Surrender (7 page)

Caught upon the bunk, Risa closed her eyes in fear.

The firing seemed to go on and on. With each blast the ship shuddered and rocked anew.

Oh, God, if she could only rise! She was so frightened. Terrified that a ball would rip into the cabin. That the walls would splinter, that the cabin would burst into flames, and she would be trapped like a rat dropped in a dungeon …

Shouts again. She worked feverishly at the ties binding her in place.

She didn’t realize when the firing and swaying had stopped. She was still clawing away when the door to the cabin opened. She lay still, watching warily as the young, blond, bearded fellow who had guarded her room at Belamar approached her.

He was barefoot and in breeches. His chest was grimed with sweat and soot from gunpowder.

He was carrying a knife.

She inhaled to scream.

He must have seen the fear in her eyes, because he quickly assured her. “It’s all right—it’s just that if I know the captain, no one can simply untie that knot.”

His knife slit the rope securing her wrist. She sat up, rubbing the sore flesh there. “Thank you, thank you so much. Thank God someone on this ship has some common courtesy. Thank God you are kind and reasonable, despite the fact that your captain is a lunatic. Thank God—”

“Miss Magee—”

“You’ve got to help me off this ship, do you realize that? He is a madman, leaving me tied so when the ship could have gone down.”

“Miss Magee—” the young man began, distressed, but she was far too aggravated to notice.

“The wretched bastard! Yet what else could be expected of a half-breed, a Rebel—a savage cutthroat?”

“Miss Magee—”

“It’s all right, Michael,” she heard from the door, and
she froze, staring at the young man who now looked at her with an unhappy grimace. She looked beyond him. Jerome McKenzie stood there, slick with sweat and blackened from gunfire and battle. A nasty red gash cut across his chest. His eyes were brilliantly blue against his grimed face, and they focused on her with sheer fury. “Next time, remind me—she needs a muzzle as well as a solid knot!”

Michael muttered an uncomfortable, “Aye, Captain!” and made a hasty exit.

Risa stared at Jerome, rising cautiously. “Michael is a good, kind fellow, Miss Magee, but I assure you, without my command, he’d never have cut that tie.”

“I could have died here!” Risa informed him.

“The man posted near your door was to release you at the slightest hint of danger.”

“So …” she murmured, sinking back to the bunk. “The
Maid of Salem
is taken?”

“Aye.”

“And her crew?”

“Naturally, we slit the throats of all survivors.”

Her eyes widened, then she realized he mocked her. “And her crew, McKenzie?” she repeated.

“She lost three men in the fighting; we lost one. Some of my men have boarded her and will relieve her of her supplies, then see that she is painted, renamed, and reoutfitted as a Confederate vessel. Her crew will be deposited on a small beachhead frequently passed by Union ships heading to Key West.”

“So you are a success in all things,” she murmured.

“I am able to take unwary ships by surprise, yes. It is a modest talent,” he said.

Wincing, he came on into the cabin, taking a seat at the desk and reaching into the bottom drawer for a bottle of rum. He uncorked it, and took a long swallow, wincing again when he was done. Gritting his teeth, he leaned back and poured a stream of the alcohol over the gash on his chest.

The rum cleaned away some of the grime. Risa found herself on her feet, clenching her hands together before her as she saw that the gash was long and thick. “That needs to be stitched.”

He arched a brow. “You’re concerned?”

“I’m merely stating that your wound needs stitches.”

“Ah. And you’d like to give them to me?”

“Indeed, I might well relish the task of piercing you with a needle time and again,” she said sweetly.

He leaned back, grinning. “Honesty. How refreshing. I do applaud that in a woman.”

She caught her breath at how his white smile transformed his face.

“Our ship’s surgeon is busy with more serious wounds,” he mused.

She hesitated, wondering if she wasn’t losing her mind—or if she did relish the task of sticking a needle into his flesh. Maybe it was just that in her many months of working with the injured in St. Augustine, she simply couldn’t ignore such a gash on any man.

“If you can call for a needle and sutures, I will happily close that.”

His eyes narrowed.

She let out a sigh of exasperation. “I’ve yet to meet your cousin Julian, but I’ve worked with those who took over his practice in St. Augustine when he moved inland with the military.”

He studied her for a very long time. He was probably assuming she meant to pierce a needle straight into his heart.

No less than he deserved.

But she would refrain, she decided. His men might well do her in to retaliate.

He shrugged. “As you wish. Michael!”

The young bearded fellow opened the door. “Bring us a needle and sutures. Miss Magee has kindly offered to tend to my wound.”

Michael’s eyes rolled toward her as if he, too, expected the worse.

“Oh, good God, I’m not a fool! I don’t intend to attempt to escape by wielding a stitching needle!” she said with impatience.

Michael arched a brow to Jerome who returned an almost imperceptible nod. A moment later Michael returned with the requested medical supplies, a bowl of water and a sponge. Risa approached the desk with a
rustle of skirts, thinking then that she had indeed lost her mind. She took the sponge, wet it and wrung it out, then gingerly started to clean the blood and soot from Jerome’s wounded flesh. She felt his eyes burning into her, but he didn’t move, and he didn’t flinch.

“Shall I assist?” Michael asked.

“I think Miss Magee can manage,” Jerome said evenly, and again, she felt his eyes.

Michael left. Jerome took a long swig of the rum. She did her best to be gentle as she cleaned the wound, and found herself thinking it was a pity that such supple bronzed flesh had been so brutally torn. She didn’t meet his gaze. She touched the needle to the flame in the lamp.

“What are you doing?”

“Some doctors believe it helps stop the spread of disease. I’ve been told that Julian is among them. He also believes that fresh sponges and bandages help the healing process,” she said.

“Fine.”

Risa threaded the needle with the sutures.

“Aren’t you supposed to warn me that it’s going to hurt like hell?” Jerome asked her, his hand catching hers momentarily.

She met his eyes at last. They were strikingly blue, hard as steel.

“It’s going to hurt like hell,” she told him.

He sniffed, released her hand, and chugged down more of the rum. Biting into her own lip, she began to stitch. She felt the fierce fire of his body warmth and the supple ripple of smooth muscle beneath her fingers. He never moved. When she was nearly done, he let out a growl-like groan of relief, and that was all. She tied off her handiwork, and stepped back. He all but finished off the rum, then decided to offer her some.

She shook her head.

“Go on. It might make your situation look better.”

“My situation is rather good right now, isn’t it? You said that you would let me go after you took the
Maid of Salem
.”

“There has been a change of plans.”

“What?” she demanded angrily.

“We must sail for the Bahamas immediately. There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“The Bahamas? With me? You’re going to force me along—”

“I’ve really no choice,” he said, studying her pointedly. “Have I?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

“I don’t. And of course you have a choice! It’s your ship, remember? Surely, a great hero such as yourself can—”

“I’m sorry. We’re going to the Bahamas. You’re to be my guest awhile longer.”

“Damn you, no!” she cried. She forgot her recent handiwork and struck out at him, gasping as she caught him in the chest with a powerful blow. His grunt and the massive constriction of his body as he staggered to his feet brought a cry of horror to her lips as she backed away from him. An apology hovered on her lips, but she never managed to voice it. He could still move with the speed of a jaguar. He was nearly atop her, his fingers viced around her own. The veins in his throat pulsed. His eyes glittered a vivid warning. The heat he emanated seemed to engulf her. She wanted to cry out and wrench away. Somehow, she stood her ground, returning his stare.

She heard the grating of his teeth before he spoke.

“You seem to think I’m a savage, Miss Magee. Just keep this up. You’re doing a damned fine job of turning me into one!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“The hell you didn’t!”

But he dropped her wrist, spun away, and headed toward the door. There he paused just briefly, looking back. “Despite your ever-so-kind administrations, I do assure you, it would give me tremendous pleasure to set you ashore. Unfortunately, there is no damned shore here!”

With that, he slammed his way out of the cabin.

Risa couldn’t stand. She was shaking too hard. She found herself sitting on the bunk again, more frightened
and dismayed than ever. Just how long could she possibly remain his prisoner before …

Before what?

She was afraid to ponder the question.

She had turned down the rum before. Now she leapt to her feet, rushed to the desk, and plucked up the bottle. She didn’t set it down until she had drained it of the very last drop.

T
he surgeon on Jerome’s ship was David Stewart. Like most of his crew, David had been handpicked. He had received his medical degree at the same time as Jerome’s brother Brent, and so, in visiting Brent at school, Jerome had met David. David had come to the Everglades to study some of the practices of the Seminoles. He’d been especially interested in the fact that the Seminoles, like many other tribes across the continent, chose to strip down to war paint and breechclouts when fighting.

Jerome had long sinced learned from his father that the Indians knew—without organized studies or statistics—that bits and pieces of clothing caught in wounds could cause infection and death when a clean wound might heal well. Jerome had always been impressed with David’s ability to study knowledge from any available source. Because of Jerome’s naval successes, his superiors allowed him a choice of men. Naturally, it helped as well that he had his own ships to offer in Confederate service, but he also knew that he hadn’t a temperament suited for regular military duty. He answered to superior officers within the Confederate navy, but for the most part, he captained his own ship, his decisions were respected by others, and as he always produced results, he was left almost completely alone.

As he bathed deck side, first with salt water and a rinse of fresh, Jerome felt David studying him thoughtfully.

“Good stitches. Damned good stitches. Small and neat. You may even survive this one without a scar.”

Jerome shrugged, shaking his hair to lose the excess water. “One fierce, ugly Yank nearly managed to cut my
heart out. And though Miss Magee may be a far more lovely enemy, I think she might desire every bit as fiercely to pierce my heart straight through. I think she made the stitches so perfectly small just to be able to stick into me as many times as was humanly possible.”

David grinned. “They’re still damned good stitches. Maybe she wouldn’t mind assisting while she’s aboard. Assuming we have another engagement while she remains our … guest.”

Jerome set down the bucket he’d just emptied over himself, and accepted a towel from Jeremiah Jones, their cabin boy. At sixteen, he was really no younger than many a young fellow who had managed to slip his way into the war, though the minimum age for fighting men, both sides, was supposedly eighteen. The crew kept him out of the hand-to-hand fighting, and he had only been allowed aboard last year because he’d been orphaned by a skirmish in north Florida.

“Has our guest been offered dinner?” Jerome asked Jeremiah.

“Brought her Evan’s best seafood stew just thirty minutes ago, sir.”

“And she didn’t attempt to throw it back at you?”

“She didn’t even rise, Captain, just thanked me as I set it on the desk.”

“You’ve removed all my papers?” Jerome asked.

“Indeed, Captain, the minute you came from the cabin, I did.”

“Go have your own dinner, then, seaman,” Jerome told him.

“Aye, aye, sir!” Jeremiah said, saluting, and disappearing toward the ladder for the lower deck.

“So you’re not going to sail north with her and let her free somewhere near St. Augustine?” David asked.

Industriously drying his hair, Jerome asked, “How can I possibly do that now? For one, my brother’s letter did have a reference on the back to the dates coming up in the next week when the supply of British bandages and Enfield rifles we purchased are supposed to be arriving at Nassau.”

“Yes, but do you think she read that information? From what you said, she seemed to believe that she had
found nothing but personal correspondences in your desk,” David pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter if she did or didn’t read the information that Brent sent. If that one pathetically frightened Yank was right, there’s going to be an enemy ship slipping into Nassau harbor to take our runner
Montmarte
the minute she loads on her supplies. We’ve no choice but to sail straight there, dock by morning, reach the captain of the
Montmarte
, and make plans.”

“Ah, well. You’re the only one out of your cabin,” David said lightly.

“There’s nothing else I can do.”

“You could leave the lady in Nassau,” David suggested.

Jerome paused, hands on his hips, looking at David. David was right. He could leave Risa Magee in Nassau. Wash his hands of her. No, he couldn’t. He had taken her aboard his ship, and it was his responsibility to see her back to safety—at the right time, of course. She was a sharp thorn in his side, and yet he was loath now to let her out of his sight. She was a general’s daughter. She’d managed to make her way south in pursuit of Alaina, and it was quite probable she could get other—damning—information to other parties. He had to keep her, for the time being at least.