“How long have you been ‘sneaking’ walks?”
Cullen gave her a long look before admitting, “Long enough.”
Willa kept her expression neutral, but a stab of cold dread slithered down her back. Could he have seen her meeting the dratted Dalton on the gun deck?
“Then perhaps you’d better come up top with me for sick call at the main mast.” Morning watch had ended and the sick bay’s loblolly boy was ringing the bell on all decks for sailors who were ill to gather at the main mast.
“I’ll work with him at the mast today, Mrs. MacCloud” Parker nodded toward Cullen. “He’s a handful to keep upright when he loses his balance on that stick.”
“Good idea.” Cullen intervened with his concurrence to Parker’s suggestion before bracing himself against the surgery table on his way to retrieve his cane.
Willa continued catching up entries in the surgeon’s log after Cullen and Parker departed for the upper deck. She’d just jammed her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose for the third or fourth time when she looked up to see Lieutenant Dalton standing in front of her.
She turned her head to call out to Mr. Ward, but he was busy with a patient in a far corner of the sick bay.
Dalton spoke low. “That young dolt is not going to save you, so don’t bother calling him over. He knows better than to gainsay me on this ship.”
Willa took off her glasses, folded them flat, and leaned close to Dalton. “What do you want? I do not have the time or inclination to play at your childish games.”
“What did you do with the locket?”
“Were you in my cabin again? Surely the guard stopped you.”
“Captain Woodall had need of him and decided you were safe enough while working in sick bay.”
“You couldn’t find the locket this time?”
“I won’t ask again. What did you do with it?”
“It’s hidden somewhere safe. Somewhere you will never discover, so don’t waste your time sneaking about our cabin. And besides, Dr. MacCloud is nearly well enough to re-join me there. You might get an unpleasant surprise one of these times when you’re in the mood for thievery of my belongings.”
Willa noted with pride a blood-crusted scratch on Dalton’s face from the night before. “If you keep showing up on deck with wounds, ship gossip will run wild. There will be all sorts of speculation.”
Dalton stole a look over Willa’s shoulder at Mr. Ward’s progress with the patients. He gave her an odd look before suddenly grasping her face with one hand and pulling her close. “Never think your worthless husband, or even Woodall’s marines can make you safe. You belong to me.”
When she wrenched her face away from his grasp, he turned on his heel and headed out the door to the upper deck.
Cullen had just finished helping Mr. Parker apply a poultice to a deep cut on the leg of one of the topmen who had slashed his calf on a wayward nail on a fast descent of the main mast. He straightened from his task and gazed toward the quarterdeck, looking for Lieutenant Dalton.
The man had just re-appeared and from the frown on his face, he was not having a good day. Cullen could only hope Willa’s sharp, caustic tongue was lashing his rival for her affections as severely as she lashed her husband.
When had weakness ever stopped a Scotsman from pounding stronger men than the obnoxious Mr. Dalton? For even looking at a woman under said Scotsman’s protection?
He could sense himself getting stronger each day, thanks to his late-night walks with his cane around the deck surrounding the sick bay. But he still wasn’t comfortable navigating the hatchway steps to the level of their cabin, let alone contemplating pounding Mr. Dalton. He knew the captain was keeping a guard there in the evenings when Willa retired, but he didn’t trust Dalton.
And he hoped to God Willa hadn’t returned the man’s unhealthy regard. Hell, for all he knew, maybe the two of them had…well, whatever, when Willa was passing herself off as Wills. Of course, she’d spent the last ten years in close association with any number of men aboard two ships. Why only Dalton? Maybe there were others to whom she’d become even closer.
He scrubbed his hand hard across his eyes. He had to quit straining his brain with jealous meanderings. That way lay madness, not to mention the onset of a splitting headache, thanks to his slowly healing, damnable skull. And for some reason, his anxious heart kept swinging back toward Willa like the needle of a compass. She was his soul’s true north, regardless of whatever blathering twists and turns his obviously damaged mind might take.
His next patient abruptly ended his flights of conjecture. He’d opened his shirt to reveal a rash across most of the trunk of his body.
“Does it itch?” At the negative shake of the head from the gunner, Cullen gave Mr. Parker a pointed look. His surgeon’s mate had the sailor open his mouth and after a look down the man’s throat, nodded slowly.
“Calomel.” Cullen moved to the small medicine chest they’d brought with them to the top deck and gave the man one of the packets of pills Willa continually compounded from mercury salts for treatment of the pox. Since this man’s symptoms pointed to the second phase, he’d need to take the tablets indefinitely. “Take one every day, and when you’ve finished all of these, be sure to come back to sick bay for another packet.”
Cullen shook his head and shared a look with Parker before the next man in line moved forward. They lost more good men to the pox and simple shipboard accidents than all the bloody actions during wartime.
At that point, a shout of “Land ho—” came from one of the topmen. Cullen’s mind clicked to the obvious - Madeira. Captain Still had decided to stop at the Portuguese outpost to provision some of the island’s famous wine before the long haul south to St. Helena. Good man.
Willa leaned against the rail, breathing in the air of land again and watching the steep levels of terraced fields crawling above the houses crowded around the harbor of Funchal on Madeira. The top of an ancient volcano soared from the ocean’s floor to create the tiny island with forbidding mountain walls hemming in the port village.
Petrels swooped low near the Arethusa’s wake, screeching and fighting over scraps of garbage. The raucous calls of women on competing provisioning boats sounded across the water even as they were still sailing out to meet them. The topmen had shortened sails to slow the forward momentum, but the order to let go the anchor had not yet been given.
She felt rather than heard Cullen hobble up behind her. He’d gotten rather good at muffling the sound of the tapping of his cane. She’d have to bear that in mind. She spoke over her shoulder. “Would you like some fresh seafood for supper tonight?”
“The provisioners’ boats aren’t even here yet. How do you know they’ll have something you’d like?”
“Limpets,” she said simply. “I’ll claim some space on one of the grills on the galley stove tonight.”
“Are you that certain the provisioners will have them?”
“Yes. It’s October. They’re still in season.”
“What do you need from me, Mrs. MacCloud?”
“Money,” She turned toward him and held out one of her hands.
He dug into a pocket and retrieved a handful of coins. “Is this enough?”
She smiled and took the coins.
“Are you going to keep all of that?”
She widened her eyes and raised one brow.
“Of course. What was I thinking? Why wouldn’t you spend all of my money?” He chuckled and hobbled back toward Mr. Parker to return to the sick bay below.
When Lieutenant Dalton finally gave the order to douse the sails and let go the anchor, the wood timbers and rigging creaked as the ship rounded herself up into the wind.
Marine Sergeant Claridge passed her on his way to accompany the purser to stock Madeira’s fine wine for the Arethusa’s captain and officers. He paused and asked, “Would you like me to procure a few bottles for you and Dr. MacCloud?”
Willa gave him a broad smile without spe
aking and pressed some coins into his hand. He hurried on to the launch to join his men.
Cullen lit the lantern in their cabin while Mr. Parker, with the help of one of the ship’s carpenters, rigged one of the swinging cots from sick bay next to a canvas partition wall. He’d practiced all afternoon pulling himself up and down hatchway stairs while carrying his cane, which suited him fine now that he’d gotten the hang of it.
He wished his memory would come back as quickly as his strength had. He needed the cane mostly as a preventative against crashing down when a spell of dizziness hit him. The spells had become less frequent, but Mr. Parker had insisted he keep the cane with him until they were sure the vertigo aftermath of his head injuries had passed.
He’d assured the marine sentry that he and Willa would be fine, so when Willa at last walked through the door with plates full of grilled shellfish, lemons, and vegetables, he alone was there to greet her. She smelled of warm woman and the sea, and he wished to God he were strong enough to make love to her, but with all the exertions of the afternoon, he’d be lucky to stay awake through the special supper she’d prepared.
She set down both plates on her sea chest and pointed toward the sick bay hammock. “You’re still not well enough to come back to the cabin and climb up and down the hatch way ladders. Are you?”
“As long as I can get in and out of the cot on my own at night and continue my nightly walks, I’ll be fine. You’ll see. I’m feeling stronger every day.”
She pointed to the cabin floor. “Then join me in our formal dining hall.”
When Cullen eased himself down and sat cross-legged, she joined him with the plates of steaming food and a half loaf of bread she’d probably begged from Poppy when she supplied him with a new tin of salve for his rheumatism.
Willa took one of the limpets and sucked the butter-glazed, tender flesh from its shell, closing her eyes while she chewed and savored each bite.
“Why have I never been able to put that look of contentment on your face?”
“You I can have any time I want. This delicacy will not come again for a very long time. I’m not even sure if we’ll be allowed to stop for fresh provisions when we arrive at St. Helena.”
“Let me summarize then, Mrs. MacCloud. Your husband ranks somewhere below a limpet in your estimation?”
“Mmm, yes, I think that is possible.” She laughed and lifted one of the shellfish from his plate. “Here. Try this and stop trying to pretend you’re jealous of a buttery piece of heaven.”
He chewed tentatively, swallowed, and then reached for another shell. “These little creatures are really flavorful. How did you know they’d be so good?”
“Papa and I were here once before.” She lowered her voice since the thin walls of their abode did not muffle conversation. “On our way to the Mediterranean on board the Cerberus bound for the Adriatic Sea.”
She produced a bottle of Madeira, removed the cork, and took a deep sniff of the contents. “Nectar fit for a god, but I’m willing to share with you.”
Cullen placed his hand on her arm, terrified she might answer his question. “Are you sure there’s not someone else you’d rather be with to share the Madeira?”
Willa stared into his eyes without blinking for the most painful few minutes of his life.
“No one,” she finally assured him. “There’s no one else I’d gift with Madeira, or my life. I am all yours, Dr. MacCloud, whether you want me or not.”
Chapter Twenty
Willa leaned forward and pressed her lips to Cullen’s, breathing in the taste of the ocean…and Madeira. She closed her eyes and let him pull her close, deepening the kiss. She pulled away suddenly and had to stifle a smile at the proof of her husband’s hunger for her as well as the limpets.
“Yes, dammit, woman. Now you know. No matter what you get up to, I may censure you, but he, unfortunately, cannot.”
They both laughed at that simple truth.
Willa took another sip of her Madeira and steadied her lethal gray gaze on him again. “I promise, on my father’s grave, you have no reason to doubt my loyalty.”
“Then what in the name of all that’s holy have you been getting up to with that bastard, Dalton? He’s been stalking you at all hours, like one of those sharks following the Arethusa.”
She had to remain silent, but so wanted to cry and bare all to her husband. In spite of her best efforts, one tear slid down her cheek and her hands shook.
“You know there’s nowhere to hide aboard a Royal Navy ship. No matter where you are, no matter what you say, someone is always listening. Gossip aboard any of His Majesty’s ships is like coin to be bartered.” Cullen paused a short moment before continuing. “Once a rumor starts, there will be nothing either one of us can do to stop it. Whatever you’re hiding could endanger our livelihood.”
Willa longed to tell him everything right then, but she couldn’t. There were too many twisting half-truths and secrets between them. Some of the mysteries swirling around them were locked inside his thick, battered skull. Instead, she placed a hand over his and whispered, “All will be well. You have to heal first…and trust me.”
Cullen’s own green gaze held her quietly for a long time, before he suddenly broke the spell by crawling to her side and feeding her another limpet. When she made little moaning sounds from deep in her throat while chewing the buttery delicacy, he said, “That’s my girl,” and nibbled at the spot just below her ear which caused strange sensations low in her belly.
Cullen lay gently swinging in his cot, arms behind his head and staring at the timbers of the upper deck. The old blanket “wall” was gone, but somehow he felt as though he was starting his relationship with his own wife over again. He chuckled low and tried to get comfortable when a sudden question in a husky whisper wafted across the space between him and Willa in their old high, double bunk.
“Have you remembered anything?”
“About what?”
“About what happened on Gibraltar that day you tried to take on a small army of ruffians.”
“Oh, that…” Cullen stretched out the silence, turning over and over in his fragile memory what he’d been able to glean so far.
After a long time, Willa gave out a huge sigh. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
His answer this time was immediate. “I swear to you, on my mother’s grave, I still can’t remember all of what happened.”
“But you do remember something.” An angry rustling emanated from the bunk.
He could almost see her sitting up, a frustrated scowl on her face, her lips swollen from all the kisses he’d stolen during supper. He wanted nothing more than to go to her, but realized that would be a mistake in the dark, in his current state of dizziness. Carrying a cane on a mission to bed his wife was the least romantic act he could imagine. Steady on, MacCloud.
“Yes,” he finally admitted. “I’ve been getting small snatches of memories of that day off and on while working in the sick bay. And sometimes, they feel so close I could touch them in my dreams. But when I wake up, what I thought I knew with a certainty flees with daylight.”
“But, surely you get some sort of feeling for what led to the battle royal that left you nearly dead in a cemetery. Was…was Ariadne there?”
He ignored the question about his former lover, but tried to reassure Willa he was recovering control of his senses and could lay claim to some of his memories. “A feeling? Yes, there definitely is one. The feeling that you’re in danger is so overwhelming at times, I can’t breathe. Whatever happened that day, it was all about you, and I don’t know why, but I’m afraid the threat isn’t over yet.” With that, he succumbed to a deep sleep and the inevitable snores he knew made Willa want to slap him back awake. He hoped she wouldn’t.
Willa perched on her stool in the surgery, compounding more mercury salts and powders into pills for crew members requiring treatment for the pox. Thank God they’d stayed only long enough in the harbor at Funchal to bring on fres
h water and wine provisions.
She knew they’d weighed anchor at four bells in the middle of the Morning Watch, because she’d heard the creak of the capstan and the marines and sailors singing a shanty as they heaved the heavy anchor aboard from its resting place on Funchal Harbor’s sandy bottom. The deck beneath her lifted and fell in a steady cadence now as the Arethusa plunged on southward through the Atlantic’s huge, rolling waves.
She put a week’s worth of the small blue pills into each of a hundred small paper packets for dispensing to patients throughout the rest of the voyage to St. Helena. She’d never served aboard a Royal Navy ship where this particular palliative treatment was not needed. Even when men were not allowed shore leave, sometimes local prostitutes managed to slip aboard by riding out with provisioning boats. Although she realized Cullen’s pay would expand with the Admiralty bonuses paid for each pox treatment, the progression of the disease in men aboard the ships she’d served on was the saddest thing she’d ever seen.
The pox began with simple sores which many times were not painful and went unnoticed. Years could pass before more severe symptoms appeared, and finally, some cases spread to the brain and eyes before ending in a painful death.
She was stowing the extra packets in the surgery’s medicine chest when she heard the shouts of men bringing someone down the main hatchway to the middle open cockpit on the orlop deck. By the time she got there, both Cullen and Mr. Parker were already wrapping one of the ship’s gunners in heavy blankets from the sick bay.
“How long was he under water?” Cullen questioned the bo’sun’s mate and captain of the watch who had brought the man down the hatchway.
“A good ten minutes or more.” He nodded to the captain of the watch who had helped carry the man to the cockpit. “We didn’t see him fall in at first, and then one of the topmen spotted the body in the water. The captain of the watch went in with a rope tether and brought him back.”
Pride Of Duty: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 2 Page 16
