The Dreamer (14 page)

I felt as though he’d slapped me. I stood there and stared at him a stunned moment and then anger surged, and my eyes flashed at him. I forcibly pushed him the rest of the way out the door.

“Fine! Go ahead. Just leave,” I spat. “If you won’t take me, I’ll find my own way.”

And I slammed the door shut.

*** *** ***

I’d never spoken to anyone that way before, using that trembling, childish tone.

It was humiliating and I immediately felt abashed. But then I recalled the way he walked to the door without so much as a backward glance, and the feelings came back all over again.
Good!
I thought, with hostile satisfaction.

I had never been angry in my life. Not even when I had been ridiculed and fired all that time ago. What
was
anger, anyway? I sat in my room and contemplated the definition. Simply, it was fierce irritation in consequence of resistance. That’s all. It was very clear to me.

And I found it intriguing and mystifying that somehow
I
had succumbed to these base, primitive impulses. But then, no doubt they had been incited by the unusual stresses of my unique situation. A delayed reaction, perhaps. It was possible that the process of time travel, however it was done, somehow distorted the chemical makeup of my body, or wreaked havoc on the electrical pulses in my brain. Only now was I feeling the aftereffects.

It was the only explanation.

I went to the mirror and looked at my reflection. My dress, which once seemed to have an almost magical quality to it, suddenly looked ridiculous to me. These women, who tie themselves in knots with corsets and wear miles of ribbon in their hair and unserviceable attire, do it all for what? There was no logic to it at all. How could I have been swayed by so uneconomical a way to function? I violently yanked the ribbon out of my hair and dropped it on the floor, tears starting in my eyes from the pain.

I paced restlessly in that bedroom, feeling oddly displaced and uncomfortable. I reflected on what I might have been doing on the ship at this time if we had still been at sea. Perhaps making the rounds on the upper deck, the captain explaining the different sails and their function, while we strolled arm in arm … in that ridiculous, unnecessary way.

My notes! Of course. That’s it! That’s my purpose, my meaning. I sat down and withdrew my papers and looked for my broken pencil, the one I found on the captain’s desk on that first day ….

I sat there for many moments, unable to write a word. Nothing came. A queer case of writer’s block. I drank a glass of water, and did some yoga-breathing to clear my head. Ah, now that felt good. Relieved all that pent up stress. I’d been neglecting my exercise for too long. I could see that now. In fact,
that
was probably the cause of the unpleasant scene downstairs. I couldn’t sustain my stress-relieving exercise on the ship because the captain had always been with me, day in, day out, without a moment of reprieve. It felt so good to be finally alone.

Feeling suddenly tired, I dropped to the bed. I was weary but still agitated, and I rolled onto my side and tucked my hands under my cheek. Well, he
did
say he would be returning for dinner. And I anticipated it with not
complete
regret.

And then I heard the breaking of glass. But before I could turn, I felt an explosion of pain on the back of my head.

And then nothing.

Chapter Nine

Notes: Unexpected turn of events. Researcher admittedly disconcerted.

I awoke groggily and with difficulty. I opened my eyes and grimaced in pain. I quickly closed them again until the pain abated somewhat.

I could feel the rocking motion I had been so accustomed to by now, moving my bed up and down gently, like a mother rocking her baby.

A ship. I was on a ship.

I opened my eyes again, just barely able to keep the throbbing in my head at bay. A dreadful, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach hit me. I did not recognize this cabin.

It was very small and sparsely furnished and poorly maintained. The captain’s things gleamed, testifying of his strict standard of care. But here the table was blistered and rotting, the chair broken. Things were astray and out of place, and I became afraid.

I tried to move, but I realized my hands were restrained behind my back, my feet tied together. I began to panic. I tried to maintain control by reminding myself panic would neither improve my efforts nor increase my chances of survival, but this technique which had served me in the past, strangely failed me now. I could not decrease my heart rate or bring peace back to my mind. My heart raced, and my eyes darted from one thing to another uselessly. I tried to speak but no words came. I had been gagged.

The door opened, and a man entered that I did not recognize. His head was covered with a red bandana, his long gray hair in greasy knots hanging down his neck, and he had a gold hoop earring. His leg was missing and a wooden leg was awkwardly attached to the stub. He saw that I was awake, and he smiled wickedly, showing his blackened teeth.

I tried to move, to communicate somehow with him, to find answers to the panic stricken questions reeling in my brain, but he simply scooped me over his shoulder and took me out the door without a word spoken.

I trembled and whimpered, quite literally frozen in fear as the stranger carried me to another cabin and set me down quite un-gently on a chair. I looked up to find Finley on a chair opposite me. I nearly cried in relief to see a familiar face. I tried to talk to him, but I couldn’t because of the gag.

“Well, here she be, Fin,” the man said in a gruff voice and tore off the gag.

“Oh, John,” I cried when it was off. “What’s happening? What’s going on? Who are these men and what do they want with us? Where’s the captain? Is he hurt? And … oh, dear! What’s happened to your face?”

I saw that his eyes were swollen, his lip split and bleeding. He, too, was tied up, his hands behind him. He barely looked at me. He refused to meet my eyes as he sobbed.

“Stop sniveling, John, and be useful!” I turned to the stranger who leaned negligently against the table, looking entertained. “Where is the captain?”

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” John whispered.

“What do you mean? It wasn’t your fault.”

“So sorry.”

John sat limply. The stranger came close and bent over John and untied him. He took him by the arm. “Up ye go, John boy.”

“Where are you taking him?” I asked in a panic.

“Why, your friend here is being set free, bonny lass,” he said happily, showing me a blackened smile.

“Set free?” I repeated dumbly. “But why?”

“Would ye like to tell her, John boy? Why are we lettin’ ye go and keepin’ the lass w’ us? What was that? Don’t ye be wantin’ to tell her?”

“You promised not to hurt her, remember Marshall,” John pleaded.

“Yeah, and ye know I be always keepin’ me promises.” My hair was suddenly seized, pain shooting through the wound on the back of my head as my face was forced up towards the awful stranger. I was kissed violently, his stench as repugnant as his lips covered mine. My cry was muffled and useless. “She be a pretty little lass, ey Finny?”

I struggled with the ropes causing burns to my wrists. “What does he mean, John? What does he mean letting you go? What did you do?”

“Nothin’ so bad, dearie,” the stranger answered. “Just helped us get what we want.”

“What do you want?”

“The key, me dear. The legend to the map. And John boy told us all about ye.”

“Me? But how could …? I didn’t tell a soul.” I stopped and looked at John keenly. “John?”

He kept his head lowered, still sobbing quietly. The stranger took him by the arm and escorted him out. “Forgive me, Rachel. Forgive me,” he said as he turned to leave.

“Fat chance of
that
!” I bellowed as he walked out the door looking miserable.

I was not alone for long. The stranger reentered moments later. I tried to twist my arms free or budge the chair forward, but I could do neither. He walked towards me with black intent. “Marshall Looper,” I said in a voice that was not strong, but it did not waver.

And then he smiled happily. “Ye be knowin’ me, I see. Me reputation proceeds me.”

“Precedes,” I answered with disdain.

“Ey?” he growled.

“
Precedes
, moron. To come or go before in time or —”

“Shut up, wench,” he spat and slapped my face. “Don’t ye ever be insultin’ me!”

I had never been slapped in the face before. I had always considered it a rather mild form of punishment. But the sting reverberated through my body, making my head explode. I cried out involuntarily.

“Ye mind me, little girl,” he sneered, “or there’ll be more of that. I’ll teach ye proper respect —.” To my horror he withdrew a knife and raised it up, but a knock on the door stopped him. Someone entered, demanding the captain tend the helm immediately. Looper sheathed the knife and walked quickly out the door. In fact, incredibly, he seemed nervous.

I looked up and froze, my mouth agape.

It was Charles Dubois, the beautiful Duke of Norcross.

Chapter Ten

Notes: In retrospect, circumstances inevitable. Fulfillment of calling eminent and inexorable.

“You!” I cried in horror.

The duke was not in ropes. He was untouched, no bruises or cuts where he would have been abused. He stood tall and straight and unmolested, and his lips curled, smiling at me. I thought I saw a hint of pleasure and satisfaction behind his eyes at my reaction.

“Miss Madera,” he said musically. “We meet again.”

I was stupefied, and simply blinked at him for some moments. Surely it wasn’t him standing here in this horrible place, cool and collected. No, it was impossible.

I swiftly collected my senses and spat, “The honorable duke, whom everyone adores. At last we’ve uncovered the secret to his success.”

He laughed as though he found me very funny. “
Chérie
….”

Anger surged. Throwing my head back emphatically, I declared, “Well, I’ve got news for you. I’ll never cooperate. Do you hear me?
Never.
Even if you torture me and force me to talk, you will never be sure if it’s the truth. You haven’t an inkling of the vastness of my knowledge. And I’ll be very convincing.”

His laughter stopped immediately. He looked at me, his eyes focused and aware, like he just realized he’d misjudged me, and therefore must figure me out anew.

“
Petite
, you misunderstand …,” he began, his accent suddenly thick. But then his eyes fell on the ropes around my feet and hands, and he stopped. “
Mon Dieu
!” He bent to untie them.

This, I admit, momentarily perplexed me.

“You think you are a prisoner here?” he asked, his voice concerned. When he finished untying the knots, he gently rubbed my raw wrists. He called for some ointment and it was brought to us immediately. He aggressively questioned the man who brought it, but it was in French, the words too fast and accented for me to understand. The man answered back, holding out his hands in supplication, saying in French, “It was an order.”