Wherever You Are (5 page)

“Cap’n. I heard my services were needed here.” His sharp gaze took in the woman’s back and his eyes rounded as he stepped inside. “The men said you’d had a woman flogged but I didn’t believe them.”

“I didn’t know she was a woman,” Morgan snapped and pulled the blanket higher, covering the sides of her breasts. “And I’ll tend to her.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.”

“Sir. Captain. Your job is to guide the ship and the sailors on the ship. My job, what I’m trained for, is to heal.”

Morgan’s anger at the surgeon’s condescending tone spiked. “No.”

“Sir. If I could—”

“I said no, O’Callahan. Now leave us.”

O’Callahan’s eyes widened and his lips thinned. “I know we disagree on treatments from time to time—”

Morgan snorted.

“—but you must admit I am her best chance. Infection will set in and then—”

Morgan rose, his height towering over O’Callahan’s and making the surgeon look up. “Out.”

“But, sir, you must think of the woman and her delicate sensibilities.”

Instead Morgan thought of the scrap of lace covering her rear end and wondered what covered the front of her. He thought of her clothes shoved under the bed and knew he couldn’t let O’Callahan see any of that.

“Infection,” O’Callahan sputtered.

“You cure infection by putting seawater on it.”
 

“The salt in the water cures it.”

“The water itself causes more infection.”

O’Callahan straightened and cleared his throat. “There is no proof—”

“I don’t need proof. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Your so-called cures can damn a man to a watery grave.” Let alone a woman.

“Well…” O’Callahan huffed. “Well.”

Morgan pointed to the door. “Out,” he said softly. He was damn tired of everyone arguing with him. First Isabelle, then Thomas, and now O’Callahan. He was the captain and everyone else would damn well do as he said. “I said out, O’Callahan, unless you’d like to see the inside of the hold as well.”

The surgeon glanced at the woman one last time then left.

Morgan remained standing, flexing his fingers in an attempt to control his building anger. She moaned and he turned back to her.

She was a mess. Her fingers, the palms of her hands and the pads of her bare feet were torn and bloody. She’d been flogged twice Thomas said, so the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. And Thomas admitted he’d felt sorry for the lad and held back. But still, the woman would be scarred for life.

He washed her back with vinegar—a far better deterrent to infection than ocean water. Vinegar stung like a son of a bitch and he sent up a small prayer of thanks that she didn’t awaken. Next he smeared a salve mixed with comfrey over the lash marks, then wrapped her torso in clean strips of linen. Another point the surgeon and he disagreed on. Morgan understood the benefits of clean bandages, the surgeon said it didn’t matter.

Morgan put more salve on her hands and feet.

When he was finished, he leaned back and blew out a breath, not realizing until now how tense he’d been.

She’d want a bath to wash away the dirt and filth of the fire and the blood caked on her. He wished he could bathe her now, but they had to wait until the next rainfall brought fresh water. He prayed infection wouldn’t settle in. A ship was not the best place to take sick. Their supplies were limited and clean water nearly non-existent. He’d done the best he could.

He pulled a chair close, sat and dug beneath the bed for the woman’s clothes. He ran his fingers across the stitching on the tag. Victoria’s Secret.

His gaze strayed to her. She slept with her arms bent at the elbows, her hands up by her head. It was hard to tell what color her hair was through the dirt ground into it, but if he had to guess, he’d say blonde rather than brown. And her eyes? He didn’t remember the color. What he did remember, all too well, was the thin scrap of lace that covered her rear end—barely covered her rear end.

His thumb caressed the tag of her undergarment. Victoria’s Secret.

Secrets.

Everyone had them, he most of all. He looked down at the button his thumb was rubbing.

So what were hers? How did she end up on his ship?

Chapter Four

Heat. Pain. Pain as she’d never experienced. Like waves on the ocean. Ebbing. Flowing. Drowning her in its merciless clutch.

She was hot. So hot.

A voice—a man’s voice—tried to soothe her, whispered in her ear. “Calm down, little one. Rest.”

She shivered. Her teeth chattered and she tried to curl into a ball but her back hurt too much. Warmth. She needed warmth. A scratchy blanket was thrown over her and she huddled into it. Her mind drifted, merging past and present.

The round and round motions of the police cruiser’s red lights made crazy patterns on the ground.

“Zach’s missing. The police say he ran away.”

NO!

Not Zach. He wouldn’t leave her.

He’d promised.

She threw the blanket off. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dripped down her back. More pain. Endless pain. Why wouldn’t it go away? A cold cloth was placed on her head.

“He ran away, Juliana. Zach ran away.”

No. Impossible. Zach loved her. They were going to get married. He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t.

They were wrong. The police were wrong.

That terrible day faded and Zach’s mother, Emily, stood before her, fifteen years younger but with lines etched in her face, grief carved deep into her eyes.

“You have to let it go, Juliana. This isn’t healthy.”

“I’ll never let it go.”

“Zach wouldn’t want this. He’d want you to move on.”

“How can you say that? You’re his mother. Mother’s aren’t supposed to move on from something like this.”

Emily reared back, the grief flaring to a deep-seated anguish. “Do you think I don’t hurt as well? We both loved him, Juliana.”

“It’s only been three months. He’ll come back.”

Emily shook her head, tears threatening to overflow. “If he hasn’t come back by now, he never will.”

Juliana thrust her chin up, fighting her own tears. Never-ending tears. “He will and when he does, he’ll find me waiting.”

“You can’t waste your life on this, sweetheart. Please listen to me—”

“Never.” That had been the last word Juliana spoke to Emily Langtree for fifteen years. She kept her word. She waited for Zach to return to her, to the love they shared and the plans they’d made. He never did.

The scene switched again. Zach hovered over her, concern stamped on his face. She smiled and raised her hand to his cheek.

Why did you leave me?
she wanted to ask, but the pain was back, stealing her breath, her thoughts. His face wavered. Her hand fell and she curled her fingers into a fist.

Let it go, Juliana. Let him go.

No.

Her body dripped with sweat. She turned and groaned in agony. Warm, caring hands gently turned her back.

“Shhh, little one. Don’t move.”

“Make it go away,” she whispered.

“Here, drink.”

She greedily gulped at the liquid. “More,” she said softly.

“No more.”

“Please?”

“Shhhh. Go to sleep.”

“Don’t leave me.” She grabbed the hand caressing her hair, suddenly afraid but not knowing what she was afraid of.

“I won’t.”

Let it go, Juliana.

No more pain. Deep sleep. Nothing but darkness. She sank into it, eagerly embraced the absence of pain. But it came back, like it always did. Her back was on fire and she clawed at the blanket.

“Hey, hey.” Soft words, calloused hands. The blanket disappeared.

“Zach?” She tried to open her eyes but they felt heavy, weighted, and if she swam to the surface, she feared the pain would return worse than before. “Zach,” she sighed. “I love you.”

Morgan twisted his head to get the kinks out of his neck. If he thought he was tired before, it was nothing compared to now. He’d slept sporadically, the woman’s cries and restlessness keeping him awake. There’d been a few times over the past several days when he thought he’d lost her. The fever had been high, higher than he’d ever seen. High enough that he’d called O’Callahan in to help, but all the quack wanted to do was bleed her and Morgan ordered him out of the cabin.

He’d given her the last dose of laudanum a few hours ago. Her eyelids were fluttering and soon she would awaken. He’d stopped the laudanum mainly because he didn’t want to risk her reliance on it, but partly because he wanted to talk to her. Find out who she was, where she came from, who sent her.

For the past several days she’d mumbled incoherent words but one stood out strikingly clear: Zach.

She moaned and turned her head. Blonde hair fell across his pillow. He knew it was blonde because he found fresh water and washed it. After she muttered Zach’s name, he had to know. Had to know the exact color. Just like he had to know the color of her eyes.

He brushed her hair away from her face. Her brow puckered and she turned into his hand. “Wake up, little one.” Her lids fluttered.

“Hey. Wake up.”

“Mmmm.” She blinked and looked at him. Green. Her eyes were green.

Morgan pulled his hand away and leaned forward. “Welcome back.”

She frowned. Her gaze darted around the room in confusion. She scooted up in bed and quickly gathered the blanket against her.

“Wh-where are my clothes?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“They were too damaged to save.”

He’d kept the dagger beside her on the bed and her hand began to inch toward it. He pretended not to notice. “How are you feeling?”

Her fingers curled around the hilt. White-knuckled, she slowly drew it toward her. “Fine.”

“I doubt you’re fine. How does the back feel?”

“It hurts but not as bad.” The dagger slowly made its way to her side. Her voice was rough with the smoke she inhaled. He found he liked the sound of it.

“What’s your name?”

Over the last several hours her face had regained some color but it quickly drained. “I didn’t set fire to your ship.”

The reminder of the fire had his anger beating heavily against his ribs but he ignored it, knowing if he frightened her, he wouldn’t get any answers. “Do you know who did?”

She shook her head.

“How did you come to be in the manger?”

For a moment her brows dipped in confusion. “I… I don’t know.”

Morgan’s first instinct was to call her a liar. The fear in her eyes made him hold his tongue. Maybe she didn’t know. “Where are you from?”

Her lips pursed and she looked around the room, her gaze pausing on the various pieces of furniture—the desk, the small table with a single chair, the locker shoved up against the wall, and the lanterns swaying with the roll of the ship.

“Where are we?” she whispered.

“Heading to London.”

She swallowed. “In the Atlantic?”

Morgan went on alert. She should know they were in the Atlantic if she’d stowed away before they left Boston. “Yes.”

“Wh— What year is it?”

Suddenly his heart sped up and his hands turned clammy. “1727.”

What little color that was left in her face turned a sickly gray and the dagger she’d been clutching to her thigh trembled.

“1727,” she whispered mostly to herself. “How?”

“How what?”

Those big green eyes turned to him and she shook her head.

“What’s your name?” he asked again, suddenly desperate to hear it.

Her gaze slid to the windows and the fist clutching the blanket to her chest tightened.

“Your name,” he repeated softer.

“Juliana,” she said softly. “My name is Juliana.”

Morgan sat back and stared at her. Juliana. Her name was Juliana. Juliana who loved Zach. Juliana whose eyes were green.

A hard knock on the door made her jump.

“Enter,” Morgan said.

Patrick, Morgan’s boatswain, poked his head in.

“What is it, Patrick?”

“You’re needed up top, Cap’n.”

Morgan heaved himself out of the chair, too relieved to escape the confines of his cabin and the woman named Juliana. He followed Patrick out the door, ignoring her as if she weren’t there, hoping when he returned she wouldn’t be. Because, suddenly, his life held much more danger than Barun stalking him.

Juliana closed her eyes, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute.

Please, God, when I open my eyes, let me be in my apartment in Kansas City.
But when she opened them she saw a cabin. On a ship. In the middle of the ocean.

1727.

Not possible. Simply not possible. The last she recalled she was… Panic had her twisting the blanket in her fist.
Remember, Juliana. Remember
. Fire, water, a small boat. Rats. Being flogged.

She let go of the dagger and swiped at her tears. Oh, God. This was a nightmare. Worse than any nightmare she’d ever had and she’d had some doozies.

This couldn’t be real. Ships and flogging and men who looked like pirates?

She shifted and remembered she was completely naked. Well, not completely. Her torso was tightly wrapped in bandages and she still had her panties on. What had Morgan thought of those? Certainly Victoria’s Secret panties weren’t available in the eighteenth century. And her clothes? Had he undressed her? What had he thought of her clothes? Had he noticed they were different?

She blew out a breath. “Listen to yourself, Juliana. You’re acting like you really are in the eighteenth century.”

She looked at a crudely finished table and chair. Her gaze skipped to the desk then the lanterns hanging on the walls. Okay, what if she were in the eighteenth century? How’d she get here?

She closed her eyes and massaged her temple. How? She’d been talking to Zach’s mother, Emily.

Small pieces—snatches of conversation, impressions, feelings of deep sorrow, grief, despair, were the only things Juliana could grasp from that day. Nothing concrete, nothing that would tell her what exactly catapulted her from the Langtree’s kitchen in Kansas—twenty-first-century Kansas—to a burning ship in the eighteenth century.

“Oh, Lord.” What was she supposed to do now?

Find a way back.

But how?