Captive Splendors (19 page)

By the end of the third day Caleb was lucid but in severe pain. Aubrey grew fearful. “Cal, it is I, Aubrey. You must lie still. You've been ill for days with a raging fever. I'm almost sure your ribs are broken, but I couldn't chance taping you up for fear I would do something wrong and pierce a lung. I'll do it now, but you must remain still. Cal, do you understand me? Just nod your head.” Caleb nodded weakly. Sensing his need to talk, Aubrey warned him not to make the effort till he was bandaged and resting comfortably. Again Caleb nodded.

He was as weak as a newborn infant and barely had the strength to lift his head. Aubrey had to balance his shoulder and neck as he wrapped strips of cloth around his rib cage. The effort left Caleb exhausted, and he fell into his first natural sleep. The old dandy sighed. Caleb would be hale and hearty in good time. It was the girl who worried him. By now she should have come around. There were periods when she was so still, so pale, locked in the embrace of a deep, unnatural sleep, and other times when she would cry out for Caleb to help her.

When Caleb awoke the following day, the first thing he heard was Wren's voice calling to him. For a moment he was back in the thick of the storm, lashed to the wheel, hearing her cries for help. His tortured eyes sought out Farrington's. The old gambler pointed a finger at the other bunk, and Caleb's eyes widened in shock. The enormity of what he was seeing hit him full force. She was alive—and calling for him! He struggled weakly to get up, and the pain that shot through him brought him back down on the hard bedding. “Tell me, Aubrey, how bad is she?” he rasped faintly.

Farrington shrugged. “I'm no physician, Cal. I think she may be dying. She's been calling your name, but that's all she says. Her fever's been raging, just like yours was, but you met your crisis and conquered it. Her ribs are bruised and her shoulder was dislocated, though not too severely. Harkin and I saw to setting it, but I can't say we didn't do her any harm. She's been developing chills these past few hours, and I've covered her with as many blankets as I could lay my hands on. Harkin keeps me supplied with heated bricks from the galley, but nothing seems to help. There isn't much more I can do. I'm sorry, Caleb.”

“It's my fault. I never should have let that preacher get his hands on her. There must be
something
you can do,” he pleaded.

“All we can do is wait,” Farrington said miserably.

“To wait is to see her die,” Caleb moaned. Then he remembered when Sirena's son Mikel had been ill and had violent chills. She had taken his small form into the bed with her and held him close. Her body warmth had been all the small boy had needed, and the chills had soon ended. His mind refused to remember that little Mikel had died two days later. Wren wouldn't die! She couldn't die!

“Bring her here, Aubrey, and place her beside me. Don't look at me like that, you old fox. My body warmth is all we have. Strip her down. I can't get her warm if she's wrapped in those sweat-dampened rags. Be gentle and be careful, Aubrey.”

Ignoring his pain, Caleb slid over close to the wall to make room for Wren. The effort of his movement left him breathless and lightheaded.

Aubrey gently laid the girl beside Caleb and discreetly looked the other way while Caleb enfolded her in his arms. He cradled her next to him and murmured soft words which were indistinguishable to Farrington. The gambler decided it was time to go topside; he wouldn't watch what wasn't meant for his eyes. Only men hopelessly in love looked as Caleb had when he had taken the shivering girl in his arms.

“Caleb, help me,” It was the barest whisper, and he almost failed to hear it. He held her closer, careful of her injuries.

“I'm here, Wren, I'm here.”

Throughout the long, endless day Wren cried out for Caleb and he would answer, his mouth pressed against her ear. His strong, sinewy arms enfolded her, and from time to time he kissed her cheek in tenderness.

During the night, as her chills began to abate and her sleep became lighter, her words became clearer as she cried for Caleb. He listened to them, his heart breaking for her as, bit by bit, the episode concerning Malcolm came to light. At first he hadn't understood when she had whimpered with fear. But as the night wore on and he continued to whisper words of comfort, she told him about Malcolm's losing her in a card game to the rough and surly seamen. Her eyes squeezed shut as though she were reliving the horror of the rape; she breathed the words over and over. Only the sound of Caleb's voice seemed to assuage her as he gentled away her tremors. Toward dawn, Wren seemed disposed to answering simple questions, and Caleb knew without a doubt that the horror she had described was much more than a nightmare. It was the horror of truth.

Hatred boiled in his heart when he thought of Malcolm and what perfidy he had enacted upon Wren's innocence. The desire to kill, crush, destroy, throbbed through his veins. He tried to tell himself he was experiencing the reaction of any brother who has learned that his sister was used and raped. But as Wren settled into a more natural sleep and nestled her body closer to his, drawing strength from the warmth he offered, he realized his pain went much deeper than that of a brother. With very little persuasion, he could love Wren. He could erase the tortures she had undergone in her first physical contact with a man. The inner strength of Wren's ability to live with that violence filled him with awe and respect. He himself had witnessed the devastation that rape could have on a woman. He had been with Sirena through the worst of her trials, and he was familiar with the courage and resiliency that were necessary to go on with life.

Remembering what had been enacted upon Sirena and imagining what had been done to Wren, Caleb wrapped his arms more protectively about the girl who slept so trustingly in his arms, a haze of moisture in his eyes making a nimbus of the single lantern light flickering in the darkness.

 

By midafternoon of the following day Wren's fever had broken. Caleb climbed gingerly from the bunk, careful not to disturb her. She was sleeping her first natural sleep since the storm. He held his bruised sides carefully and motioned Farrington, who had peered in to check on them, to go topside.

After dressing, Caleb stood looking down at Wren, a great lump in his throat threatening to choke off his air as he remembered the things she had told him the night before. Again a surge of protectiveness swept over him, existing simultaneously with the hatred he felt for Malcolm Weatherly. His hand reached out to brush away a stray lock of hair that had fallen over her cheek, but he quickly withdrew it. He wouldn't allow himself to feel anything other than brotherly toward her. Wren needed time to heal, not to find herself thrown into the midst of another love affair. After what she had suffered, how could she ever learn to trust another man? It had taken Sirena what had seemed a lifetime to overcome the memories of what she had suffered before she could admit her love for Regan and go into his arms with trust and confidence.

Caleb told himself he had no time for waiting games. Wren was his sister, or close to it, he amended. He would find his satisfaction with a woman who would understand his need was just for that. For satisfaction. If Wren wanted someone to talk with, he would be there for her. He couldn't allow his feelings for her, which were dangerously beyond those of a friend or a brother, to get the better of him.

Once out on deck, Caleb walked on wobbly legs to the wheelhouse to see how his first mate was faring. Satisfied that the ship was still keeping a true course, he made his way with Farrington to the quarterdeck. In a voice the gambler had never heard before, Caleb thanked him for his aid and for ministering to Wren.

“There's no need for thanks, Cal. I saw my duty and I did it. You would have done the same for me,” Aubrey said offhandedly.

“What you say is true, Aubrey. But this is the second time you've stepped in and come to my rescue. The first time was in the Owl's Eye Inn, when I was about to be rolled by the doxie's accomplices. I'm in your debt.”

“Just get me to Martinique, where I can unload this store of riches that has fallen into my hands. That's all I want from you, Cal. You've been like a son to me. Oh, I know you lose patience with me, and sometimes I'm insufferable, but if there's one thing you must believe, it's that you are truly like a son.” There was an almost humble note in the old man's voice, and Caleb was surprised. Just when he thought he had the old fox figured out, Farrington did something that cancelled all his previous wrongs.

Well, he didn't have time to worry about Farrington now. Now he had to concern himself with Wren and how he was going to get her back to Sirena and Regan. And then, he thought to himself murderously, I'll get that bastard Stoneham and wring his goddamn skinny neck till he looks like a dead chicken! There was little he could do about Weatherly until he returned to England, but he swore he would seek him out if it took a lifetime. And when he found him, Weatherly would curse the day he had ever set eyes on Wren.

Back in his quarters, he leaned over the sleeping girl till he had assured himself her breathing was deep and normal. She had a little coloring in her cheeks and he knew she would mend, perhaps not as quickly as he had, but she was alive and would continue to stay that way if he had anything to do with the matter.

Slowly he descended the ladder into the hold of the ship and found himself in the midst of a prayer meeting. Rage coursed through him at the fanatical look on Bascom Stoneham's face. Without stopping to think, he reached for the prayer book Bascom was reading from and flung it across the wooden floor. Gasps and sharp exclamations of horror rang in his ears.

“I've met fools in my day, but none your equal,” Caleb growled. “Do you realize you could have killed Wren by taking her topside during a storm? It's a miracle either of you is alive! From now on, you and the others will stay here in the hold. It matters little to me if you like it or not. I've given orders to my men to report to me immediately the first time one of you sets foot on deck. Do we understand each other, Stoneham?”

“Heathen unbeliever!” Bascom cried piously. “Your sister needed to be purged for her wrongdoings, and what better time than during one of the Lord's miracles of nature? You yourself just said it was a miracle we both survived, and that's exactly what it was—a miracle! If you no longer wish us to go on deck, then we will stay below with the rats. But I want to implore you to take pity on my sister and allow her a little fresh air daily. She's been ailing since the start of the voyage, and nothing we do seems to help. Sara,” he called, “come here.”

Sara rose to her feet and walked slowly toward her brother and Caleb. She tried to smile, but her stomach felt so queasy she gave it up and grimaced as though in pain. Caleb frowned. If he did what the preacher asked, he would be running a damn nursery. Sara did look ill, though. He couldn't leave her down here with her brother and not feel guilty.

“Very well, she goes topside with me.” There was no need to tell Bascom that he would quarter her in his cabin with Wren. The less that God-fearing gentleman knew, the better off everyone would be.

Sara followed Caleb docilely up the ladder and trailed him to his cabin. She showed no emotion at the sight of Wren asleep in the bunk, and Caleb thought it strange that she, as Wren's friend, did not inquire after her health. It seemed as if Sara had blindly accepted whatever story Bascom had told his congregation regarding Wren and the storm and his part in her near death.

Caleb watched Sara slide into the empty bunk and pull the cover up to her chin. The dark hollows around her eyes and the decidedly green cast to her complexion evoked in him a thread of pity for her mal de mer. The girl looked almost gaunt, and he found himself hoping it was only seasickness that was troubling her. The last thing he needed aboard ship was an outbreak of typhoid or the plague. He was about to reconsider the judiciousness of placing Sara in the same cabin with Wren when he saw her eyes close in a kind of painful sleep. Unable to bring himself to disturb her again, Caleb settled himself on a tack box and thrust his legs out before him, careful not to place undue pressure on his bound midsection. A little warm air, a mug of rum and a dash of sunshine were all he needed, and before long he would be in fine fettle.

Aubrey Farrington was fast losing his patience with Malcolm Weatherly. “You'll live,” he said callously. “You have no choice; you knew that when I made the arrangements to bring you aboard. You agreed; it's as simple as that.”

“Listen to me, you weasel. I've had about all of this that I can stand. I need some hot food and fresh air. This locker box is like a hellish pit, and if you don't figure some way to get me out at night and filch me some decent food, I'll kill you,” Malcolm threatened. “It's as simple as that.”

A chill washed over Farrington. Weatherly was brutally ugly. Gone were his dashing good looks and his debonair manner. Now he was scarred, his eye blinded and a vicious, crusting scab running the length of his face. His once elegant manners were now those of a hunted animal. “I'll see what I can do, but I'll make no promises. Caleb is resting on deck. If the opportunity presents itself, I'll smuggle you some hot food. As for the fresh air, it depends on who is about and standing watch. I told you all this in the beginning and warned you there would be days when you would go hungry. You agreed. If you want to jeopardize all of our efforts, do it. Cal will have you shackled down here, and then where will you be? In case you aren't familiar with the nautical mind, let me tell you that this locker box is a brig when the occasion demands it.”

Weatherly's lip curled and he stifled the urge to lash out at the old man. He couldn't allow him to have the last word. “Then see to getting me some clean clothes. These rags aren't fit for the likes of me. They smell,” he said curtly.

Aubrey Farrington did not reply as he walked out the door. Some people were ignorant beyond insult, he muttered to himself as he threw the heavy iron bolt on the outside door. He smiled at the terminal sound. If he had his way, that sod would rot in there and no one would be the wiser. Only he would know. Himself and his maker, and as his years were drawing to a close, he knew he had better stay on the straight and narrow if he wished a seat in Heaven. He wasn't exactly a religious man, calling on his God only in times of stress—acute stress. He was, however, superstitious, as were most gamblers. He smiled and wrinkled his nose. Weatherly was right. Rotten fish smelled better than he did.

Back on deck, Farrington approached Caleb and was told about Sara.

“I'll be taking over your cabin; that means you move in with the crew,” Caleb said firmly, disregarding Farrington's look of displeasure at being ousted from his small, comfortable cabin. “And if you see that bastard Stoneham step one foot off that ladder, call me immediately. I've already alerted the crew. And, Aubrey, I want you to see to the women's well-being. Take their food to them and keep an eye on Wren. It will be a couple of days before she can walk the decks. I'm placing their care in your hands. I don't know what ails the Stoneham girl, but I'm sure you'll find a remedy.”

Farrington heard the ring of iron in Cal's voice and knew better than to protest. He had seen the tired look in his dark eyes and realized his friend was in pain. But now Aubrey had to be both a jailer and a wet nurse!

 

Later that evening, while Sara was out on deck, Caleb let himself into his former cabin to look in on Wren. She was lying on the bunk, her slight form barely making a mound beneath the coverlets, her face pale and wan against the pillows. Yet she gathered her strength and smiled up at him, the gratitude in her eyes magically kindling them to flames.

“I'm glad to see you looking alive. How does your shoulder feel?” he asked her, tenderness in his voice.

“Much better, thank you,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving his face.

“Have you everything you want? Are you thirsty?”

Wren nodded in affirmation. He lifted her gently to a half-raised position and placed a glass near her lips. She sipped slowly, barely having the strength to swallow. “You shouldn't be alone; I'll have someone come and stay with you.” Just as gently he lowered her to the pillow and moved toward the door.

“Caleb, wait,” she said hoarsely, her voice weak and thready.

Almost as though he knew what she was going to say, he hesitated in returning to her side. He crossed the cabin slowly, trying to assume some of his old swagger in spite of his injuries. But he realized it would be better to have it said than to keep running from it. If anything, it would be more painful for her than for him.

“Caleb, I . . . I have the feeling that I've . . . did I say anything to you about . . . about. . .” It seemed impossible for her to voice the words. It was unnecessary. From the pain in his eyes she knew she hadn't been dreaming. She had told him everything about Malcolm, or at least enough for him to put the pieces together to comprehend what had happened to her.

“Caleb, I couldn't bear it if you turned away from me. Do I disgust you?” she asked weakly, the effort of speaking nearly taking her breath away.

Instantly he was down on one knee, his face close to hers. “Never,” he assured her, his voice threatening to break. “I think you are the bravest, most courageous girl. . .” It was impossible to continue.

“I know what happened to the Sea Siren. Frau Holtz told me. And I knew that if she could go on with her life, so could I. But I couldn't bear to have you look at me with pity, Caleb. That is all I ask of you.”

“Never, Wren, only with admiration. And I promise you something else. When I get back to England, I'll search out that bastard and make him pay for what he's done to you. I swear it. He'll never draw another breath once I find him, no matter what it takes.” The vindictiveness in his voice frightened her, and she calmed him with a light touch to his cheek.

“Hush. There's no need for that. Every time Malcolm looks into a mirror he'll remember what his lust cost him.” Slowly, and with great effort, she insisted on telling him what she had done to escape the seamen and Malcolm. She admitted killing the ruffian and waited breathlessly for a look of horror to fill Caleb's eyes. When she saw only respect and admiration mirrored there, she relaxed and felt cleansed by her confession.

“Sleep now, little one,” he told her, placing a gentle hand on her forehead, afraid that the strain of their conversation would mean the return of her fever.

Obediently she closed her eyes. Just before he stepped out of the cabin, she called to him. “Will you come and see me again?”

In that long moment before he answered her, sleep claimed her, and her face became peaceful and serene.

 

Two days short of a fortnight found both Sara and Wren up and about. Caleb, completely mended, had resumed his duties as captain of the
Sea Siren.

It was an hour past noon when Wren looked deeply into Aubrey Farrington's eyes and said, “Thank you for saving my life. I'll never forget it. I don't know how I can ever repay you for what you've done and for the care you've given me.”

Aubrey blinked and frowned slightly at her words, and at that precise moment Wren won a permanent place in his heart. She looked different to him somehow. More womanly, more sure of herself. He hadn't known her before, but she had had the face of a girl when Harkin had carried her into Caleb's cabin. He couldn't explain it, and he was probably thinking through his hat, as Caleb called it. So he would mark it down to a foolish old man's wandering mind. Or did he have some preconceived opinions of her because Caleb had said she was flighty, irresponsible, spoiled, and had a tongue as sharp as any shrew on the wharf?

“You owe me no thanks. I did what anyone else would have done. You owe your true thanks to Caleb. He is the one who saved your life and knew what to do when your fever reached a peak. I was out of my depth, but he wasn't. You should be talking to him and not me.”

Sara sat quietly and listened to the exchange between Wren and the gambler. She was puzzled. She and Wren had spoken very little since the day Caleb had brought her up here. Wren slept for long periods, and when she did awaken, she seemed to prefer her own company and to remain quiet. Sara didn't really feel like talking either, and, at best, the long silences were companionable. She wondered if she should confide in Wren, tell her what she feared. Sometimes it helped to talk to someone, even stupid, frivolous Wren. Once she had tried and been stunned at the look in Wren's eyes. But Wren wasn't a silly schoolgirl any longer. She seemed different now, more assured . . . more womanly. Besides, what could Wren do except listen and then make a cutting remark, as had been her custom when she didn't like something? But Sara didn't think she could bring herself to tell Wren that the child she carried was Malcolm Weatherly's child. She couldn't. Then what was she to do? If Bascom ever found out, God in his Heaven couldn't save her.

She shuddered, and Farrington was immediately concerned, thinking she was having another attack of mal de mer. She smiled and said she was fine. He looked relieved. Taking care of two ailing women appeared to have bested the old man. Perhaps he would help her when they got to America. He was experienced, wise to the ways of the world. And old men liked young women. If she approached him carefully, she might be able to wrap him around her little finger and have him dancing to her tune. There was Caleb to consider also. After all, hadn't he taken pity on her and brought her to his very own quarters so that she could recuperate from her malaise? Caleb and the gambler seemed to be fast friends, and if she remembered correctly, at one time Wren had said they were partners. If she behaved smartly, perhaps she could pit one against the other and come out the winner. Tomorrow she would put her ideas into action and get the feel of things. Tomorrow was a new day. She needed this long night to map out a plan that would guarantee her safety from Bascom when they reached America. A plan whereby she and the child growing in her womb would have sufficient funds to enable them never to want for anything. All she needed to achieve her goal was a sound plan.

One day ran into the next, the mid-May weather becoming softer and more inviting. Sara and Wren barely spoke to each other, with Wren alternating between periods of depression and anger when she realized Caleb had made no move in her direction since she had explained what had happened to her. He had come to see her on several occasions, that was true, but only when Sara or Farrington had been in the cabin. Since she had recovered, her attempts to seek him out had not been successful. Each time she ventured near the wheelhouse, one of the crew would hurry her back to the deck, telling her the captain had no time for women's chitchat.

If it was the last thing she did before she left the ship, she would give him a piece of her mind for letting her rot in that dreadful hold with Bascom Stoneham. And if Caleb thought that helping her pass her feverish crisis served as his atonement, he was sadly mistaken. He couldn't face her. That was just like a man. He does his dirty work and then runs and hides, afraid to stand up and get his comeuppance. Well, she wouldn't let him get away with
that!

Gulping back a well of tears, Wren hated to admit that Caleb's avoidance of her had begun just after she had told him she had killed the seaman and maimed Malcolm. How the sight of her must repel him! She had driven him away with her confession just as surely as if she'd hefted a club in his direction.

She sat in her hard wooden chair on the deck and idly played with the deck of cards Lottie had given her. Since the order had been given that none of Bascom's flock could come above, the decks were painfully absent of people walking about, conversing in hopeful voices about the new lives they were going to lead in America. Even Bascom's fire-and-brimstone preachings were missed. “Like a stone removed from my shoe,” Wren muttered, refocusing her attention on the thin cards which slipped through her fingers.

She hated the idea of tricking Aubrey Farrington into a game of chance now that she had gotten to know him so well. He treated her kindly, like a grandfather, and she liked his sly smile and disarming wit. How could she bring herself to cheat him after all he had done for her? Damnation! But there was still the promise she had made to Lottie to settle an old score with Lord Farrington. She decided she would make it up to him later.

Sara appeared on deck, her sea legs making her movements graceful and unhurried. Every hand working with the rigging or sheets stopped what he was doing to watch her as she tossed her long, silvery-blond hair over her shoulders and pretended not to see the flirting looks cast her way.

Vain bitch! Wren thought uncharitably. I know she's going by the wheelhouse, I know she's going to wave to Caleb and I know he's going to wave back. The crew never stopped Sara from visiting the wheelhouse, just Wren. “Damn you, Caleb,” she said viciously just as Aubrey Farrington sat down next to her, his eyes on her playing cards.

“What have we here?” he asked, a surprised look on his face.

“Aubrey!” Wren cried in surprise. “Sit down and talk to me for a while. I feel like such an outcast on this damn ship. Sara looks at me as if she's blaming me for her brother's insane behavior, and Caleb hasn't come near me since I managed to get up and walk. You're the only one who will talk to me. Sara mutters from time to time, but it's not the same as talking.” Then she laughed. “I see you're looking at these cards. I like to shuffle them; it keeps my fingers limber. For when I play the spinet,” she added hastily. “And I like to look at the birds on the back and imagine where they come from.” At Farrington's skeptical glance, she continued. “When I was in school we studied nature and the woodland creatures, and I quite fell in love with plumed birds. So colorful and bright, they take your breath away. Don't you agree?”

“To be sure, to be sure,” Aubrey said. His skepticism had changed to amusement. “Do you know how to play? Cards, I mean.”