Books by Maggie Shayne (253 page)

I nodded my agreement. But I was not at ease as I returned to my cabin and waited there for word from the captain. I paced, nervous and frightened. I was taking a risk, I knew it. But as I thought of Duncan, of his eyes and the feeling, that sense of connection, that had passed between us there on the gallows, I knew I had no choice. Secretly, I’d longed to see him again. To thank him for what he’d tried to do. To feel that force moving between us once more. To touch his face, his hair, the way he’d touched mine. I’d longed… but secretly. It had been a fantasy. A dream I’d believed had no chance of coming true. Not ever.

And now it seemed… it would.

A tap came at my door, and I closed my eyes and stiffened my spine. “Who’s there?”

“Captain Murphy.”

I opened the door and faced the man. It had been more than an hour since I’d seen him last, and I wondered what he’d been up to, but I didn’t have to wonder long.

“We put a sleeping powder into some food and left it for him. I peered in only moments ago. He’s eaten every crumb and is resting quietly.“

I nodded, battling a chill of foreboding. “Then I’ll look in on him now. Take me to his cabin.”

I started forward, but the captain caught my arm. “Are you sure, mistress?”

Solemnly, I nodded. And then I moved beside him into the passage, toward the cabin of Duncan Wallace, and with every step, my heart beat a bit faster.

Just when Duncan had decided his illness was little more than a passing case of the sniffles, his fever climbed dangerously high, giving him renewed reason for doubt. He’d taken to his bunk, pulled the covers up to his chin, and drifted in and out of sleep, alternately freezing and sweltering, shivering and sweating. Each time he woke, he felt worse than the time before.

Damnation. He was thirsty.
Terribly
thirsty, and his throat felt so raw it hurt to swallow. Bleary-eyed, he reached for the pitcher beside his bunk, only to find it dry. And the flickering candle beside it was burning low. How long had he been on his back? Hours? A day? He thought he might be approaching delirium.

The knock at his door couldn’t have come at a worse time. If anyone aboard saw him in this condition, they wouldn’t hesitate to pitch him into the sea. And he couldn’t say he would blame them. From his bed he called, “Who’s there?” in a voice gone hoarse and thready.

“Steward, sir. The cap’n asked that I bring a meal down to you. Said you were feelin’ a mite seasick, he did.“

Closing his eyes, Duncan prayed there would be water. Or ale.
Any
liquid would sooth his parched, burning throat. “Leave it by the door,” he called, softening his voice slightly because it hurt to speak any louder. “I’ll come for it by and by.”

“Very well.”

He heard nothing more and waited a good while to be sure the man was gone. He still didn’t believe he was sick with the plague. Miserable, feverish, aching, yes. But not dying. Not even close. Still, there was no use risking the health of others. When he felt it was safe, Duncan got to his feet, but his head began to spin the second he did so. He gripped the back of a chair, and it tipped over, toppling him to the floor along with it. Damnation. He was sicker than he’d realized. Could he not even walk on his own?

It seemed better not to try. The ship seemed to be rocking a bit more than usual tonight. Perhaps that was the blame. He crawled on all fours to the door, opened it, and glanced quickly up and down the passage. No one was in sight, so he hauled the tray inside. A fresh pitcher of ale stood upon it, and his thirst burned anew.

The food, the very sight of it, followed quickly by its aroma, made his stomach turn over. He dragged the tray to his bunk, managed to right the chair, and set the pitcher and cup upon it. Then he pulled himself to his feet and, leaning weakly against the wall, struggled to open the porthole. He dumped the food into the sea, eager to have it out of sight. Perhaps his stomach would settle down some, then.

That done, he let the tin dishes fall to the floor and sank down onto his bed. It seemed he’d used every ounce of energy, all his strength, just to accomplish this one small task. He was disheartened to realize just how weak he truly was.

He managed to pour himself a bit of the ale, slopping too much of it onto the chair as he did. His hand trembled and his wrist felt barely able to lift the pitcher. Then he drank,
deeply.
Hellfire, he’d never been so thirsty in his life. He struggled to fill the cup again but gave up, deciding he was wasting too much of the precious liquid. This time he grasped the pitcher in both hands and tipped it to his mouth, gulping the cool, frothy brew, letting it numb and sooth his throat, and dull his pain. It warmed him some—eased the aches in his bones and joints.

As a student of the priesthood, Duncan had never imbibed in ale overly much. Even that night at the docks before leaving England, he’d only sipped at a single mug, making it last the entire time he’d spent in the tavern. He’d had wine, of course, in very small doses. It had never disturbed him. But suddenly he began to feel even more light-headed and dizzy than he had before. He glanced at the empty pitcher in his hands and realized he’d drained it. The flickering candlelight made him dizzier still, so he lay back on his bed, fully clothed, and closed his eyes. ’Twould pass. The spinning in his head would pass, if he just lay perfectly still.

How long he lay there, he had no notion. He drifted, dozed, woke again only to find his head still spinning. But when he blinked his eyes open this time, the candle’s weak flame cast a dim glow upon a face.

Soft. Beautiful. Opalescent in the candle glow. The face of the woman he’d been dreaming about. The dead beauty. His Witch. His enchantress. Was he still dreaming, then?

She leaned over him, one hand sliding gently over his cheek, clasping his jaw and easing his mouth wider. She lifted the candle and seemed to be looking into his mouth. But he could only stare at her. The candlelight danced in her black eyes like the very flames of passion. Her lashes were as dark and thick as if she were a gypsy girl. And that hair. That magnificent hair, cascading and tumbling over her shoulders. Shamelessly free, and uncovered.

He moved his lips, tried to speak. “You… you’re alive…”

Her black eyes widened and snapped toward his, seemingly surprised to see him awake and staring back at her. Quickly, with a pinch of her fingers, she doused the candle and set it on the stand. And he heard her moving away, heard her soft, nearly silent steps crossing the floor.

“Please…” he whispered, and he reached out a weak hand toward her even though she couldn’t possibly see it. He couldn’t let her go, let her slip away again. He had to know…

Hinges creaked as the door moved. Her voice, the voice of his fantasies, spoke softly. “Tis not the plague, Captain, but merely a fever that will pass him by soon enough. If you keep everyone away, there will be no danger to the others aboard.“

“Are you sure?” The captain sounded less than certain himself. “Because unless you are, mistress—”

“I am certain. I would not tell you so if I were not. I owe you a great deal, Captain Murphy. I’d never repay you by lying about a matter so grave.”

The captain might have nodded, because he didn’t utter a word. Duncan’s head was swimming, and he was trembling with cold again, yet he strained to listen.

“I’ll stay with him for a while,” the enchantress said. “If you would bring some blankets, and the freshest water to be found, heated in a kettle. Just leave them outside the door.”

“But if ”tis truly safe—“

“I only said ”twas not the plague. Though his illness is not deadly, Captain, “tis most miserable. Best you spare yourself and anyone else from falling prey to it if you can.”

“All right. I’ll bring what you need. Shall I send the physician, as well?”

Duncan frowned when she spoke again, because her words made no sense to him.

“I can care for him far better than your physician can.”

Then he heard the door close and tried in vain to see her in the dark room. Her footsteps brought her nearer, but he might as well have been blind, the room was so devoid of light of any kind.

Her weight sank onto the bed beside him. One of her cool hands stroked his fevered brow, while the other tucked his blanket more closely around him. Her touch was heaven, cooling, calming.

“You’re going to be all right, Duncan Wallace. I promise you that.”

He closed his eyes, sighing at the comfort her touch brought to him. “You… you’re the Witch,” he muttered. “I saw you die.”

“No, Duncan. I’m but a stranger with a gift for healing. And you’ve never met me before. ”Tis the fever making you see another woman’s face instead of mine.“

She was lying. Even in this state, he knew she was. He lifted a hand, touched her hair, felt its silk just as before. He could even smell it, and he knew its scent was the same. “If you’re not the woman I saw hanged in the town square,” he whispered, “then light the candle and let me see your face.”

“The candle has burned out.”

He tried to sit up, to grip her shoulders, but she easily pushed him back down. He was too weak to fight her. Too sick. Sick. Damnation, he’d forgotten. “You should go, whoever you are,” he told her. “You could take ill, as well.”

“I’ve cared for many sick ones, Duncan, but I’ve never once become sick myself. You’ve no need to worry on that.”

He frowned, and as she leaned over him, pressing her ear to his chest, he buried both hands in her hair, caressing its softness, committing each curl to memory.

She caught her breath and went very still. But she did not pull away. Was she closing her eyes as he was, then? Relishing the feel of his hands in her hair? The beat of his heart beneath her ear? He imagined she was, even thought he heard her sigh in pleasure, before she stiffened her resolve once again.

“Stop, now, Duncan,” she said, but her voice was raspy and soft. “I’m only listening to your lungs, not embracing you.”

He ran his fingers gently up and down her nape. “I canna stop thinking about you,” he told her. “You’ve haunted me…”

“Don’t say these things.”

But he had to say them. Who knew when he’d get the chance again? “You mustn’t leave me again. You must tell me the truth. How could you have survived the hangman’s noose? How…”

She lifted her head away, and Duncan’s hands fell limply to the bed. “You are burning up with fever and imagining things. I’ve never even seen a hangman, nor a noose, much less survived such horrors. I vow, your imagination is a fertile one, Duncan.”

He sat up slightly, supporting himself on his elbow, so dizzy he could scarcely hold his head up. And when she moved close to him again, as if to ease him back down, he clasped her shoulders and drew her even closer. “Are you certain you willna catch this fever from me?”

“Of course,” she whispered, and he heard the fear in her voice. The delicious fear. She wasn’t pulling away, and she had to know what he intended.

“Good.”

His lips found hers in the darkness as if by second sight. Soft, moist, so tender. He kissed her mouth the way he’d dreamed of doing since he’d watched her die. The way no man of his background should even consider doing. But ’twas as if he moved, and acted, without his mind’s consent.

She tasted delicious. Sweet and cool and salty. Her lips were full and responsive, her tongue like satin when he touched it with his own. She shivered, or trembled. A soft sigh escaped her mouth, and he swallowed that sigh. His hands dived into her hair, and he deepened the kiss, parting her willing lips further, exploring her mouth, pulling her so close her breasts crushed to his chest. Her arms had gone around him, he realized, stunned. She was holding him, too, kissing him back. He lay back on his bunk, pulling her with him, until she lay stretched atop his body. He ran his hands down over her back and caressed her buttocks, and ached to be inside her, beyond the barriers of clothing.

She braced her hands against his chest and pulled her lips from his. “No,” she whispered. “You… you’re a priest.”

“And how could you know that unless you are the woman I believe you to be?”

He felt her shake her head in denial. “The captain… he said…”

“He’d not have known it either, pretty one.” Duncan closed his eyes, dizzy, and aroused to the point where it made him even more so. “I was only a student of the priesthood, lass. An‘ I gave it up the day I saw my teacher do murder.“

She was silent for a moment. “You gave it up?” A slow breath, he felt it warming his face. “Because of… of what you saw?“

“Admit you’re the one,” he begged her. “I’ve feared for my sanity, lass. Tell me you’re she who was hanged for Witchery in the town square. She who has haunted my mind ever since.”

“I am not.” But her voice trembled. “And you are quite drunk.”

“Aye, I fear ”tis true. They brought me ale and I drank it as if ‘twere water. I admit, I am unused to its sting.“

“And you’re half out of your head with fever.”

“An’ the other half with wantin‘ you.“ He pressed his palms to her back to bring her close, kissed her mouth again. His hands moved down her back, low on her thighs, and he bunched up her skirt to stroke the satin skin underneath. He arched his hips against her.

She pressed against him in return, and he heard her shuddering breaths. But she seemed to steel herself against him, and broke the kiss by turning her head to the side. Quickly she whispered, “When you gave up your studies, did you give up your beliefs as well, Duncan? Is it no longer a sin to fornicate?”

She said it in a clipped and harsh tone, and yet struggled to get enough breath for each sentence. As if she were as hungry for him as he was for her.

“I dinna ken
what
I believe. I’ve never…I’ve never wanted like this before. Perhaps you
are
a Witch, and I’ve fallen under your spell…”

She jerked free of him so roughly he knew he’d said the wrong thing. He tried to open his eyes, but it was so dark and he was so disoriented, he couldn’t be sure if they were open or closed.

“” ‘Tis a typical male who would find a way to blame his lust on the object of it. I’ve put no spell on you, Duncan Wallace. And if I did, ’twould be a spell designed to sharpen your dull brain, not to make you desire me.”

“Nay,” he whispered, feeling cold and empty as he listened to the sounds of her getting to her feet, righting her dress. “You’d have no need of a spell to make me desire you, my beauty, because I already do.”

“You’re out of your head with the ale and the fever.”

He sensed she’d turned her back to him. “You know not what you say.”

“Just tell me ”tis true. That you’re alive. That ‘tis not all of my imaginin“. ”Twill be enough to sustain me if only I know—“

“I am sorry, Duncan. But I cannot tell you what you wish to hear. If things were different, perhaps—”

“Dammit, woman, there is somethin’ between us, an‘ well you know it. Somethin“ alive an’ real passed between you an’ me on those gallows, an‘ you felt its power as much as I did, I know it. I saw it in your eyes. You stole my heart, lass… an“ I dinna even know your name.”

“You… are mistaken…”

A knock at the door interrupted her, but Duncan thought he’d heard tears in her voice. He feared she was leaving when she answered that knock, but she didn’t. She only took what was delivered and came back to him. He could sense the fever soaring high again. He was shivering cold, and damp with sweat, and his mind was wandering, drifting away before he forced it back with an effort. She brought him another blanket, and a cup of something hot and fragrant. She laid cool cloths, across his forehead. And then she told him to sleep. Gently she said the word. Again and again. Until he did.