My eyes fluttered open in the light, trying to understand where I was and why my whole body hurt so badly. Someone was saying something—two people?—but their words didn’t make sense, not yet.
As I stared at the brown ceiling, feeling the sway of the ocean, I let myself be lulled back into peace, not caring what had happened or why.
Eventually, images began to return, scenes from the bloodbath I’d taken part in. We’d massacred the entire crew of the prize ship, not even stopping to see if any of them wished to surrender. A nagging voice in the back of my mind said that Thomas had been the one responsible for that.
Two men were dead because of me. I was a murderer—a bloodthirsty brute, just like the rest of the crew. I’d shut off my brain and let my body fight instead of using common sense to realize what I was doing was wrong. So, why didn’t I feel worse about it?
I’d fallen . . . what happened after that? It seemed like I’d lost consciousness for a while and then . . . what?
“Sam?” Blinking, I turned my head toward the sound, a blurry face coming into view. I blinked again, harder. This was a face I should know.
“Samantha, love, can ye hear me?”
Tristan. That’s who that was.
Looking to the other side, I blinked again, recognizing the outline of Father Torres and his bowl cut.
Straining, I decided that I must be in Tristan’s room, wrapped up in the bed. Everything was sore and I didn’t want to move, but the ocean’s waves were jarring me, twinging muscles that I would have preferred to never move again.
“Sam. Are ye awake? Can ye hear me?” Tristan sounded anxious and tired, like he’d been up too long. Faintly, it occurred to me that he probably had been, using his down hours to watch over me. How long had it been since the attack?
“Yyyyeesss,” I finally slurred out, feeling like I couldn’t make words properly. “What—happen?”
“I’d like to ask ye the same thing,” Tristan growled. “What did ye think ye were doing, woman? Ye almost got yerself killed!”
“Not . . . my . . . fault,” I managed to get out, my head still fuzzy. “Thomas . . . pushed.”
“Thomas Randall pushed you into the fight?” Father Torres asked sharply. “Why?”
“Think he . . . wanted me . . . dead.”
“Over a cut on his face?” The tone of his voice was very disbelieving. “He’s a petty man, señorita, but to sentence you to death for that?”
“Thomas Randall would sentence a man to death for his shoes, if he thought it was worth it,” Tristan stated bitterly. “Did ye do anything else to get on his bad side, Sam?”
“No.” Frustration started to punch through the haze, the words connecting in my brain quicker, but painfully. “He called me . . . milady. He knows.”
The world was starting to spin around me and I struggled to sit up, crying out as my arm throbbed and gave out.
“Ye were cut, Samantha,” Tristan explained, taking my hand gently. “Almost bled to death. If I hadn’t seen ye and carried ye back, ye probably would have.”
“I stitched you up myself, señorita,” Father Torres added proudly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Hush now, don’t be sorry,” Tristan cooed, brushing the hair away from my face. “Ye did good, lass. The whole of the crew saw ye fighting. Ye stole Thomas’s target right out from underneath him!”
“I did what?” I asked, confused. All I wanted was to go back to sleep and be left alone.
“One of the men ye killed was the captain. Thomas was gunning for him and ye stabbed him to death before he got a chance. The whole crew is talking about it. He’s none too happy.”
“It’s his own fault, for pushing her into the fight,” Father Torres mumbled, picking up something from the bowl beside him and wiping it across my forehead, leaving a cool trail.
“Then his death is going to be his own fault as well,” Tristan said positively. “Because I’m going to kill him for it.”
I didn’t care. By that point, it was all I could do to grunt before I was out again.
Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One) Page 37
