Surrender (13 page)

Death, his father had told him, was a part of life. And there was much in life that was far worse than death. He knew that his father’s first wife, Jennifer’s mother, Naomi, had died young as well, and that his father had lost a child with her. His father’s sympathy had been real. But James had taught him that life was to be lived, and he lived it. However, he didn’t offer love easily. He was wary by nature of his heritage—yet physical, too. So there had always been women in his life.

But in the dark, one could substitute for another. And he couldn’t help but wonder if that wasn’t something the general’s daughter had felt last night in her dreams, as she slept. One man … incredibly like another.

Yet why in God’s name should it irk him so much to imagine that she dreamed he was Ian? Other than the fact that, yes, she did feel quite different from any other
woman in the dark. Tall, slim, supple, elegantly shaped, and yet so generously
endowed
…

“Please, sir, water, morphine …”

His thoughts came to a jarring halt as his pants leg was gripped by a sailor on the ground. He saw the water bucket just a few feet away, and brought the sailor a dipperful, lifting his head to help him drink. Jerome looked about the deck. It was strewn with the wounded. Some lay down, some leaned against the railing. David Stewart was busy at a makeshift table set up toward the aft. He was amputating a man’s leg. Brawny sailors assisted him. Thank God they had morphine.

The
Montmarte
’s surgeon was at work with a fellow who’d been wounded in the gut. Jerome looked at the young Union navy soldier who strained for a few drops of water.

“Where are you wounded?”

The young man’s lips trembled. “Leg. Don’t let them cut it off, please, sir. Don’t let them cut it off. I know you’re a Reb, you must want us all dead … I’d rather be dead.”

“Son, you wouldn’t rather be dead. Life is in the heart, the mind!” he said sternly. He set the dipper back. The boy was young—really young. He had pale blond hair, sky-blue eyes, and a chin that hadn’t even thought about growing whiskers yet. He’d probably cheated on his age to get into the service. He was sixteen, at the most.

Jerome ripped open the boy’s pants leg. He gingerly tested to ascertain if there had been bone shattered. The bone hadn’t been touched. A strip of shrapnel had imbedded into muscle.

Jerome looked around the ship again. David was busy; the
Montmarte
’s doctor was still trying to save the life of a man who bled profusely from his midsection. Jerome hesitated, then looked down at the sailor again. “Think you can keep from screaming for a minute?”

The young man tried to scurry up. The effort nearly made him pass out. “Sir … what—”

“I’m not a surgeon, but I’ve spent some fair time with doctors. Trust me. I’m going to get the bullet out. Then you pay attention to me. You make them keep you up
on deck, and you make sure the wound gets cleaned with fresh seawater daily. Seawater. Has to be seawater, has to be fresh, understand?”

The young man nodded—both nervous and earnest. Jerome reached into the sheath at his waist for his small knife. He thought the young man’s heart would stop then and there, but then the Yank seemed to decide that he did want to live whole or die. “Go on, sir. Please.”

“Brace yourself,” Jerome warned.

The young sailor did. He didn’t utter a sound of protest. He passed out as Jerome dug his knife into his calf.

The wound began to bleed more fiercely, and Jerome felt a sheen of sweat break out on his forehead. Then the strip of shrapnel slid into his hand—lubricated by the flow of blood. He quickly put pressure on the flow of blood, holding one hand on the wound while ripping his shirt with his free hand to create a bandage as quickly as possible.

“Captain McKenzie, sir, can I lend a hand?”

Jerome turned. It was one of the
Montmarte
’s officers. “I could use a bucket of seawater.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Jerome was relieved to see he’d stopped the bleeding. The officer returned with the water. He bathed the wound, carefully making certain that he’d stripped all traces of fabric away from it. He asked for assistance in making a poultice of seaweed. The officer became his willing assistant. Between them, they went on to see what they could do for the others who waited.

Later, a cup of rum in his hands, Jerome watched David Stewart stitching up a long jagged wound in a Yank’s arm.

David looked at him, arching a brow.

“All right,” David said. “I told you—your feisty little Yank prisoner does do a better stitching job. I admit. She’s just not with us at the moment.”

Jerome shrugged. He drank his rum, wondering why it bothered him so much that she wasn’t near. It was like an itch with him now. An obsession. He saw her when he closed his eyes. Saw the gleam of her long auburn hair, the beautiful flash of her eyes, the perfect, porcelain beauty of her face. The fluid sensuality of her
damned perfect shape as she walked, gestured, moved …

“If you’re about done, we need to be getting back to our own ship,” he informed David, and walked away.

Damn her. The faster he got her back to Yank territory, the better.

T
he first day seemed to take forever.

The second day was so long it was never-ending.

The third day felt like a year.

The fourth day stretched to a decade.

Risa chafed with tense energy under her guard, a man she came to know as Big Tim. She never learned if he had a last name—or if his surname was Tim and his given name Big!—or exactly where he had come from, or why he was so loyal to Jerome McKenzie. She did learn that he was tireless, and that every time she so much as cracked her door open, he was there, alert.

He was polite, and he was silent. He was also as good as a set of steel bars. There was no way past his great bulk.

Jeremiah brought her books, played cards with her, brought her well-prepared meals, hot bathwater, fragrant soap, fashion magazines, and more. But despite his attempts to amuse her, she was ready to pull her hair out. She began to pace the room endlessly. She prayed for sleep early at night. She drank a lot of wine, hoping that she might sleep through more of the time that passed so slowly.

On the fifth day, her life made another change.

Jeremiah appeared in her room along with Mr. Douglas, Jerome McKenzie’s first mate. She hadn’t seen Douglas since she’d been here, and she was somewhat surprised to realize that he’d been left behind. He was stern-looking, and courteous, but very firm when he spoke with her.

“Miss Magee, I’ve received word that I’m to take the sloop
Katie B
. to Bone Isle.”

“Mr. Douglas, I’m afraid this means little to me. I’ve never heard of Bone Isle,” she told him.

“It’s a very small key, miss, not too far south of Biscayne Bay. We’re to meet up with Captain McKenzie and the
Lady Varina
there. I’m sure the captain will see to it that you’re then returned to St. Augustine.”

“Ah … well, sir, why don’t you return me first to St. Augustine, and then meet up with your captain at Bone Isle?”

“Miss Magee, the captain will make arrangements—”

“This has gone on long enough, Mr. Douglas, surely you see that, sir. You must return me now.”

He arched a brow; she wished she’d kept silent.

“Miss Magee, I must follow orders. I had hoped that you’d be more agreeable—”

“Why? Can you guarantee that I’ll be brought back to St. Augustine immediately after we meet with Captain McKenzie?”

“Miss Magee,” the graying Douglas said wearily, “this is war. I can’t guarantee anything.”

She was feeling cooped up and very argumentative. She was tired of losing to Jerome McKenzie, and she was not going to give in easily to any of his men. “You’re right, this is war,” she told him obstinately. “I can’t guarantee anything, either. I’m afraid you’ll burn in hell before you find me agreeable, Mr. Douglas.”

He looked like an old hound dog, saddled with a burden he hadn’t wanted at all.

“Miss Magee, I do apologize. I really hadn’t wanted this to be difficult for you, or for us—”

“If I have a chance to escape, sir, I will escape. If I can give an enemy any information about you or Captain McKenzie or your movements, I will. Rest assured.”

“You must understand, we do have our orders.”

“Oh, yes! Captain McKenzie’s orders! Surely, all life hinges on nothing else!”

“Now, Miss Magee …” Jeremiah murmured unhappily.

“Miss Magee,” Mr. Douglas said patiently, “I must say, at the moment, I’m afraid,
your
life does hinge on his orders. And under the circumstances.…” He glanced at Jeremiah with a sigh and a shrug.

Jeremiah stepped forward. “Sorry. Honest, I’m really very sorry …”

Before she knew what he was about, he reached out for her, drawing her quickly against himself.

He might be a lad, but he was a strong one. And she was totally unprepared. Before she could even struggle against his hold, he set a damp cloth over her face. A sweet smell pervaded her senses. She couldn’t fight; she couldn’t move. Her eyes closed.

“Do we really have to do this, Mr. Douglas?” she heard Jeremiah asking, as if from some distant place.

“You heard the lady. She knew where we were to rendezvous. Were she to manage an escape, she would tell the Yanks to pluck up the
Lady Varina
and Captain McKenzie, the scourge of the southern seas, at Bone Isle. Now, lad …”

She was vaguely aware of their voices, fading now.

Then she heard no more.

She knew they were far across the water when she slowly opened her eyes. The sloop
Katie B.
was very small, and her cabin was tight and confined. Risa saw Jeremiah sitting in a chair across from her narrow bunk, watching her with big, guilty eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“You’re a wretched boy,” she assured him.

“I said that I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“This is war—”

“Oh, dammit, don’t say that to me again!”

He bit into his lower lip. “Sorry. I will try to make it up to you. Well, you are trouble, you know. You have a knack for hearing everything, and you’re such a determined enemy!”

“Like you said—it’s a war!” Risa reminded him.

“But I really do apologize—”

“Enough! Just don’t do it again.”

“If—”

“Oh, I know, I know! Captain McKenzie gives the orders, and you follow them! What if he ordered you to shoot me?”

“He wouldn’t,” Jeremiah said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know the captain.”

“What if I were a spy?”

“He’d never order me to shoot you.”

“Even if I were a spy?”

“Well, if you were really terrible or evil—or if you were a cold-blooded murderess and killed children right in front of him—”

“He’d order you to shoot me?”

“No—he’d shoot you himself, if it had to be done,” Jeremiah said. She felt a chill, but then he smiled. “You’re not evil.”

“I’m the enemy.”

He nodded. “You’re the enemy—I’m the enemy. And we’re neither of us evil.”

“You can be very wise, Jeremiah.”

“I learn from—”

“I know, I know,” she murmured irritably. “You learn from the great Captain McKenzie!” She groaned softly, trying to sit up. Her head hurt. She lay back down.

“You need something to eat. Then you’ll feel better.”

She didn’t think she’d ever feel better, but he brought her some bitter tea and biscuits, and it helped. “Tomorrow will be much better,” he promised her. “You’ll see. We bring the
Katie B.
right into shore. There’s a little town there—well, not a town. A few people live on the island.” He shrugged, a half smile on his face. “All right, so maybe they’re not pillars of society. There’s some salvage divers and their wives and families. A few half-breeds make their living fishing. But it’s beautiful. You can swim down, touch reefs, see magnificent colors … and the beaches! If you promise not to cause trouble, I know that I can get you a day on the beach at Bone Isle!”

A day on the beach. Freedom from walls closing in on her.

After her confinement on the Bahamas, she wanted it very much.

She didn’t want to sound overly anxious.

“If it’s such a paradise, why is it called Bone Isle?”

Jeremiah shrugged. “Oh, well, once, a pirate named Barbery Bill came to hide his treasure there. But he’d
stolen his treasure from a pirate known as Edward Teach, right out of Nassau. Teach followed him and his crew to the isle, slaughtered them, and left. Years later, when Spanish missionaries came back to the isle, all they found were the bones of the pirates, picked clean by crabs and seabirds.”

“Charming.”

“Well, naturally, the bones are all gone now … Wouldn’t you be happy with a day on the beach?” he asked her, anxious to please.

“Maybe. Ask me in the morning.”

She closed her eyes. The bland biscuits had soothed her stomach, and the rocking motion of the ship was making her sleepy.

Besides, she couldn’t escape from the middle of the ocean.

When she woke again, they were docked, and it was morning.

Jeremiah brought her more tea and biscuits.

“I’ve asked Mr. Douglas and Big Tim—”

“Big Tim is still with us?”

“Aye, that he is,” Jeremiah said solemnly. “But they’ve both agreed that you’re due an outing. Mr. Douglas is a good fellow, though he seems like a stern sort. He just follows orders; he knows how important our work is.”

“Dangerous,” Risa warned him sternly. “The Union blockade is going to get tighter and tighter, and Captain McKenzie is going to get blown out of the sea. You’re far too good a young man to share such a fate!”

He grinned, but had the smug look of an adventurer about him. “Oh, no, Captain McKenzie won’t get blown out of the sea. He’s a part of it—why, our ship has barely ever even been damaged! Ah, Miss Magee! We sailed right by a few Yanks last night; they never even saw us. They don’t know these waters, the reefs, the shoals—not the way the captain does. But anyway—if you’ve a mind, you can spend the day outside.”

“
If
I’ve a mind!”