The Diamond King (16 page)

He wondered how long they both had held those positions.

“It’s lessening,” he said, and he felt, rather than saw, two sets of eyes on him. “How is she?”

“Delirious,” the Campbell lass said. “She kept talking about her da.”

He approached her and stared at her fingers curled around the iron leg of the cot. They seemed anchored there and he had to open her fingers one by one.

“It’s all right,” he said gently. “You can let go.”

He noticed then that she was shivering.

The ship was still tossing too much for him to light a candle or a lantern. “Rob, take ... the lady to her cabin.”

“I would rather stay with Meg,” she said.

He started to say he did not care what she would rather do. She was a prisoner, and her well-being was his responsibility. Or so he told himself.

“Why?” he asked harshly. “She’s just Jacobite refuse.”

“She needs me,” the woman said stubbornly.

He did not want to admire a Campbell, but that insidious feeling crept through to a heart he thought well shielded. He could hear the weariness in her voice, almost feel the pain of muscles too long strained in one position.

“You will do her no good if you drop from exhaustion,” he said. He was aware of her eyes on him.

“You must be exhausted, too,” she said, still contrary. He wondered whether she was always that way, or just to him.

“I am used to it, my lady. I spent a year evading the English and their turncoat allies. There was little sleep.”

“You think I have no heart,” she said.

“I do not question your heart,” he replied. “I do not know you that well. I do question the endurance of your body. I’ll send someone to watch over her.”

Still, she did not move.

“Please let her stay.” Surprisingly, the weak, barely audible words came from Meg.

“Oh, Meg,” the Campbell said. Then she looked at Alex. Even in the gloom, her eyes looked misty, as if tears hovered there. Tears for Meg.

Alex tried to ignore them. Instead, he leaned down and felt Meg’s cheek. Still hot. But perhaps not as hot as it had been. Or was that merely wishful thinking? He had given up on hope and prayers long ago, but perhaps ...

He swallowed hard, then knelt next to Rob. “Meg?” His fingers touched her cheek.

“I want her to stay.”

He was too startled to react. She had been the fiercest of them all against their enemies. “Whatever you wish, little one,” he said finally.

Her hand took his. So small. So fragile.

“How do you feel?” he said.

“Bloody well,” Meg said gamely.

He heard the Campbell wench’s indrawn breath at the oath. Meg, he thought, had probably been with Burke and himself too long.

Just then. Meg moved and gasped. He checked the poultice. It was wet and sticky. Blood. “Has she had any laudanum lately?”

He made out the negative shake of her head.

“I was afraid to leave her. We tied her down, but she still rolled and I did not want the bonds to hurt her.”

He stood silently as seconds turned to minutes. The ship still rolled but the tumbling had ended. “You can untie her,” he said finally. “The worst is over.” He went to the porthole. Minutes earlier it would have been awash with waves. The storm had passed.

He stanched the bleeding as best he could. Meg clenched her teeth as he did so. Then he returned to the cabinet to fetch her some laudanum. He was careful about its use, knowing it was addictive and could be dangerous.

He poured just a small portion from the bottle into a cup. Thank God the cabinet had protected what few medicines they had. Then he looked for water. The pitcher had been fitted into a slot, but the tossing of the ship had apparently spilled it.

“Rob,” he said. “Go to the gallery and fetch some water.”

“Aye, sir,” he said.

Rob had always been far more polite than Meg. To Rob, Alex had simply been “Will” until he’d become captain of the
Ami
. Now he was “sir.” Even Rob did not know Alex’s true name, or if he did, he never mentioned it. Only Burke knew exactly who he was. And Burke was not a confiding man.

Keeping the cup steady, Alex returned to Meg’s side. The ship plunged and immediately the Campbell leaned over to protect her. It was not, Alex had to admit, out of duty but out of true concern. True caring.

That Meg did not want her to leave put truth to that observation. He remembered the soft lullaby she’d sung earlier, the loneliness and longing in her voice.

How long since Meg had known gentleness? Certainly not in the past year. Probably not before that. Meg’s mother had not been a demonstrative women. Alex had seen that firsthand. She’d been a dutiful wife and mother, yet not an affectionate one, and definitely not one to sing lullabies.

Meg had cared for her in the caves, but the woman had just given up. She’d not had her daughter’s will to live.

He still remembered Meg’s tearless face when he had buried her mother. No sign of emotion as if she had turned off everything inside herself.

But now she looked very much the vulnerable child with her hair hacked off, and her thin face, and the need for a woman.

Even a Campbell.

That was the most telling of all.

The door to the cabin opened, and Rob lurched toward him with a keg in his arms. Alex tapped it while Rob held the cup. Alex filled it and mixed the water with a small amount of laudanum, then went to the cot.

“Drink this, Meg.”

She took tiny little sips. No protestations. No rebellion. It was not like Meg.

He waited until her breath grew easier.

The Campbell lass said nothing, merely kept her hand on Meg’s, occasionally leaning down to protect her when the ship bucked. She said nothing to Alex, and he found himself wishing she would.

When he was sure Meg felt no more pain, he went to the tinderbox and took out the flint, steel, and tinder. Even as experienced as he was, he had trouble striking a light. Then the linen tender flamed and he finally got the bloody candle lit.

The Campbell woman rose and retrieved a piece of cloth from the cabinet. He watched as she carefully washed Meg’s wound. Some of the stitches had torn away. The wound looked raw and ugly.

“We need some milk,” Jeanette Campbell said.

“There is none.”

“A milk poultice is best for a wound.”

“Hamish does not seem to think so,” he said coolly.

“The oil is not working,” she said just as coldly.

“Do you have any way of conjuring a goat or cow?”

In a sudden flare of the candle, he saw her flinch. For a moment, she looked as vulnerable as young Meg.

Surprised, he felt a moment’s regret. She had, after all, helped Meg and had done far more than he’d expected.

“Go to your cabin and get some rest,” he said again. “You will be needed in the morning.”

“And you?”

“I’ll sleep then.”

“If there’s not another British ship.”

His gaze met hers. “Aye.”

“Will you then find another storm and to bloody hell with Meg?”

He did not know if he were more surprised at the oath or the accusation.

“And what would happen to her if the ship was taken by the English?” he asked. “Just what do you think would become of her then?”

Her hand trembled. “Certainly it could be no worse than this.”

“Then you do not know them, my lady.”

“You merely want to save yourself.”

“Aye, I do,” he said. “I have a few debts to repay.”

He saw from the sudden flare in her eyes that she knew exactly what he meant.

She ignored him and looked at Meg’s wound. “I can sew that.”

“I’ll wait for Hamish.” He knew he sounded churlish. But she was reaching some part of him he did not want touched. “Leave,” he said again. “She’s sleeping. She doesn’t need you.”

“You are an ass, Captain,” she said flatly as she rose and left the room with regal dignity.

Jenna tried to keep her temper intact. No matter who he was, no matter how he carried himself, he had the manners and demeanor of a ruffian.

She would not have left, had the child not been asleep. She hadn’t wanted the tension to somehow affect her. But she was indeed tired, and she was glad to be free of the captain’s presence.

For a moment, when he had touched Meg, she thought she possibly might have been wrong about him, that he did have some decency and humanity left inside. But then he had growled at her yet again and glowered as if he hated her.

Well, ‘twas obvious he did. And oddly enough because of her name and not because of the mark she bore. Perhaps because he considered her so poorly, he cared little about it. Perhaps he had not even noticed it.

How could he not notice her mark? Except hers was of God’s making. Or the devil’s, as so many claimed.

Yet he had never thrown it at her.

He has not yet had time.

And what did she care in any event?

She could not get the picture of Meg out of her mind, or the ugly wound. Neither could she dismiss the image of the captain. He had been soaked to the skin, his dark hair plastered to his head, lines crinkling around tired eyes. Perhaps because his face had been etched with weariness, the scar had been more visible as it turned up his lips. Only it had been more grimace than the curious half smile that usually hid his emotions.

When he’d touched Meg with gentleness, she’d felt an odd tug in her heart. Would a murderer and thief have a tender touch?

Even a tiger had a care for its young as it devoured other more helpless beasts, she told herself.

She was determined not to be a more helpless beast.

She made her way back to her cabin, but it was locked, and there was no crewman there to open it. She knocked and heard a wailing inside.

“Celia,” she yelled through the door. “Are you all right?”

“Aye, my lady,” came a weak voice.

“Is that you crying out?”

“Nay, it is Lady Blanche,” Celia said. “She is ill.”

“And you?”

“Not as badly,” Celia said, but she sounded awful. “And you, my lady?”

“I am well. Unhurt. I’ll try to get the captain to let you stay with me.”

Another wail.

Poor Celia. Jenna expected her maid’s cabin mate— Blanche—was worse than the seasickness.

She debated whether to return to the sick bay to make her request, or wait until later. When would she have more chance of success?

She turned back toward the sick bay and opened the door. The interior was dark but so had been the rest of the bowels of the ship. Rob was asleep on the chair. Then she saw the captain. He was next to Meg’s bed, his long legs folded, his head slumped on his chest. For a moment, she did not know whether it was in defeat or sleep.

Then he slowly moved and raised his head. She knew then it had been sleep, and she regretted her decision. She did not care about his welfare, she told herself, but she did about the ship and the people on board. At least some of them.

He rose, and his limp was even more pronounced. Something deep inside responded to the man who looked so utterly tired and, for the first
time, vulnerable. He came to the door, held out a hand to direct her back outside, and then closed it behind him.

“Aye?” he said.

No title. No courtesy. Only an abrupt, irritated question.

“Celia ... my companion ... I would like her to stay with me. She’s been ill and—”

“And you need a maid?” He turned back to the door in dismissal. “Well, this is one Campbell who will have to go without.”

The area was dark, and she could not see his eyes or even much of his face. But his voice was rude and presumptive.

“I want to look after her, not the other way around,” Jenna said, her anger now equal to his. For a moment earlier, their joint concern over a child had united them in a common cause, or so she had thought. He made it clear now there had been no common cause, no temporary truce.

He turned and stared at her. She wondered if he could see more of her face than she could of his. He seemed catlike in his movements, uncanny in his ability to see in the dark.

He didn’t say anything, but she still felt his enmity like a palpable thing. She was a Campbell. She suspected whatever she did, or said, was not going to make up for that. And it was one thing she could not change.

She waited, refusing to be cowed or intimidated.

He hesitated, then nodded his head once. “Go. I’ll have one of my men bring her.”

“Thank you,” she said through clenched teeth. If nothing else, she was a pragmatist. Anger over his rudeness and unfairness accomplished nothing.

“And you will stay there until I say otherwise,” he said. “I do not want you wandering the ship.”

“I would be delighted if that means I will not see you,” she said with the same contempt he’d put in his voice. So much for holding back her anger.

“Then we are agreed on that point,” he said. She felt his gaze on her again. “Go,” he said.

She turned around, afraid her defiance might prod him to change his mind.

Why had she said anything at all?

Because she had wondered for a split second whether there was more to the man than she’d first thought.

There was not.

He would get some rest in Claude’s cabin.

Damn, but he hated to give up his own quarters, with the only bed on the ship large enough to accommodate him.

Still, the infernal Campbell wench needed sleep of her own, and she would never get it with the bawling Carrefour woman.

He rubbed the corner of his left eye. He had not meant to go to sleep. That he had dozed meant he
needed it badly. He woke Rob. “I am going above to see whether Hamish can join you. If not, I’ll send Burke to relieve you. Then you get some sleep. I will be in Claude’s cabin.”

Rob nodded, his gaze going over the still form on the bed. “Is she ... ?”

Alex shook his head.

“Miss ... Lady Jeanette was... kind.” The lad’s words were tentative, unsure.

“She wants to stay alive,” he said curtly.

Rob did not say anything else, and Alex left him. Damn, but his leg hurt. If he weren’t careful, it would give way at any time. As it was, every step was agony.