“It’s all right,” she said as she extended her hand. “It’s just the play.” She touched his shoulder. And when he didn’t draw back, she allowed her fingers to caress his face. His flesh was slick with sweat, his eyes still wide with fear. But she could see intelligence in there now. The more she touched his skin, the more awareness returned to his body.
Then there was a rolling sound. Drums. A steady crescendo like thunder breaking across the world. Before she could stop him, he launched himself at her. Grabbing her by the waist, he tossed her over his shoulder. Then with effortless strides, he ran down the hall and into a cellar.
Chapter 8
Mold. Wet. Screams. Cold.
Battle.
Can’t breathe. Heart beating, beating, beating in my ears.
Are they coming?
Who is it?
Good God, what is happening?
“Mr. Frazier. Mr. Frazier!”
“Hush, Jeremy. Don’t cry. I’ll protect you.”
Straining with every ounce of his strength, he shoved aside a full barrel of something—potatoes?—creating a dark space for the boy. He set the boy down there in the space he’d created. The child could hide there for days, tucked away behind the stairs and the barrel.
“Who is Jeremy, Mr. Frazier? I’m Maddy. Maddy Wilson, your angel.”
“Stay down, Jeremy. I have to go up and fight.”
The sounds of men’s voices was growing louder. Was the battle over? Were they safe?
No! No! Don’t go up there!
Kit frowned as his mind fractured. Part of him was blindly hopeful, believing the crew of
Fortune’s Kiss
was victorious. The battle was over, the pirates tossed overboard. Another part screamed uselessly.
It isn’t safe! It isn’t over! Don’t leave the boy!
But the majority of his mind was trapped in darkness, lost behind an impenetrable wall of pitch and blood.
What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he think?
“Mr. Frazier. We’re safe. We’re in the Playhouse Tavern. There’s no one here named Jeremy.”
Footsteps.
Hide!
“I’m going to go up and see what has happened,” he said to the boy. “If I don’t come back, stay here. You’re good at hiding. No one will find you. You’ll be safe.”
No! Take him with you. Take him topside.
The door to the cellar levered open, and a lantern flashed bright in his eyes. He crouched low beside Jeremy, then slowly sidled around for a better vantage point. Was it the captain? Was it the crew? If they were pirates, he would fight. He would keep the boy safe.
Where was his knife? Why didn’t he have a knife?
“Oh, look, Mr. Frazier. It’s your friend from the doorway. Don’t you remember? He blocked me from entering the playhouse, but you told him I was your friend.”
“Jeremy, hush!”
He felt the boy’s hand on his arm, warm and gentle, and large for so young a boy. He shrugged it off. He couldn’t fight with a child hanging on his arm. He slid a little farther away, tensing so he could leap upon the huge man coming down the stairs. He was a white man, his face too pale for a sailor. No beard. And English clothing.
One of the sailors! And he had a boy with him. Another cabin boy? He thought Jeremy was the only one. Didn’t matter. They were English which meant they were in danger too.
He stepped into the light. “Hsss! Hurry up. There’s a hiding place for you with Jeremy. Seth, you and I will have to protect them. Do you have a knife?”
Seth slowed his steps, staring at first him then Jeremy with a puzzled expression.
“He thinks I’m some boy named Jeremy,” said a voice. A woman’s voice. There was a woman on board?
“Come down, boy.” He gestured to the young adolescent on the stairs. He knew Seth was mute, so the man could hardly issue orders in battle. “Hurry up!”
The child looked to Seth, who nodded slowly. Thankfully, that was all that the boy needed to get him to scramble over the barrel to stand beside Jeremy.
“Good. Now Seth and I will go up and see the lay of things . . .”
No! No! Don’t abandon Jeremy!
He closed his eyes, shaking his head as he tried to sort through the emotions roiling through him. Thoughts. Feelings.
Fear!
That’s what he knew. That’s what was real.
“Kit, you are safe now. The battle is over.” It was the woman’s voice again. Where was she?
He nodded, his head beginning to ache abominably. “I know. I know. The battle is over. The
Fortune’s Kiss
is lost.”
“It was a terrible thing, wasn’t it? Horrible. But it is over now. You have come back to England.”
“No, no.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “It’s not over. You’re still alive. Stay with me! You mustn’t ever leave my side, do you understand?
Never
leave my side!”
“Of course,” she answered. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave your side.”
Shudders wracked his frame. He was so cold down here. Why was he cold? It shouldn’t be cold! It was blistering hot, the sun beating down to burn his flesh raw. He remembered it so clearly. The burn. Burning. The ship on fire!
“Jeremy!” he bellowed. He tore his palms away from his eyes and he scanned the cellar. He saw Seth and a stage boy, plus his angel, all standing there staring at him. He whipped his head around, searching for Jeremy.
“Where is he? Where is Jeremy?”
Seth stepped forward, but Kit spun around, his fists raised to fight. The big man froze in place.
“Where is Jeremy?” he demanded.
His angel reached for him. He bared his teeth at her, but she was undaunted. He couldn’t hurt her. She was his angel. And her voice was so beautiful.
“Jeremy isn’t here,” she said gently. “Do you know where you are?”
He blinked, his eyes going in and out of focus. Memories rolled through his mind, unfolding over him, the weight suffocating his mind. He couldn’t breathe! And, God, he hurt. Everything hurt! His legs gave way and he landed hard on his knees.
Then he felt her hands on his face. She shouldn’t touch his face. He tried to pull away, but she held him still, her scent weaving about him. Lavender and spice. She soothed his cheeks and brushed his hair from his eyes, just like his mother used to. He looked up at her and twisted away, just as he had as a child. But not far. Never far because he liked her scent. And the sound of her voice.
“Mr. Frazier,” she said. “Kit, please look at me.”
He could not refuse her. His mind was still oppressed, shackled to memories and buried beneath a surging ocean of weight. But her voice. Her face. That was not painful. He could look at her. He could hear her. And let the rest sink into silence. Her thumb stroked across his cheek and he smiled.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“Angel,” he answered, though it took him a moment for the word to struggle past the weight.
“Do you know where you are?”
He winced. That required too much work, too much searching and his body began to tense with the effort.
“Never mind,” she said quickly. “I know, and that’s good enough for now.”
He didn’t have the strength to disagree. So he allowed his mind to collapse again and narrowed everything to just her. She glanced over to the side. To where Seth stood with a deep scowl on his face.
“I think he just needs a little time. Do you mind leaving the lantern?”
From the corner of his eye, Kit saw Seth shake his head. He set down the lantern, then folded his arms across his chest. The man wasn’t moving. But he did jerk his thumb at the boy called Grit. Grit nodded, then climbed across a barrel of potatoes before dashing away upstairs.
“You know,” said his angel, “it is decidedly uncomfortable standing here like this. I should like to sit down. Do you mind, Kit?”
He shook his head. Of course he didn’t mind. Though he murmured in protest when she stopped touching his face. She was stepping away from him, and with the loss of her presence—her scent—the memories surged again.
“There now, that’s better,” she said. She settled on the floor, her back against a wine rack and her legs extended in front of her. Her skirt lay short of her feet, and so he could see her trim ankles.
“It must be uncomfortable there on your knees,” she said to him. He frowned and she smiled. Now that she mentioned it, his legs were abominably sore. “Come sit beside me.”
He shook his head, but the movement unfroze his body. He half rolled, half collapsed forward. She caught him. And with her help, he settled with his head on her lap. It was a good position. He could see her ankles this way. And he could smell her lavender and spice scent. It was so very, very English.
Her hand settled on his arm while the other brushed his hair off his forehead. He liked the soft stroke of her hand, like the lap of the waves. The ground wasn’t moving, but her fingers were, and so he could close his eyes and pretend he was on the boat. Or at home in England. Or anywhere he would like to be. Just so long as she kept stroking his face.
He slept.
Maddy let her head drop back against the wine rack. Kit was sleeping now. She tried to admonish herself for referring to him by his given name, even in her own thoughts. But after this last display, she couldn’t keep him at arm’s length anymore.
He was wounded in mind if not in body. She had seen enough of her father’s patients to recognize a man struggling with enormous pain. Who was Jeremy? she wondered. Likely a boy Kit had tried—and failed—to protect. Had the noises from the play made him relive the battle when he was first captured? She believed so, but of course couldn’t be sure.
All she could do was sit here and let the man sleep. Her father had often said that sleep was the best thing for mental pain. She could only pray it was true for Kit. And so she would do nothing to interfere with the man’s rest despite what this might do to her reputation.
She looked up at the huge doorman named Seth. He hadn’t moved from his position on the stairs except to glare at a few boys who had come to the cellar door. It was unnerving, the man’s absolute silence, but reassuring too. He seemed like a solid, silent bulwark against the outside world.
She sat on the floor for hours. She heard the noise of the performance as it ended. She heard men’s laughter and the actresses’ coy giggles. People came to the cellar, but their silent guard glared them away. And Kit slept on. In time, Maddy too let her eyes drift shut and she dozed.
“My God, it’s true.”
Maddy opened her eyes to see a tall, dark-eyed man descending the stairs. He was stripping off his great coat as he came down, and so she at first had the image of a great large bird, but he stilled quickly enough when she squeaked in alarm.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, as he slowed his steps. He had dark brown hair, matted down from his hat, and his gaze seemed to devour Kit. “How long has he been like this?”
Maddy had no idea, but the guard lifted three fingers.
“Three hours,” the man said as he stepped up beside Maddy. “And you have sat here patiently this whole time.”
Then his eyes slid back to Kit as if he could read answers from the curled form. “How can this be? Michael said he died.” He crouched down then reached out to touch Kit’s face, but stopped before he connected. Maddy took a breath as much to clear the sleep from her mind as anything else. But in that one moment of inattention, she must have jostled Kit. He woke in a sudden flurry of movement.
He grabbed the newcomer’s wrist and used it to shove him away hard. Then he rolled to his feet in a crouch in front of Maddy. He was protecting her as he snarled at the new man.
Maddy hastened to find her voice. She touched his back and tried to sound reassuring, though she croaked her words. “No, no! He’s not come to hurt you.”
She felt Kit’s back ripple but nothing else. Kit was staring at the newcomer, his body so tight she feared it might break.
“Kit,” said the newcomer, his voice low and gentle. “Do you remember me?”
“Brandon,” he answered, though the word came out as a harsh grunt. “Thief.”
She saw the word hit the newcomer like a blow. He flinched backward, but then he steadied. “We thought you dead. We went to your funeral, for God’s sake. Oh, Kit, what happened?”
Maddy’s eyes widened as she fit the pieces together. The newcomer was Brandon Cates, Viscount Blackstone. The man who had married Kit’s fiancée.
“Ah,” she said, her voice thankfully steadying into a conversational tone. “This is rather hard, isn’t it? To be woken from a sound sleep straight into an awkward situation. My goodness, I am parched. Are you thirsty, Kit? I vow I would simply love some tea. What about you, my lord? Isn’t tea a capital idea?” Good God, she sounded like an idiot.
The viscount looked at her for a moment as if she had lost her mind. After all, Kit was still crouched before them. Fortunately, he was able to recover his wits and was soon nodding at her.
“There is nothing like English tea, is there, Miss . . .”
“Madeline Wilson, my lord. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Ah yes. The intrepid Miss Wilson. It must be very cold there on the floor. Would you like some help to stand?”
He leaned forward, extending his hand, only to pull up short as Kit jerked into his way. It was no more than a slight shift, but it was clear that Kit would not let the viscount anywhere near her.
“Well, Kit, I suppose if you will not allow him to help me up, you will just have to do it yourself.” She winced as she rolled her ankles about. “I do find myself quite stiff.”
Kit still had not said anything beyond the two words that labeled the viscount a thief. She wasn’t remotely sure that he knew where he was or what was happening. But there was consciousness there, she was certain of that. He was not insane. Merely somewhat uncivilized at the moment. So the best course of action was to be civil around him such that he could remember how to act.
She gently trailed her fingers down his arm until she gripped his hand. He watched her do it, his body taut with a kind of lethal awareness. But he didn’t strike out. And when she reached his palm, he gripped her fingers.
She maneuvered her legs under her, gasping slightly as the blood flowed through her limbs. She meant to push up off the floor with her other hand, but Kit was there before her. He reached under her far arm and raised her up. He leaned over, hooked his free arm around her ribs, and gently stood up, carrying her with him. It was the most extraordinary feat of strength and grace she had ever experienced. And as she was of rather large proportions, she found herself quite breathless with awe when he at last set her on her feet.
She looked into his eyes. They were nearly face-to-face. She felt his heat again, but mostly what she saw was the pain in his eyes. He was not insensate. He was not confused. He knew that he had been found asleep on a woman’s lap after a period of madness. And the man who had discovered him was none other than his cousin—a viscount—who had married his fiancée.