serve the owner . . . more . . . personally.”
Rufford’s knuckles were white on his clasped hands. Beth knew she had to help him if he was to get the story out. “Who was this owner?”
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