The Duchess and the Dragon (8 page)

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Authors: Jamie Carie

BOOK: The Duchess and the Dragon
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Using great care, so as not to wake him, she sank down on the narrow edge of the cot, reaching for his forehead. It was still burning hot, making the cloth warm and dry. Exchanging the cloth for a fresh one from the basket, she pressed it against his brow, allowing her fingers to brush his temple and then back into his hair, repeating the motion until it became a gentle massage. She leaned closer still, now willing him to wake up. A fanciful thought flitted through her mind that he had been waiting for her touch to bring him back to life, that she held some power over his recovery. She smiled at herself and him, but she believed it.
His hair was black as ink, blue-black almost, and fell long and straight away from his forehead. Her fingers slid into it seemingly of their own will. Silky and inky. She imagined him with a fuller face and shaven clean. He would most certainly be handsome, but more than that, he was . . . noble. “Who art thou?”
The soft question seemed to stir something in him, for he scowled at her and answered, most imperious: “Drake Weston, fifth Duke of Northumberland, of course.”
Serena gasped. “Thou art no duke!” Was he mad?
He seemed to have lost his momentary lucidity and didn’t respond. Serena shook her head, staring at him for a time, then exchanged the cloth, laying a fresh one on his forehead. As she leaned back toward him she whispered, “But thee can dream of such things for a while longer, and then thee must wake up and see me.”
Her husky voice sounded strange to her own ears. Her hand seemed to have a mind of its own as she touched his cheek, feeling the coarse whiskers under her thumb. It had been a long time since she had touched whiskers, and those only of her father’s as he tickled her with them when she was a little girl.
The man took a long, shaking breath and seemed to sink into a deeper sleep. Her hand trailed down his neck toward his chest—
She froze.
What
was she doing? She
wanted
to touch him, and the urge had no connection to nursing. What was wrong with her? She stood, but again his hand shot out and grasped her wrist.
“Stay with me.” The words croaked past dry lips.
Serena sat back down, easily conquered, reaching for the water jug for something to do. Pouring cool, clean water into the tin cup, she lifted his head to drink.
“Yes, I will stay by thy side if thou wilt drink.”
He drank more this time and then dropped back onto the pillow with a sigh. She sat beside him, hands clasped in her lap to keep them from touching his face and hair, allowing herself only to watch him sleep. Her gaze fell on his lips, and she remembered the ointment in her basket. She bit her lower lip. Dare she?
A small smile formed on the man’s mouth, and Serena reared back. Could he read her mind? Of course not, she chided herself. He was probably just feeling better—he’d certainly needed the water he had been able to ingest. Slowly, so as not to disturb his sleep, she leaned toward the basket on the floor and rummaged through it until her fingers wrapped around a little clay pot. It was in her lap and opened before she realized she had made her decision. She looked down at the ointment. Normally, she would have given it to the patient and allowed him to apply it himself, but this man clearly could not manage that. She dipped her finger into the pot before she could convince herself otherwise, the soothing smells of lemon and beeswax filling the space around them. Her hand stretched out toward his face, her heart pounding. What if he woke? How would she explain what she was doing?
She dabbed a bit on his lower lip and sat back to see what response he would have. Nothing. He slept on. She nodded. She was a nurse; she could do this. Leaning in again, she quickly spread the ointment across his bottom lip. He moved his head away, as if avoiding a fly, but didn’t wake. Determined to finish the job, she reached for the upper lip, which wasn’t quite as chapped. It was softer and curved, dark rose in color with an indention in the middle that must be sinful, it was so well shaped. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath quickened as she spread the ointment across the top of his upper lip. She halted, realizing how close she had leaned in, how deep her breathing had become . . .
When had she closed her eyes? Heaven help her, she wanted to kiss him.
“You can, you know.”
At first she didn’t know if the deep voice had come from the man or some other being in the room, so deep and quiet and inside her head it was. Her eyelids shot open as she straightened. “Can what?”
“Kiss me.” He smiled, but didn’t open his eyes.
Serena gasped, “Thee has been awake this entire time, sir?”
One of his shoulders lifted. “I didn’t think it would help my cause—” he paused pressing his lips together, as though struggling to stay conscious—“for you to realize that.” Then he appeared to drop back into a deep sleep.
Serena shot to her feet, escaping her temptation and the moment, moving away from the bed to create as much distance as she could while still seeing his face. She had to get away from this man before she did . . . something . . .
As she turned, her cheeks on fire, she saw that Mary Ann was coming down the steps with the midwife. “Serena, the soul-drivers are here! They asked about these in the hold, and I did not know what to tell them. I said thee wouldst talk to them.”
Soul-drivers.
The name alone caused her dread. Heartless men who gathered those to be indentured off the ships and drove them house to house, farm to farm, until they were all sold. They took no regard for families, splitting children from mothers, husbands from wives. Nor did they regard humanity, scarcely feeding or caring for those who’d just survived a long, nightmarish journey.
She nodded to Mary Ann. “I will go up and speak to them.” Turning to the other woman, she inclined her head. “Good day, Beatrice. Thank thee for coming. Mary Ann will take thee to the woman I am concerned about.” She hurried up the stairs. If she could save these few in the hold from the horrors of soul driving, it would be some small gift. One thing she knew for certain: they would not have the man who now haunted her.
They would have to fight her for him.
Chapter Six
Frightened people crowded the deck. A tall, burly man, biceps bulging, eyes hardened, with a slashing whip hissing through the air to keep the people pinned like animals against one rail. Children wept and clung to their parents, while the adults gathered them close, their own faces mirroring confusion and fear.
Serena watched, overwhelmed by distress for the despised and desperate. They were a pitiful sight—except for one man. A tall, red-headed fellow who didn’t take kindly to the treatment, as evidenced by the fact that he had engaged two of the officials in a fistfight. Serena turned away just as they caught him and pounded him to the wood of the deck. Clinging to the railing, she was able to skirt around the scene and make her way toward the ship’s captain, determined to hold some rank in this world where she really didn’t belong.
Captain Masters stood at the far side of the deck, his back turned away from the scene. Serena had spoken to him briefly when she and Mary Ann boarded the ship, and he’d seemed a friendly sort then. Now he appeared decidedly uncomfortable.
“Captain, might I have a word with you?”
His turned toward her as if coming out of deep thought, looking for a moment, unable to remember her.
“I am Serena Winter . . . of the Society of Friends?”
“Ah yes, what can I do for you, miss?” His gaze shifted toward the men shouting orders at the crowd. “You shouldn’t be on deck at the moment. As you can see, we are, ah, trying to do business here.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Despite her training to be always moderate in speech, Serena couldn’t keep the disdain from her voice. “There must be a better way to procure indentures for these people.”
The captain straightened to his full height, looking down his nose at her. “Young miss, you haven’t any knowledge in these matters.” His face turned gruff and red. “What do you want?”
Oh,
why
hadn’t she held her tongue. She needed this man’s cooperation and riling him wasn’t going to help her cause. “I wanted to assure thee and these . . . buyers that the few in the hold are not able to travel. All but one have high fevers. That one is dead.”
The captain started. “Dead, you say? Gad, what a stink down there! I’ll not be responsible! We’ve already docked, and I’m sick to death of this business.”
Serena was not surprised. “Captain, perhaps we might help one another. If thou wilt assure me that those in the hold will not be moved, I will see to it that the dead man is properly buried.”
A gleam lit the captain’s eyes. “A little businesswoman, are thee?” At the stressed “thee,” Serena gritted her teeth. The captain’s eyes narrowed, and she had the distinct impression he was trying to judge her figure through the plain, gray wool of her dress and the black, hooded cape. Serena withstood the insolent scrutiny, chin raised and waiting.
“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?”
He reached out to touch her cheek, but Serena blocked his hand, leaned toward him, and took the tone of a mother admonishing a child. “Captain, I have come here to help the sick and the starving. One would think that thou wouldst know better how to take care of an investment.” Her voice was quiet, peaceful even, just speaking plain truth in a way that he could do nothing but acknowledge. “Now, about those in the hold, do we have an agreement?”
The captain sighed heavily and nodded. “Sorry, miss.” He pressed his lips together as he watched the soul-drivers dividing the indentured into groups. “I’m not exactly sure how I ended up in this business, you see.” He looked at Serena and gave her a tight smile, then turned brisk. “I have an even better deal for you, Miss Winter. Since you are so in love with the sick ones down there, I’ll sell the lot of them to you for half the price I’m getting from these soul-drivers.
You
can find them indentures. But
I want them out by noon tomorrow.” Almost to himself he added, “They’ll probably be dead by then anyway.”
With that announcement, he walked away, leaving Serena standing there, her mouth open.
What had she done? She turned, then started when she found Mary Ann and Beatrice behind her. Mary Ann rushed over. “What happened, Rena? Are they going to take the sick, too?”
“No.” She looked at Mary Ann wide-eyed. “I believe I have just bought the sick in the hold . . . or promised that the Friends would.”
“
What?
” Mary Ann gaped at her.
“It will be all right.” Serena assured, not at all sure that was true. She turned to include Beatrice. “We will see if we can find homes for them among the Friends until they are well, then perhaps we can help them find indentures.”
Beatrice, a plump, round-faced woman with a gentle face, didn’t hesitate. “I will take Molly, the pregnant woman, home with me. She can stay until the babe is born and perhaps beyond that. I could use a helper, but I will have to discuss it with Foster.”
Serena nodded. “Thank thee. That should help.” She turned back to Mary Ann. “Father will know what to do with the rest.” She hoped.
It was nearly dark when the girls got back home, rushing to the kitchen where they knew they would find their mother at this hour.
“Mother, thou wilt not believe what Serena has done!”
At her younger daughter’s exclamation, Leah Winter, a pretty woman with light-brown hair and eyes, turned from the stove and looked Serena over with concern. “What has happened?”
Serena shook her head. “We are fine. It is about the indentured, is all.” Serena shot Mary Ann a
don’t-say-another-word
look.
Their mother nodded, smiling, soft wrinkles crinkling the skin around her eyes. “Good. Please wash up and set the table before I hear it, then. Thy sisters have been very spirited this afternoon, and I am running behind time. Father will be home any second.”
The girls headed for the washbasin, knowing that doing anything else at this hour would be fruitless. Supper was always ready and waiting for their father the minute he walked in the door at six o’clock. It was a ritual not to be toyed with. And besides, they may as well tell the story to both during the meal.
With six daughters—ranging from twenty-one-year-old Serena to Lidy, who had just turned four—their father, Josiah Winter, was rather spoiled. He was waited upon, doted on, and made to feel a king from the moment he walked in till he blew out the last candle and slipped into his cool, crisply ironed sheets. His wife ran her household like a well-commandeered ship where the simple, basic comforts of a clean home, wholesome food, and contented children were the rule, not the exception.
Not that Serena’s father didn’t work hard. As one of the few silversmiths in the area, he was hard-pressed to keep up with the orders from a prospering society. Philadelphia was on the verge of becoming one of the major seaports of the world and its people were becoming rich.
Serena and Mary Ann kept their silence as they took their seats and bowed their heads for thanksgiving. After two bites their mother turned laughing eyes to her husband. “I think the girls are bursting with news. Shall we let them tell it now?”

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