Only Scandal Will Do (29 page)

Duncan passed a hand over his weary eyes. He might not last until morning himself. “Thank you, Larraby. I am sure Margery and my wife are grateful for your assistance. But I believe that I will go see for myself how my wife does.” He cocked an eyebrow at the lad, who obviously still burned with a desire to help. “I have another task for you, Larraby, if you’re game?”

The lad nodded enthusiastically.

Prepared to bully his way into the sick room if necessary, Duncan stood. “I want you to talk to the captain and see what he knows about treating seasickness.” He didn’t trust himself to deal with the captain right now. “We don’t have a physician on board, but is there anyone who might have some medical skill?” he asked as he set a brisk pace down the gangway toward Katarina’s cabin.

“We got the cook, m’lord. He sees to the crew when something’s wrong.”

Why in hell had he not foreseen the necessity of insisting on trained medical care for this voyage? “Then ask him as well. Perhaps he has some concoction that will help Lady Dalbury. Report back to me every hour until I give you leave to seek your bed. Agreed?”

Larraby’s face lit up, perhaps with the novelty of the task. “Agreed, m’lord.” They reached the threshold of his wife’s cabin. The unmistakable sounds of Katarina being ill came from it, making him shudder. God, how long could this go on?

“Wait a moment, Larraby.” He knocked on the door and Margery immediately called for him to enter, obviously thinking the sailor had come to relieve her. When he opened the door, the noisome air that filled the cabin seemed to rush at him, and he caught his breath and entered. A glance told him that things had deteriorated during the day. Now the floor and the bed sheets were stained and the slop bucket teetered, dangerously full. Worse, Margery’s greenish face now hovered above that receptacle.

“Larraby,” he said softly. “Take Mistress Margery up on deck and let her get some fresh air. Make her stay there a good twenty minutes. If she then wants to eat, escort her to the galley, then to her cabin. She is to remain there and sleep until the sun is well up tomorrow morning. Do you understand, lad?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“And send one of the crew here to replace the slop bucket and wash down the floor. Where might I find fresh linens?”

Larraby moved to Margery’s side and encouraged her to lean on him. “I’ll send Jenkins to swab the floor for you m’lord. He’ll bring the sheets with him.” With Margery’s arm draped over his small shoulders, he half-carried her out of the room.

Grimacing, Duncan immediately set the offending bucket outside the door, which seemed to remove the worst of the smell. Next he looked around for the bucket of fresh water and found it still a third full. He seized a cloth, wrung out and draped over the bucket, dipped it into the cool water, gave it a hard twist and approached the bed.

Katarina lay on her back on the stained sheets, reminding him more of a tiny wax doll than his spitfire wife. Her pale skin made her eyes, sunken and ringed in black, seem enormous in her head. The fiery hair, slicked back from her forehead and woven into a loose braid, lay draped over one shoulder. Sweat stood out on her forehead and as he watched, her face contorted and she clutched her stomach. A low moan escaped her dry lips.

Shocked at the sight of her so wretched, he sat heavily on the bed.

Katarina opened her eyes a mere slit, then wider in recognition. “Nooo.” The word became a moan and then she was rolling toward the side of the bed. Duncan leapt to his feet, steadied her head then rubbed her back soothingly between the shoulder blades until the spasm passed. He eased her onto the bed and wiped her face and mouth with the cool cloth.

Her hollow gaze never left his face, but once he’d finished his careful sponging, she took a deep breath, marshaled her strength and managed to say, “Please leave.” Her tone was plaintive, but the exhaustion in her face added a piteous plea all its own.

He took her hand, and was stunned at the cold clammy feel of it. Trying to warm it, he chafed it lightly then placed a gentle kiss on its back. “I am afraid you are now stuck with me, my lady,” he said softly, taking up the damp cloth once more and running it over her arms. “Margery is exhausted and getting ill herself. I have sent Larraby off to make her comfortable in her cabin. As I cannot leave you to your own devices, my dear, I fear you must put up with me for the night just this once.”

She tried to curl her mouth in a smile, but never achieved more than a flicker of movement in her cheeks. Then her eyes closed against the crippling nausea and she moaned deep in her throat. Wishing with all his heart he could bear the pain himself, he squeezed her hand. The helplessness of watching her suffer hurt worse than experiencing the torment himself.

He’d started bathing her face again, when the door opened and a sailor he assumed to be Jenkins entered, carrying a set of linens in one hand and a bucket and mop in the other. Duncan took the sheets and hoisted himself onto the foot of Katarina’s bed as the seaman set to scrubbing the floorboards with a practiced hand. Within minutes, the room smelled of good clean soap. Jenkins promised to return with a fresh bucket of water, and exited.

From the bed, Katarina stared at him with big dark eyes.

“I am going to change your bed, sweetheart, and get you into a new gown,” he told her. “Perhaps that will help you feel a bit better.” Before she could muster a protest, he scooped her into his arms and deposited her in the room’s one big chair. Perhaps sitting would make a difference to her, but he stripped the bed and tucked in the fresh sheets quickly nonetheless.

That task accomplished, he turned again to his wife, noted her bilious look and reached for the basin. The episode passed, and she lay worn out over the side of the chair, while he rummaged through her open trunk, searching for a clean night rail. Finding one was not difficult; getting her to allow him to put it on her might be a different story, even in her weakened state.

“My lady?” He straightened her in the chair. Exhaustion had claimed her. Even better. He swiftly stripped the soiled gown from her body, and was about to put the fresh one on, when a pungent aroma convinced him she could do with a wash as well. Praying the cold water didn’t rouse her, he hurriedly ran the cloth over her body, noting the beautiful swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the bright thatch at the top of her thighs. Images he set firmly aside for another time. His concern was for her comfort at the moment, nothing else. Lifting her limp arms, he slid the gown over her head then tossed the soiled one into a corner.

He pulled back the sheet, and glanced from his wife to the bed. Damn it. They were married, after all.

Moments later he lay propped up in the bed with Katarina nestled against him, her legs anchored between his. He hoped this posture would provide more stability if indeed the swaying of the ship caused her misery. Gently he placed his arms around her, enclosing her in the cocoon of his warmth, and waited.

Time ceased to have meaning. He had no idea if it were ten o’clock, or midnight, or near dawn. The cabin boasted a window, but inky blackness outside divulged nothing. The lantern hanging from the ceiling cast an eerie glow all around the chamber that gave no hint of night or morn. More than an hour must have passed since he’d sent Larraby off with Margery, but perhaps the captain had needed the boy or Margery taken longer to settle than expected.

He laid his head against the headboard of the bunk. What a strange journey, to have led him to this moment with the woman in his arms. Despite the circumstances, he was grateful she was here, asleep with her head on his chest.

Her earlier rejection of his care hurt abominably, but she’d probably thought he would gloat over her weakened state. Perhaps she’d needed the one thing he had been reluctant to give–reassuring words. Though he’d made many gestures that spoke of his deep regard for her, to this woman, words might speak louder than actions. As soon as this crisis was over, she would have them. Lovingly, he dropped a brief kiss on her dark head and closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, Katarina was struggling in his arms. He came fully awake as she pushed against him, trying desperately to get to the edge of the bed. Too late to disentangle them, he instead rolled them both onto their right sides, then supported her head until it was over, and eased them back onto the bunk. She lay panting with the exertion and he adjusted her position so she lay on her side down the length of his body and he could see her face in the uncertain light of the lantern. With tenderness, he wiped her cheek as she tried to slow her breathing. “Is that better, sweetheart?”

He felt more than heard her response–tiny hitching sobs that were an attempt to cry, though no tears would come, from lack of moisture in her body.

“Oh, Duncan.” Her voice was little more than a croak from a mouth too dry to speak. “Make it stop. Please, please, just make it stop.”

Duncan
. She’d called him Duncan. The shock of it made him reel. Drawing a ragged breath, he carefully extricated himself from the bed and laid her down, moving as if he handled the most delicate and fragile crystal imaginable. “I will be right back, my love.” He smoothed her hair back and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I will make it stop. I promise.”

Once he’d closed the door, he tore down the gangway and onto the bridge like a mad beast. The captain had retired for the night, but the first mate acted as helmsman. Duncan seized the man by the shoulders. “Stop the ship, sir. You must stop the ship this minute.”

The mate stared at him as one would a madman suddenly appeared from nowhere. “Stop the ship, my lord? Why? What has happened? Has someone fallen overboard?”

“My wife is gravely ill. You must stop the ship now.”

“But we’re in the middle of the English Channel, my lord.”

He stared into the helmsman’s eyes, hoping the menace the mate saw there would prompt him to action.

“Go get Captain Stratton,” the mate called to the man on watch, and the fellow all but fell down the steps leading from the bridge.

Growling with impatience, Duncan paced back and forth, the echo of Katarina saying his name reverberating in his mind.

The first mate continued to man the wheel, but cast suspicious looks at him. A touch to the pistol stuck in his breeches reassured him he had the situation under control.

The man was a fool if he believed that pistol would stop him from taking the wheel. A thought that had indeed passed through Duncan’s mind. A short time later, a rumpled, bleary-eyed Stratton arrived on the bridge. “You must stop the ship, Captain,” Duncan demanded.

The captain fixed him with a stony look. “Has someone fallen overboard?” Stratton had apparently been apprised of the reason for the request, hence his testiness.

Duncan drew himself up to his full height. “My wife has had no rest or respite from her ordeal for more than a day. She is exhausted and I begin to fear for her life.” Unblinking, he stared into the captain’s impassive face, and clenched his hand in a fist. “If I have to throw the anchor overboard myself, sir, I will have this ship stopped!”

Stratton eyed him for a long moment, as if considering the demand.

Captain be damned. Duncan plucked the flintlock from belt of the astonished first mate, smoothly cocked the piece and shoved it into the captain’s brawny chest. “I assume your first mate is capable of stopping the ship himself, Captain. With or without your assistance?”

The captain’s eyes widened and he pursed his lips, but Duncan didn’t waver. Stratton let out a slow breath then nodded crisply to the helmsman. “Turn her into the wind, Mr. Cooper. This is Lord Dalbury’s ship, and what he wants, or what his wife wants, he gets.” Stratton met his gaze. “Regardless of the danger to anyone else aboard. Make ready to drop anchor,” he called to the remaining crew on watch. With precision born of long practice, the stunned crew banked the sails and the ship began to slow. Within twenty minutes the ship stilled, rocking only with the soft lap of the waves.

Assured the ship had indeed halted, Duncan removed the pistol from the captain’s chest and left the bridge. He raced down the corridor, shoving the weapon into his waistband when he stopped at Katarina’s cabin then eased the door open.

She had turned on her side, facing the door, her face still deathly white. A new look of peace shone there as well, a relaxation far different from the tense, pain-filled expression she’d worn when he’d left her. His heart ached to see her lips curved upward in a hint of a smile, and he thanked God her ordeal seemed over.

He entered the cabin quietly, so as not to disturb her, though he suspected he could have shot off a cannon and she would not have awakened. Placing the pistol on the table, he quickly doffed boots, stockings and breeches. This left him in only in a loose shirt, but with a shrug he crawled into bed behind his sleeping wife.

Settled in next to her, he molded his body to hers, cradling it with his warmth and laying his arm across her for protection. Head on the pillow, he relaxed for the first time that day. He kissed the top of her head and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Goodnight, my lady,” he whispered in her ear.

To his surprise, she turned until she faced him and draped her arm over his body. All sense of relaxation fled. Pray God this was not a dream. He placed another kiss on her forehead and she roused long enough to smile and say, “Duncan? You may call me Katarina now.” Then she was fast asleep, leaving him speechless, filled with the wonder and relief of a captain whose ship had, against all odds, made it into the harbor after a long, hard voyage.