More Than You Know (36 page)

When Claire woke, she was alone in the cabin. She had no idea if she'd slept one hour or seven. She felt rested enough to get up and find Rand. Claire washed quickly and dressed her hair. She noticed that her abandoned search through the armoire was no longer in evidence. Rand had put everything neatly away. She smiled to herself, humming softly, as she drew her gown over her head. Claire smoothed the cream linen skirt over her hips and fastened the buttons on the bodice. The last thing she did before picking up her cane and leaving the room was to check the desk for Rand's chart. When she didn't find it, she knew where he would be.

"Did you sleep at all?” she asked, walking into his workroom.

Rand didn't look up from the map spread in front of him. He tapped the stool beside him, absently indicating that she could join him.

Claire found the stool with the tip of her cane and sat down. “I passed the night quite comfortably."

Rand's response was a distracted grunt.

"Yes, well, thank you for asking.” She let a few minutes pass in silence. Occasionally there was the telltale scratch of his pen on the paper as he made calculations with the parallel rulers and the plotter. Claire placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on the back of her hands. “Am I covering anything important?” she asked.

"Hmmm?"

Claire realized he had not really heard her. She supposed that was an answer of sorts. Apparently she was not disturbing him in the least. Less offended than annoyed, Claire laid one forearm across the chart.
"Now
am I covering anything important?"

Rand rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. It eased a little of the headache that was pressing the back of his eyes.

Sensing his distress, Claire was immediately sorry for the aggravation she had added. She leaned the cane against the table and stood. Placing her hands on Rand's shoulders, she began massaging the tight muscles across his back. “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Dr. Stuart has headache powders."

"No, I don't want any of
his
medicine."

Claire smiled, teasing him. “Isn't that a bit like cutting off your nose to spite your face?"

"Right now I would gladly cut off my head."

She worked her fingers more vigorously and was rewarded by his grateful sigh. “How long did you sleep?"

"A few hours. It's after seven now."

"Have you been poring over the chart since you woke?"

Rand shook his head. “I checked the watch. Dodd's band returned to the camp sometime after midnight. We know a little more about the shoals than we did before. Not much, though. Cutch and his group slipped back just before daybreak. He's not reported to the ship yet."

"Shall I bring you some coffee?” she asked.

"I'll get it.” He realized how good it sounded. There were healing powers in the aroma alone. “Maybe you can calculate a course for us while I'm gone."

"Very amusing.” She let her hands fall away as Rand stood. He kissed the crown of her head, then left. Shrugging, Claire returned to her stool. Her stomach rumbled. She pressed her midriff against the table and hoped Rand thought about returning with more than coffee—and that he brought enough to share.

Claire picked up the parallel rulers and tapped one beveled edge lightly against the chart. She wondered when Tiare would return and when she could expect to see Tipu again. She had thought a great deal about the conclusion Rand had drawn. Claire supposed it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that Tiare was frightened of her. Tiare had always been protective of Tipu and resentful of what she perceived as Claire's interference. Claire wondered at her own arrogance in assuming she had some inherent right to take Tipu from his mother, just to raise him in the cold, industrial, but infinitely civilized climes of London.

Claire shook her head, her smile rife with self-mockery. Vowing to tell Tiare that there was no reason to fear her intentions, Claire recognized that she had lightened her own burden. This time when she tapped the rulers, the beat was a livelier one.

The door opened and Claire spun on the stool. Her welcoming smile grew wider as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee reached her nose. “I hope some of that is for me."

"If you want it.” Macauley Stuart crossed the room and set his mug on the table. His placement effectively stopped Claire's hasty attempt to roll the chart up. “There's no coffee stain, I promise you,” he told her.

Claire kept her fingers on the part she had already rolled. “I might knock it over,” she said. “I'm blind, you know."

That gave the doctor pause. He looked at her gravely set expression and said, “I believe I am finally becoming accustomed to your rather droll sense of humor.” He took the ruler from her right hand and gently tapped the wrist of her other hand with it. Her fingers unfolded reflexively and the chart unrolled beneath her palm. “I assure you, no harm will come to it.” He slid the mug across the chart toward her. “Enjoy,” he said as her hands closed around it.

Claire did not lift the mug. She knew the position of her forearms across the table would frustrate Stuart's efforts to examine Rand's chart. “What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you. I never had an opportunity to examine you after you fainted yesterday. I thought I would see you before you dressed for the day, but you were already gone from your cabin. I had not realized you were such an early riser."

"Perhaps that's because you spent so much of the voyage in your own cabin,” she said.

Stuart let that pass. “Don't you want the coffee after all?” he asked. “I didn't drink from the mug, if that's why you're hesitant."

"No, it's not that. It's very hot, isn't it? I don't want to burn my mouth."

"I didn't notice as I was carrying it. Here, let me take it. I can add a little water from the pitcher on the bench."

"Oh, no. Then it will be diluted. It's better when it's strong, don't you agree?"

"It's better when it's hot,” he said. “If you're not going to drink it, I will.” His hands closed over hers.

Claire was determined not to lose this battle of wills. She held on to the mug tightly, pulling one way when the doctor pulled the other. Hot coffee sloshed and spattered the back of his hands and the tips of her fingers.

"Ouch! Dammit!"

Macauley surprised Claire by releasing his grip on her and the mug. The pull she had exerted on it was now too much. Her hands flew upward, the mug with them. She jumped out of the way of the hot coffee but there was no saving the chart. Claire could hear it dripping over the edge of the table and realized most of it was spreading out across Rand's valuable map. “Quickly!” she snapped. “Give me something to wipe it up!"

Too late Claire realized he wouldn't give her anything. Instead, he took control of the situation and she could do nothing but step aside. “Has it been ruined?” she asked anxiously.

"It's difficult to tell,” he said, mopping up the coffee with his handkerchief. He went twice to the dissecting basin to wring out the scrap of linen. “There are some holes in this map, but I don't think the coffee did that.” He said it tentatively, as if he weren't really certain. “It couldn't, could it?"

"I don't know,” Claire lied. “Be careful not to tear it."

"I'm afraid the captain's writing has been smeared. That can't be good."

Claire sighed. “No, it can't be."

"This book's a little worse for wear,” he said.

Claire's heart lodged firmly in her throat. “What book?” she asked weakly.

"The one holding down the far corner of the chart. I don't suppose you knew it was there."

Certain her heart was never going to resume beating, Claire asked, “May I have it please?"

"In a moment.” Macauley wrung out his handkerchief a third time, then applied it carefully to the open pages of the book. “This must be one of the captain's journals,” he said.

"A log book?"

"No, one of his naturalist journals."

"Is the writing still legible?"

"That's difficult to say. I couldn't read it before it had coffee all over it."

So that's where his eyes had wandered while he was talking to her, Claire thought. He had found something else to occupy him while she was trying to protect the chart. “May I have it?” she asked again.

"Why? Do you think you can read it? You're blind, remember?"

Claire's mouth flattened. “It's only amusing when I say it.” She held out both hands, palms up.

"In a moment.” Macauley's eyes narrowed. His fair features took on a perplexed expression as he lifted one of the pages and noticed coffee had seeped through to the page under it. “How peculiar,” he said.

"What?” Claire asked quickly. “What's peculiar?"

He told her what happened. “But the stain's in the shape of the Big Dipper,” he went on.

"I agree that's peculiar,” Claire said. “Now, may I have my husband's journal?” She hoped that by reminding Macauley of her relationship with Rand, he would be moved to respond more quickly. Her hands, however, remained empty. “What are you doing?"

"I'm blotting the coffee."

He worked more slowly than Claire would have liked. She was sure he was studying the writings. She realized a few moments later that she was only partially correct. Macauley Stuart was studying the map.

"Do you know what Captain Hamilton was plotting?” he asked.

"Plotting?” Claire forced a small laugh. “Does he really seem interested in intrigue to you? Against whom would he be plotting?"

The doctor shook his head. “The map, Claire. I'm talking about the course he was plotting. He has joined six ... no, seven ... islands on this chart with a line running from one to the other.” His voice slowed toward the end as he bent his head and looked at the map more closely. “He put these holes here ... I wonder why...” He blinked, seeing the larger picture for the first time. “It's the Big Dipper, isn't it? Just like the tikis on Pulotu.” He looked at the journal page again, lifting it carefully and examining it. He saw the tiny holes that had allowed the coffee to seep through in the same familiar pattern. “This is passing strange. His journal is torn in an identical manner."

"I'm sure it's all very interesting,” Claire said in bored accents. “You must ask him about it. Have you quite finished cleaning the mess?"

"Yes, just ... about ... yes, I've got it ... finished now."

Claire frowned. Her head was cocked to one side in an attitude of deep listening. “What did you do?” she demanded.

Macauley closed the journal and put it in her hands. “I finished wiping it down."

She shook her head. “No, you did something. I heard you. You removed a page."

"Claire, I assure you—"

"No, I assure
you
—” She stopped, clutching the journal protectively to her chest. She didn't need to examine it to know the Hamilton riddle was no longer among its contents. “It was you,” she said accusingly.

"Me?” His response was an absent one. He was leaning over the chart again. He traced the lines Rand had drawn with his fingertip. His lips moved as he read the unusual island names to himself.

Claire hit the table with the flat of her hand. She felt Macauley jerk in response. Satisfied that she had his attention now, she continued. “You were the one looking through our belongings."

Macauley's brows kicked up, though his features remained pleasant. He tucked the journal page into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Really? And when did I do that?"

"On the voyage from London to Charleston,” she said. “The cabins were disturbed from time to time ... this workroom ... you told me last night that you had seen the captain's charts...” Her voice trailed off momentarily as her mind worked out the problem. “While we were at Henley, you were the one responsible for searching Orrin Foster's study. And later, after we returned to
Cerberus,
it was you who came into my cabin."

"I was in your cabin many times,” he pointed out calmly.

She waved aside his interruption. “You were in there looking for something,” she told him. “And I surprised you. You hid from me while I searched the cabin. You
knew
I was frightened, yet you never revealed yourself. The irony is that I left and went searching for you, looking for your help. You weren't in your cabin then, no matter what you said to the contrary. You went there later, probably during the short time I was on deck, and that's how Mr. Cutch was able to find you. There was an accident topside, remember? You were needed to set a broken leg."

"Oh, I remember,” the doctor said. “About setting the leg, at least. My recollection of the rest is rather vague, probably because I was involved in none of it."

"Were you ever seasick even a single day?” Claire asked. “That's how you moved about so freely, isn't it? While Rand and the others thought you were confined to your bed, you were able to search the ship almost at will.
I
was certainly no threat."

"Have I done something to offend you, Claire? Is that why you're making these accusations?"

Claire laid the journal down. She put out her hand again. “Please give me the page you removed. You have no right to take it."