Castaway Dreams (7 page)

Dr. Murray glanced up and met Daphne's eyes across the table. He held her glance and the cabin became oddly hushed in the moment. It was an interesting face, she thought, broad and well-made, with a blade of a nose. His forehead was high, the rufous hair neatly swept back and kept short, a style more suited to practicality than fashion. Not a handsome face like Mr. Carr's, and one could easily overlook it, focusing instead on the surgeon's gruff demeanor. After all, when one was having dealings with a surgeon, what his face looked like was generally the last consideration, wasn't it? You looked at his hands, the strength in his arms for bone-setting or bone-sawing.

Daphne broke the glance and looked down at those hands, finely shaped, with long fingers holding his fork and knife in a delicate manner, handling them like instruments, no motion or effort wasted.

Then she remembered that those hands would shortly be on her, helping her out of her clothes, and she felt the warmth flow across her cheekbones. Startled, she looked up at Dr. Murray. He was still watching her face, but now his eyes were darker, more brown than the blend of forest colors she saw when he was in the sunlight. Unaccountably nervous, Daphne licked her lips and his eyes grew darker still at the motion. He set his silverware down on the rough table and appeared about to speak.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Daphne said, rising to her feet, and there was a wave of motion as the men jumped up, Dr. Murray the last to rise as he watched her still.

"Are you well, Miss Farnham?" Mr. Carr asked concernedly.

"Yes, indeed I am, but I just recalled some tasks I must see to in my cabin before it becomes too late. If you will forgive me, I will say goodnight now."

Daphne paused outside the captain's cabin, holding her tinware plate for the dog, and took a deep breath. She could still hear the rumble of voices within as the men finished up their supper and port.

There was nothing to be nervous about. Dr. Murray would be brisk and efficient, as he always was, and he would look at her as if she had a brain the size of Pompom's.

* * * *

There was nothing to be nervous about, Alexander mentally chided himself. The chit had a brain the size of a walnut, and all he had to do was enter her cabin, undo her tapes, and bid her goodnight.

The fact that her looking at him earlier this evening had caused his body to stir to life was simply proximity and her undeniable physical attractiveness. He could have taken care of these needs in Jamaica, but between the rather dubious wares offered in the dockside brothels and his efforts to wrap up his work aboard the
Caeneus
, the opportunity passed and he was bound for England.

With the delectable Miss Farnham.

He wiped his palms against his thighs and took a deep breath.

As soon as Alexander's knuckles touched the door, it was flung open, and it helped clear his thoughts.

"Miss Farnham, you must ask who is on the other side of the door before opening it," he said sternly. "What if it were one of the sailors standing there, a man with no business being at your cabin?"

"Why would a sailor be rapping at my door, Doctor, unless he had an important message?" Miss Farnham blinked up at him, those long, lush lashes shading her eyes. "Oh dear, do you have indigestion?"

"The pain I am experiencing at the moment has nothing to do with supper, Miss Farnham. May I come in?"

"Of course," she said, opening the door wider. Some order had been restored to the cabin, and there were less furbelows blocking movement. Miss Farnham beamed at him.

"I did as you said, Doctor, and pared down my wardrobe. I also packed up Mrs. Cowper's belongings and had them put in the hold. I am certain her family will be glad to receive them when we dock."

Alexander looked at her.

"Did you find more appropriate attire for yourself, Miss Farnham?"

"Yes. I found a stomacher-front walking dress that I can fasten, that one there of rose-striped muslin." She gestured at a white frock draped over a chair. Alexander could see nothing that distinguished it from other women's garments, but that was not the issue.

"It is last season's style, but I am willing to make do and wear it."

"I am cognizant of what a great sacrifice it must be for you, Miss Farnham."

"Indeed." She sighed. "But if it aids me in being more useful, Doctor, I will do what I must."

He looked at her, but the girl seemed completely serious.

"Is that the only useful garment you own, Miss Farnham?"

She put one finger to her dainty chin as she thought.

"I think there are dresses in a similar style in my trunks in the hold, Doctor."

"You have more trunks than these?"

She smiled at him as if he were the one with diminished mental capacity standing in the cabin.

"Of course I have more trunks, Dr. Murray. But it sounds to me as if the men will be busy tonight and tomorrow with this storm, so I will wait before asking them to haul them up so I can look for additional garments."

She'd removed the headpiece she wore earlier, and her thick braid snaked down her back, more disheveled than the neat construction he'd made earlier in the day. Wisps of hair curled around the tops of her ears and across her forehead, drawing attention to her eyes and her delicate cheekbones.

The silent cabin seemed too warm to him. He was anxious to leave and return to his own quarters, so his voice came out gruffer than he intended when he said, "It is time you were abed, Miss Farnham. Turn around and I will unfasten you."

Without waiting for her assent he stepped behind her. Miss Farnham stood with her hands at her side, like a fashion doll. China-headed, stuffed with sawdust...

...smelling of lavender and the slight tang of a woman's body sweating in a warm, moist environment, the skin at the back of her neck dewy and shining in the lamplight. When a swell caused the deck beneath his feet to shift, he grasped Miss Farnham's waist to steady her.

"Thank you, Dr. Murray," she said in a low voice. He pulled his hand back as if burned and grunted in response, concentrating instead on the ties at the back of her frock. Ridiculous, the way women's garments were fashioned. He'd heard tales of fops who needed to be squeezed into their coats by their valets and who were incapable of tying their own cravats, but he'd never thought about an entire class of humans reduced to the status of dressmakers' dummies by their need to be fastened in and out of their own clothing.

Such thoughts should distract him from the feel of the soft skin beneath her nape, the area above her chemise and corset revealed by the fabric falling away beneath his fingers. Fingers he'd always prided himself were steady and sure, but now seemed swollen and clumsy, fumbling with a knotted string.

"Your hands are warm, Doctor. My maid at home always had hands like icicles."

"Good circulation."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The strong flow of blood beneath the skin keeps my limbs warm, Miss Farnham. Your maid might benefit from a modest amount of brisk exercise each day to keep her blood circulating."

"I have no doubt, Doctor, if I were to suggest such a thing Hattie would remind me she leads a busy enough life caring for my wardrobe, not leaving time or desire for additional exercise."

He paused from the string he was undoing. It was above a corset that distracted from his task, the boning pulled tight at the bottom and reminding him her hips were scant inches from his own, and it would only take a sweep of his hand to bring that pert backside up against him. Her chemise of fine lawn edged over the top of the corset, one strap slipping down a rounded shoulder. The garment was nearly translucent, the fabric so soft that if he kissed her through it he would feel the warmth of her rosy skin against his lips.

"What was that noise? Did you say something, Doctor?"

"Nothing." But perhaps conversation would distract him. Even conversation with Miss Farnham.

"You are concerned about your maid being overburdened with additional responsibilities?"

"Of course, Dr. Murray. Poor Hattie has to work hard to see to it that I am properly turned out and fashionable. I do not want to make her life more difficult."

The string he worked on unraveled from its knot. Slim as she was, she could wiggle out of her own clothes the rest of the way.

And there was a mental image he could spend the entire night doing without.

"I am finished, Miss Farnham. You can do the rest on your own."

Miss Farnham turned, clutching her dress to her bosom. Alexander carefully kept his eyes on her face.

"Thank you, Dr. Murray. You are a most useful person."

"Indeed, I am, Miss Farnham. Since I will be busy tomorrow and you will be assisting me, I will bid you goodnight."

"Of course, Doctor, I understand. I remember my grandfather would retire early after supper to rest."

For one brief moment Alexander was tempted to haul the half-dressed chit into his arms and show her how far he was from being incapacitated by age or infirmity, but sanity imposed itself on him. He bowed and left her standing in the middle of her cabin looking like a pink package of temptation.

Mr. Carr was standing outside the cabin, in time to catch a brief glimpse of Miss Farnham and hear her say, "Goodnight, Doctor. Thank you for undressing me."

Alexander adjusted the cuffs on his shirt and turned to the smirking officer.

"A word of advice, Mr. Carr: Miss Farnham is my responsibility, and it is a responsibility I do not take lightly. If you attempt anything that might damage her reputation, I will introduce you to some of the more dramatic methods I use to treat the pox. You will find the experience educational, but not enjoyable."

The younger man paled and his eyes grew large.

"I am always glad when I can clarify these medical procedures for my patients--or potential patients. Goodnight, Mr. Carr."

"Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning..." Daphne looked at Dr. Murray. "Is that true, Doctor?"

Dr. Murray looked up from where he was compounding something, a salve or an ointment. Daphne was not sure which, but it had a sharp smell in the small cabin, filling the air with the scent of mint.

"Yes, Miss Farnham, oftentimes a red sky at sunrise means rough weather ahead."

Daphne frowned down at the clean, but worn cloth strip she was rolling for bandages. The sea rocked this morning, the waves having an oily look to them as they swelled beneath the
Magpie.
She felt the tension in the crew as they worked at their tasks, all of them looking to the southeast where black clouds piled up in an ominous wall. The sky at sunrise had a sullen reddish cast and the air was oppressive and heavy. Yesterday sea birds followed them, but the skies were now empty of life, only high, scudding clouds moving as the wind picked up.

Dr. Murray was already at work when she arrived, and his eyes skimmed over her neat braid and the muslin dress she wore. It was one of her favorites even though it was out of fashion, and she thought the doctor's braided ribbon a nice complement to the dusty rose stripes in her skirt. There was a rose flounce at the bottom, the higher hemline showing off her wonderful kid half-boots that laced behind, the ones she'd fallen in love with when she saw the design in the shoemaker's.

"Why such a sad sigh, Miss Farnham?"

"I love these shoes, Dr. Murray, and I fear when I return to London they will no longer be fashionable. Then I have to give some serious thought as to whether I should continue wearing them."

Dr. Murray paused from his labor and looked at her.

"Miss Farnham, I am going to pretend you just walked into the cabin and we did not have this conversation. It makes my brain hurt when you say things like that."

"That is odd, Doctor. My brain never hurts."

He looked about to remark on this, then stopped himself and gave his head a small shake, returning to his task.

"What are you mixing, Doctor? It smells"--she thought for a moment--"pungent."

"An ointment for sprains, Miss Farnham. That is one of the more common injuries the sailors suffer during storms. I am also making a salve for treating rheumatism."

"Rheumatism?"

"A sailor who spends his time in a cold and wet environment is prone to aches and diseases of the joints."

Daphne grabbed a fresh strip of cloth, and paused. She'd never thought about the details of doctoring. What had these bandages been used for in the past? Had they wrapped broken ribs on a sailor falling off of one of those sticks that jutted out and held up the sails? Covered a nasty gash after an encounter with pirates? Who had the unpleasant task of washing out the bandages when they were unwrapped?

She was about to ask Dr. Murray this when voices were heard outside the cabin. Daphne paused to listen, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation between the captain and the mate.

"Barometer still dropping," she heard the captain say. "Our best option is to try to run before the storm."

Daphne could not hear Mr. Carr's reply, and when she glanced at him she saw Dr. Murray also had stopped to listen to the conversation, but the two officers moved off.

"It is going to be a bad storm, isn't it?"

He looked down at the ointment, his fingers shiny in the shifting lamplight with the grease from his preparations. Then he looked her in the eye.

"Yes, Miss Farnham, it will be a bad storm."

Oddly enough, his stark words eased the tension from Daphne's shoulders. Dr. Murray may not like her very much, but his answers to her were always bluntly honest, if rudely phrased. He did not smile at her and tell her not to worry her pretty little head as the other gentlemen did.

"What should I do to prepare for the storm, Doctor?"

He still watched her, and his eyes changed. He didn't smile at her--she could not imagine that happening. Instead, his look was, if not approving, at least less censorious.

"A very good question, Miss Farnham." He straightened up from his labors, wiped his hands on a cloth and then covered the bowl with it.

"The
Magpie
is a sound ship, and the captain and crew are experienced. But if I were you, I would pack a valise. It should be a bag you yourself can carry. In it, only put those things that are absolutely necessary, or those things you would preserve at all costs."