Renegade (31 page)

He couldn’t see anything now; it was completely black. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the roaring of the blood in his ears, and he idly wondered if he remembered how to pray.

Creel bucked against him once, twice, slowly going limp, and Mac knew the man had sucked in a lungful of the Ashley River. He was dead, now.

Smiling almost wistfully, Mac let go. Of Creel, of Becks. Of everything.

Funny, the hole in his side didn’t hurt at all now. The burn in his throat as the brackish water crept down it was the only pain he felt, and that was enough. There, in the darkness under the landing at Baird’s Cove, Mac died.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mac opened his eyes. It came as a bit of a surprise, all things considered.

He was on his back, and although it took a while for his brain to make any sense of it, he eventually figured out that he was staring at the tester over his bed in his old room. Everything hurt, from his head to his throat to his chest and side. Breathing was a pain, but was almost worth it, when he thought about the alternative.

Swiveling just his eyes—everything else hurt too much to move—towards the source of the too-bright light, Mac saw a silhouette in front of one of the large windows. He squinted, and waited for the fog to lift from his mind. Finally, the broad shoulders swam into focus, and he realized it was Robert, staring out at a dazzling afternoon. Would it have killed him to draw the drapes?

Holt was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his arms folded and his chin sunk down to his chest like he was sleeping. He had his bad leg propped up beside Mac on the bed and was tilted back on the chair’s two back legs. Mac wondered briefly if he was strong enough to sweep his brother’s foot off the bed and managed a slight smile at the thought of Holt’s rude awakening if he were to fall backwards. But since Mac could barely manage the strength to breathe, it seemed stupid to waste himself that way.

Instead, he licked his lips and asked about the person he’d hoped to see here. “Where’s Becks?”

God, his voice sounded bad. Like a hoarse croak. But it was gratifying to see Robert spin from the window—Mac winced as the sunlight hit his eyes directly—and Holt… well, bolted upright, knocking the chair behind him in his surprise. That was almost as good as knocking him over.

“Mac? You’re awake?”

That didn’t deserve a response, and the look he sent his brother must’ve said as much, but Holt’s expression softened. “I mean… you’ve woken up twice, but we weren’t sure if you were really there.”

Twice? “How long…?”

Robert crossed to the bed now, and sat on the opposite side. He looked older, more tired than usual. “Three days. Doctor said it was blood loss, and you just had to rest. We’ve been spoonin’ broth down your throat non-stop.”

Mac raised a brow, about all he could manage. “You?”

“He hasn’t left your side.” Holt righted the chair, and then crossed to the bedside table, poured a cup of water, and handed it to Robert. “Although he finally backed off to let one of the kitchen girls do the actual spooning. I think he made her nervous.”

Mac smiled slightly. “Yeah, he does do that.” God, his throat hurt.

Robert must’ve known it, because he helped Mac sit up a bit, and held the glass to his lips while he drank. The water was cool and didn’t remind Mac at all of the brackish Ashley River. Still, he couldn’t help but remember the burn that water had made on the way down. Once Robert thought he’d had enough, the big man softly lowered him back to the pillows. It wasn’t the first time one of them had had to nurse the other, but Robert’s gentleness was always a little surprising.

Mac nodded his thanks. “Becks…?”

Holt understood. “She’s fine, Mac. You saved her. Creel’s dead.”

Mac shut his eyes then, briefly. She was fine. She was safe. He’d saved her.

“What happened?” He had a million questions, now that he knew Becks was okay.

He saw the two men exchange looks he couldn’t identify, and he struggled to sit up. Robert pushed him back down, and it was annoying how easily that was accomplished. “I jumped in and saved your sorry ass, as usual.”

Mac glanced at Holt, for confirmation, and knew that his brother was smiling under his beard. “It’s true. Although Robert did take the time to hand Becks off to me and her mother before going in after you. It took him three tries to grab you—each time he’d come up for air Becks and Pearl would scream at him to keep looking, as if they thought that would help—and then he pulled you up. By your hair, I might add.”
Ah
. That explained the ache in his scalp, at least. “And Lieutenant Jorgensen and I lifted you out. Luckily Ironto knew more about drowned bodies than the rest of us, because he flipped you over on your side and pounded you—although it might’ve been more technical than that—until you coughed up most of the Ashley back into the Cove.”

“And Creel?”

Another glance between the two of them and Robert sighed. “I got ‘im up, but it took me longer to find him. And Ironto couldn’t help him.”

“What did Jorgensen say?”

Holt rested his hip against the windowsill. “He was… honorable.” Mac heard the surprise in his brother’s voice and understood it. “After we got you stable, and sent for the doctor, he apologized to me. For your injury, and Beck’s fright, and for Creel’s accusations. He called them baseless, but I don’t know if he genuinely believed that, or if he was just willing to let it go.” Holt took a deep breath and held it for a long moment. “He said that it was clear that the Major had suffered some sort of fit, to threaten a lady in such a way. And that you were obviously just defending your wife from a madman when you attacked Creel. It sounded like he was practicing the report he was going to give when he got back.”

Mac would’ve laughed, if he had the energy.
Madman
,
indeed
. He was glad Jorgenson had recognized it.

“He shook my hand.” Robert’s low rumble was directed at his own hands. “When those sailors were loading up Creel’s body to take back to their boat, Jorgensen shook my hand, and called me ‘Mister,’ and thanked me for recovering the Major.”

He looked up at Mac then, and Mac understood. “He’s a good man.” Robert nodded, and that’s all that needed said.

“So…” Mac settled back on the pillows and closed his eyes for a moment. “Where’s my wife?” He’d tried to sound casual—as casual as he could, with his throat sounding the way it did—as if the question wasn’t important. As if he hadn’t looked for her desperately when he woke up, hoping she’d been the one sitting beside him for those long hours.

No one said anything, and he finally opened his eyes to see both men avoiding his gaze. “Robert…?”

But Holt took pity on the other man. “She’s gone, Mac. Back to Beckett.”

Although he knew that’s where she’d have to be, it still hurt to hear it. He was lying here, dying for all she knew, and she’d packed up and gone back to her family. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was trying to tell him: She didn’t want to be married to him. Didn’t want to be part of his life.

“Becks sat up here and cried over you for a good three hours—drove the doctor damn near crazy—before Eugenia insisted she take some laudanum.”  Holt’s brows dipped. “But I gave her some whiskey instead, and she slept right beside you.

Mac turned his head almost unconsciously, wincing at the movement, as if hoping to see her still lying there. Holt sighed. “Once the doctor declared you past death’s door, and told us you’d recover, she left with Eugenia.”

“She left.” The whisper escaped, and he hadn’t intended to sound so… pitiful.

Holt turned away. “I’m sorry, Mac. I shouldn’t have forced either of you to do something you didn’t want.”

“You didn’t.” Mac closed his eyes again. “At least, not to me.” He heard Robert’s grunt of satisfaction, and almost smiled. Almost. Would’ve, if he weren’t busy trying to think of a way to win his wife back.

Because willing or no, she
was
his wife, and he couldn’t imagine life without her. He’d left Beckett, but he wasn’t giving her up, too. She might not want him in her life… but he damn sure wanted to be in hers. She was his, and he was hers, dammit, and it was about time she realized that. And now, thanks to his brother’s sense of honor and his best friend’s quick reflexes, he had a lifetime to prove that to her.

He just had to figure out how.

But he would. He’d make her love him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was pluff mud between her toes, but Becks couldn’t make herself care enough to even enjoy the feeling. It was another hot evening, and the thickness of the air seemed to press on her, reminding her that a Lowcountry July and August were still ahead and would bring even worse heat.

She sat on the branch that scraped the ground at her favorite spot… the beach where she’d met him those months ago. This was the branch she’d climbed, in fact, the branch she’d fallen off to land in his arms—

With a scowl at her own foolish memories, Becks refused to finish that thought. How many times had she returned to this spot, this branch, since she’d met him? More times than she could count. How many times had she thought about him, since that warm spring night?
Every single time
.

For those few glorious days in April, she hadn’t needed to return here to think of him, because he’d been with her. He’d shown her a new world, around and inside of her. He’d taken her on adventures she’d never dreamed of—hell, just planting yams had been an adventure with him beside her. But then he’d gone and married her and ruined everything.

It was probably his stupid sense of honor that made him give into his brother’s demands, when he’d been so clear in the past about not getting married. For someone who hated being told what to do, Mac sure had knuckled under fast enough when his big brother played the “honorable thing to do” card.

Becks squeezed her eyes shut, and tried not to curse aloud again. She was getting a headache, and the no-see-ums weren’t helping, buzzing around her face and hair. She swatted irritably and instinctively flicked her pole to make the bait bounce, only to discover that the line wasn’t even in the water. She’d pulled it in at some point and, apparently, hadn’t bothered to re-cast.

It would’ve been funny, if she weren’t so miserable.

In the almost four weeks since she’d returned from Baird’s Cove, Becks had forgotten, or neglected, to do plenty of things. It seemed like all she was able to do was sit around and mope.
Mope
wasn’t her word; it was what Pearl called it. In fact, her sister had been sitting out here with her—she’d been attached to her since they’d gotten home, as if she was afraid Becks would wither away without her—until she’d gotten frustrated at Becks’ one-word responses to her questions. The younger woman had thrown up her hands, and said, “If this is what being in love does to a person, I’m
never
falling in love!”

After she’d stomped off back towards the house, Becks had roused herself to feel a little guilty. She’d been so wrapped up in her own grief that she hadn’t bothered to talk to Pearl about what had happened at Baird’s Cove. But her sister was right—being in love made you miserable, and Becks wanted to stop. She wanted to stop being miserable and stop being in love. She hadn’t asked to fall in love with the mysterious stranger who’d caught her under this tree all those months ago… and she definitely hadn’t asked him to throw away his future for her.

But she’d made the right decision in leaving him. Once she’d known he’d recover—and
God
, hadn’t that been a nightmare, lying beside him those long days, waiting to hear the doctor’s prediction?—she knew she had to say goodbye. He didn’t want to be married to her, had made no secret of it, and would be better off without her. She’d known that if she hadn’t forced herself to slip away
then
from him, and from their marriage, it would be harder later. He was safe, he would live… and she could give him back his future.

His future without her.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, surprised that there were no more tears to leak from under her lids. Her headache was increasing, but she felt all dried up. Like there was nothing left in her to cry, to care, anymore.

With a heavy sigh, Becks stood up and started the long walk back to the house, bait bucket in one hand and pole in the other. These days, everything seemed like such a chore, even walking around Beckett. Things that used to bring her such joy—fishing, pluff mud, climbing trees—now drained her. All she wanted to do was lie in bed… and mourn what could’ve been.

If only Mac
had
been willing to consider settling down. She didn’t even need to be married to him; it would’ve been enough to know that he could love a place like Beckett as much as she did. It would’ve been enough to know that he cared enough to be part of her life.

But he was a sailor, a smuggler, with no ties to anything besides his men and his ship. He’d made that clear and then had been forced to give it all up by his high-handed older brother.

Well, Becks could give it back to him. She could give him his freedom and his adventure, all without worrying about an inconvenient wife. With her here on Beckett, married in name only, Mac could continue his life exactly the way he wanted to.

Oh look, she
did
have a few tears left, after all.

She returned her fishing supplies to the barn, and slipped back into the house, all without seeing another person. Since their return, Beckett had seemed… smaller, somehow. Quieter. No one spoke loudly, and there’d been little laughter. Becks wondered if it just seemed that way to her or if everyone else had been affected by the
Polaris
’ visit. And if she could ever bother to lift herself out of this funk, maybe she could find out. Lord knew that her sister and mother hadn’t been the same since they’d returned; both had argued vehemently against leaving Baird’s Cove and the recovering Mac, but Becks had insisted.

He’d be better off without her.

She made it up to her room without seeing anyone else, which suited her perfectly. The house was dark and heavy, and Becks refused to remember other early June evenings spent on the veranda, enjoying the breeze off the river. She didn’t need to light a lamp to find her own room or to find her way around the room once she was inside. She knew her way in the dark.

Which made it odd when she stumbled over the small side table. Not that she’d stumbled—her muffled curse was practically her motto when it came to tripping over things—but that it was in her path in the first place. It was
supposed
to be up against the end of the settee.

Balancing on one foot while she rubbed the other shin, Becks muttered angrily as she searched about for the kerosene lamp on her dressing table. Luckily,
it
was still where it was supposed to be. She turned up the lamp, and bent to see if her leg was as bruised as it felt.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch you.”

She jerked her head up so fast that she slammed it into the lip of the dressing table. She slowly rubbed the spot, staring straight at the wall, refusing to turn around. Surely it was just the blood that had rushed to her head when she’d bent over that made her hear his voice? She wasn’t
really
going batty, was she?

“I promised you I’d bring you home, and here I can’t even catch you.”

She shut her eyes tightly, and swallowed. It was his voice. Coming from behind her, in her room. Refusing to breathe, her hand still on her head, she turned slowly.

The lamp was still behind her, so she had no way of proving that she wasn’t—or
was
—going batty. She squinted, rubbed her head, and almost unconsciously scrambled with her other hand for the lamp. Slowly, slowly, still not breathing, she brought the light around, cautiously peering into the shadows of a room that once held no ghosts, no memories, no signs of madness.

With a gentle exhale, she saw
him
. Mac was lying on the bed, fully dressed and on top of the quilt. His hands were folded across his stomach, and were it not for those copper eyes glowing in the light of her lamp, she might have thought he was laid out on a mourner’s bench, he was so still.

She felt her lips part, but no sound came out… and then he smiled. It was that summer-lightening flash of teeth she’d fallen in love with weeks ago, and she felt herself warm. After almost a month of being hollow, there was something filling her up, starting with her stomach and moving out down her limbs. An acceptance, a contentment seeping in from her skin at the sight of him lying there.

“I’m sorry, Becks. I should’ve been there for you.”

She found herself shaking her head. “It was just a table. I’m used to it.”

Another smile. “Blame Robert for moving it when he hauled me up here, then.” His expression eased and she found herself drawn closer, step by step. “But I meant at Baird’s Cove. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to reach you before Creel did. I’m sorry I couldn’t catch you.”

She blinked, and halted by the bed, putting the lamp down on the small table. He still hadn’t moved anything besides his eyes. “You saved me, Mac. You saved all of us, including yourself.”

“Seeing him touching you like that… seeing him hurting you… I just…” He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers. “I couldn’t let him.”

Slowly, she reached down, brushed her fingertips against his cheek, and felt the warmth and prickliness of his skin in relief. He
was
real? She wasn’t imagining him? “Why are you…?”

And then he moved. His hand came up, and his fingers wrapped around hers, and he pulled her down to the bed beside him. She went willingly, more because her knees had given out at the realization that he really was here, with her, at Beckett.

“Why am I alive? I’m alive because Robert was too stubborn to let me die.” He squeezed her hand. “And because, once I found out that you’d deserted me, I had to live long enough to come find out why.”

Deserted him
? “No, I mean…” Her brows dipped in. “You think I deserted you?

It was obvious that it pained him, but he rolled slightly to be able to see her better. “What else could I call it? I woke up to find that my wife—my wife of only a few days!—had gone back home to her mother. Holt told me you sat with me to make sure I’d live and then deserted me.”

Becks snorted and snatched her hand back, refusing to meet his gaze and focusing on the tiny stitching on the quilt under him. How could she bear to touch him, knowing it would just make her long to touch him for years after? “Holt should consider reviewing all the facts before passing judgement.”

“You think he was wrong?”

“I think he acted rashly and ruined your life in the meantime.”

Mac was silent for long enough that she risked a glance at him. She shouldn’t have been worried; his eyes were bright under lowered brows. “This little hole in my side didn’t ruin my life, Becks, even if it
has
taken me this long to leave my bed.”

She
tsked
and pursed her lips. “That’s not his fault, and you know it. I mean our… our marriage.” She had to look away, again. The thought—and the word—made her emotional.

“Ah.” That was all he said:
Ah
. Not
Of course you’re right
or
Don’t be silly
. Just
Ah.

And there they sat, while the grandfather clock in the hall ticked on towards the darkest park of the night, until she finally stirred herself. “What are you doing here, anyways?”

“I told you, Robert carried me up. It’s taken this long for him and Holt to let me out of my bed, but I made him load me into a wagon and drive me here as soon as the doctor’s back was turned.” He grimaced, and she loved him even more. “I swear to God, but that’s the worst road in the history of roads. I’d much rather have been on the
Polaris
, but I sent her back to Nassau with Ironto. I hate wagon travel.”

He shouldn’t have even been allowed out of bed. She’d seen the ugly, gaping gunshot wound in his side, knew it was a miracle he’d survived and a continuing miracle it wasn’t infected and debilitating. If
she’d
been in charge of his recovery, he wouldn’t leave his bed for a year. Her eyes widened slightly when some secret part of her mind whispered
You could stay in bed with him, you know.

But she blinked, and shook her head slightly. “And why did you put yourself through all of that? Put yourself in so much danger? Just to find out why I—” She had to choke out the last words. “—
deserted
you?”