Nevertheless, the silence between them disturbed her. She needed to tamp down her hormones and thought bland conversation might help. “I just wondered ... since we are sitting on a raft in this very big ocean ... do you know how to swim?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s good to know ... I guess.”
“Can you swim?” he asked.
“Yes, though I’ve never built up any endurance in it.”
“Witches cannot drown.” His remark hit her like a slap in the face.
“What kind of nonsense is that? How can you believe such claptrap?” She did not even try to reign in her ire.
“Dunking determines if a woman is a witch. If the victim survives, she is a witch.”
“That is bizarre. How many innocent women were murdered by that method?”
“You have survived the sinking of the ship.”
“You are here with me. Are you a witch?”
“I am a man.”
She wanted to shake some sense into him. “You built this raft to save us. Is it a magical raft?”
“It is floating.”
“Wood floats. It is porous and less dense than water.”
“Why did the Lyrical sink?”
“Um ... you must have had some ballast in it.”
“You said wood floats.”
“It does, ordinarily. But you did have ballast in the ship, plus it was already taking on water. Water adds weight to the ship.”
“It was a beautiful ship.” Bleak melancholy tinged his voice and she could understand how he felt. She had lost her sleek new car with the heated seats. Warmth spread to her cheeks, as she reveled in the heated seat provided for her by the captain. His nearness sent her hormones surging in a way that the cushioned seat in her car could not duplicate.
Her stomach rumbled again.
“Look in the sack in the footlocker,” the captain suggested.
Reaching into the wooden box, she found a crude cloth sack and pulled it open. Inside were at least two dozen soggy hardtack biscuits and a bottle of something. She yanked out the cork and sniffed.
“Wine?” She took a swig, swished it around in her mouth, and swallowed it. “Not bad. A slight astringent sting, but the overall fragrant aroma has a hint of nut. While not an outstanding wine I find it perfect for pairing with a tender steak.”
She chuckled and intended to enjoy another long draught but the captain took the bottle from her and replaced the cork.
“We must save it.”
“What for?” She gave him a fierce glare. “Let’s face facts. We’re going to die out here. We might as well have a little fun beforehand.” First they should down the entire bottle of wine and then ... then they should make love. She swallowed hard. They should continue making love until they died. She stared at the bulge in his britches. She wanted that cannon to explode inside her. After that, if she died she wouldn’t mind—unless, of course, she was already dead and in hell. That remained a possibility.
Grief weighed down on her once more. She scooted away from the captain, and lay down. Curling up in the corner made by the footlockers, she cradled her head in her arms, closed her eyes and wished she had never made the decision to drive to Virginia. She should have known better than to continue driving in a horrible storm.
Why hadn’t some trooper stopped her? She would give up her 401K right now if she could see a Coast Guard cutter coming to save her and take her back to 2011.
His hand came down on her knee and despite all that had happened, the contact sent a hot vibration through her. She could not ignore the sensation. It was really weird.
She sat up.
“Eat.” He held out a biscuit. “You will need strength.”
“What I really need is a tranquilizer.” Still, she took the biscuit and examined it. Maybe this one didn’t have any bugs in it. Maybe she shouldn’t complain about the bugs—they provided extra protein. Lots of people ate bugs. In some parts of the world, bugs were considered a delicacy. “If we dunked the biscuit in the wine, it might be more appetizing,” she suggested.
“We must ration the wine.”
“Naturally, we shouldn’t allow the bugs in the hardtack to get drunk. They’re probably underage.” She slammed the biscuit on the edge of the raft and broke it in half. Sure enough, she spotted three weevils wiggling around inside. Shivering with disgust, she dug them out with her fingernail. “No party tonight, guys. We’re not serving any wine to minors.”
“Your words are nonsensical.”
“I am speaking English. My communication skills are excellent, which is why I am such a successful pharmaceutical rep. I could sell you the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Brooklyn?”
“In New York.”
He nodded.
“As long as I’m stuck here with you, why don’t we get to know each other? You know my name. What’s yours?”
He chomped on his biscuit. “Harlan.”
“Classy, very classy. I’ve never met a Harlan before. I’m twenty-five years old. How old are you?”
“Thirty years.”
“Hmm. Getting a little gray around the temples. It gives you a distinguished look.”
He squinted in confusion.
She wanted to touch the graying hair. She wanted to smooth her fingers along the rugged line of his jaw and then taste him again. Instead, she gnawed on her biscuit and tried not to think about the vermin she might be ingesting. “Do you have any sort of plan?”
“I will put up the sail.”
“We don’t have a mast.”
“I lashed it to the side, there.” He pointed to it. “It is small, but when the sea calms, I will stand it upright.”
“Easier than rowing, I suppose.”
He did the most amazing thing at that point. He laughed. For the first time since she had met him, his face broke out into a big grin and then out came this deep, rolling wave of hilarity.
For a moment she could do nothing but stare. The dramatic change caught her off guard and she did not know how to react until a spark of hope shot through her and she laughed, too.
“It is a big ocean.” He indicated the wide-open vista with a wave of his hand and let out another peal of merriment.
She laughed until the tears ran from her eyes. Despite the fact that they were in the middle of the ocean in a makeshift raft with nothing to eat but that horrible hardtack, the solid barrier of his reserve had broken. Something magical had happened.
* * * *
Harlan covered her with the soggy blankets when her eyes closed. Though numb with exhaustion, he must not sleep. The sea calmed as expected and he rigged up the small sail. With the stars twinkling overhead, he decided upon a course.
His fortitude drained away and his eyelids drooped more than once to taunt him with dreams of Lesley. She had not stirred for hours but during his lonely watch he could not stop remembering the feel of her soft skin and the warm honey of her lips.
He did not realize he had nodded off until he heard waves crashing against a shoreline. The night had grown as dark as pitch for clouds had returned and obliterated the stars and the moon. Without the heavenly bodies to guide him, he did not know what lay ahead of him. He had no guidance but his ears and he did not like what he heard, the steady thunder of rollers breaking against rocks.
He caught a whiff of a familiar earthy aroma in the breeze and prayed that this was not Spanish territory. Could he find a place along the shoreline with a soft, sandy landing for the raft? He lowered the sail halfway and barely breathed. Should he try beaching the small craft? Or should he wait for dawn?
He dared to sail closer to the sound of the breakers. For the brief span of a minute, the clouds parted and he caught a glimpse of a white strip of beach in the moonlight. He brought the sail about and headed toward the gleaming sand before the clouds gathered thickly again and hid the beach from his vision.
When the raft hit the rocks, he cursed. The impact threw him forward and his head landed
in the soft cushion of Lesley’s belly, but his torso crashed hard upon the mast.
Lesley cried out.
“Hold on!” Harlan clutched her against him as another wave pushed the raft, spilling them both into the water.
Still holding Lesley tightly, he got his bearings and stood in the waist high water until the next wave came and swallowed him in its wake. The raft hit him in the head. Dizzy from the blow, he stumbled like a drunken man, lost his grip and collapsed into the water.
Chapter Twelve
“Keep your head up.” Lesley screamed as she struggled to drag Harlan through the foaming surf. She soon realized it did no good to yell at him for he was out cold.
“Dammit to hell,” she swore. “You weigh a ton.” In the wreckage of the raft, she found a broken board suitable for a crude crutch. She stumbled through the submerged rocks until at last soft sand cushioned her feet. The tide helped push her and Harlan onto the beach. Sinking down beside his inert body, she checked for his pulse and listened to him breathe. He was unconscious but alive. She could only hope he came round—soon. She would not allow herself to consider any other scenario. He would wake up. He must wake up.
She rubbed her arms to bring some warmth back into them. She figured she could be suffering from shock since every nerve in her body seemed numb, except the ones in her sprained ankle, of course. Nevertheless, the breeze had a mild warmth to it. She loved having solid ground beneath her, too.
The sun rose and she wondered where they had landed and if anyone lived nearby. She hoped Moody and his traitors landed someplace else—someplace far, far away—like Antarctica. Although she knew Moody would live, give no quarter, and create his dramatic flag—she never wanted to see him again. She hoped she had seen the last of Hooper and Aloysius, too.
With the light of dawn, she saw pieces of the raft float in with the tide. She gathered what she could since she could not count on a handy supermarket or even a convenience store nearby. She hobbled back and forth, from the water to the sand. One of the footlockers had been dashed to pieces on the rocks, but the other floated to the edge of the water in one piece. Inside, she found all the hardtack ruined but the wine miraculously survived. Tempted to drink it, she resisted the urge though her mouth was as dry as dust. If—or rather when—Harlan woke up, he might need the wine for pain.
Her little horse sat at the bottom of that footlocker. The special warmth emanating from him soothed her and she smiled as she held him in her hands.
“You must be my special talisman—a charm to get me through this nightmare. You have no idea how happy I am you’re still here.” She put the horse back inside the footlocker and dragged it up to where Harlan lay.
Her leg hurt, but the doctor had wrapped it up well and as long as she kept her weight off it, she could bear the discomfort. The doctor had been so kind to her. In fact, he had an exemplary bedside manner, even though he lopped off body parts. She had never met a physician as benevolent and compassionate. He had listened to her—to every word she said, and acknowledged her, and ...
She wiped away a tear. Dr. Gilroy could have taught the doctors in 2011 a thing or two about caring for patients. He hadn’t just handed out ineffective pills, he had comforted.
At the water’s edge, she waded through the rocks where she found the sail with not a single rip marring the heavy canvas. Maybe she could make a tent.
She salvaged pieces of wood from the raft along with one oar, several long lengths of rope, some thinner pieces of twine, some of Harlan’s tools, his long saber, and a pot. The bowls had evidently floated away.
Exhausted, thirsty, and hungry, she plopped down on the sand and pondered her next move. The pain in her ankle had increased with all her movement and she could not go another step.
Harlan lay stretched out beside her. He had not moved at all, but she watched him breathe as the sun rose higher overhead.
“I’m starving,” she muttered. She glanced behind her at the forest and a chill went up her spine. She had gone blueberry picking and strawberry picking several times so she knew what those plants looked like, but it was well past berry season and the dense woodland behind her did not look at all like New Jersey. It resembled a jungle.
She shivered. “How about escargot? Snails don’t move very fast. I could catch them. Or maybe muscles and oysters. A little garlic, a little butter, and we could have a real special gourmet meal.” A sob caught in her throat but she refused to give vent to her despair.
“Wake up, Harlan,” she pleaded as she smoothed the tangled hair away from his face. The slight tingle of electricity from the contact traveled up her arm and eased her mind. He still had life in him.
The gash on his head stopped bleeding. She washed the wound with seawater and covered him with the blanket.
“I’ll make a fire. Then if I catch something, I can cook it.” She forced herself to sound cheerful. “I haven’t had a vacation in years. This is perfect—a nice beach, a hunky guy—no cell phone calls to annoy me—no emails...”
Again a sob threatened but she clamped her mouth together and stood up. Determined to build a fire, she picked up her rude crutch and set to work. She scoured the very edge of the forest for brittle pine needles and dried chips of bark. She had no intention of exploring inside the dark, damp canopy. Who knew what nasty, woman-eating animals lived there?
She brought her kindling back to the beach and fashioned a bow from the twine and a green stick of wood.
“I guess it was a good thing Mom and Dad sent me to camp after all.”
As she coaxed her kindling to catch fire by blowing on it, Harlan stirred. However, she could not stop trying to urge a flame from the tinder. Smoke rose in thin wisps from the friction at the base of the spindle.
She grew light-headed blowing on her pine needles and dried bark chips but her efforts paid out. The pine needles caught and so did the bark. Quickly, she added more fuel. In a few more minutes, she had a tidy blaze going.
“Now if we just had a fish.” She sighed.
She heard a groan and turned to see Harlan sitting up. She could not see his face for he held it down and it lay in the deep shadow left by the intense sunlight.
Putting on a bright smile, she made an effort to remain positive. He probably would grumble after losing his ship, getting clunked on the head, and winding up on a this beach with her. Not to mention the fact that he had not an ounce of gold to show for all his troubles.
“What do you think of this?” She added more wood to her cheerful blaze. “I learned how to make a fire in a survival skill workshop at camp one summer—and though I hated camp, I guess it was a good thing I went.” Lesley wished she could send a text message to her sister and boast about what she had accomplished. Her sister would be amazed.
Harlan unbuttoned a pocket of his jacket and drew out two bits of metal. “Flint and steel.” A slow smile spread across his face.
“Okay, I just wasted hours doing things the hard way. But then, what does it matter? I’ve got plenty of time to kill anyway.”
He shook his head as he put the flint and steel back into his pocket. “You saved me. I must thank you.”
“Hey. No problem. You saved me, too. I just kept your head above water and dragged you onto the beach even though you weigh a ton.”
He touched the gash on his forehead. “My head still aches.”
“I’m glad you woke up.” She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Her throat grew raw with emotion at the thought that she could have been digging his grave at the moment.
His gaze wandered over her salvage pile. “You have done much.”
“I tried to retrieve what I could from the raft, but when the tide went out, it took some stuff with it. We have a pot, but no bowls. The hardtack disintegrated in the water.”
“We will eat what we can find.”
“Could we leave the turtles alone?”
“Turtles are good.”
“I like fish.”
He shrugged, gath
ered up the twine and went off to catch fish. In a few hours, he had several. He cut off their heads, gutted them with the dagger he had inside his boot and then wrapped them in seaweed to roast over the fire.
Meanwhile, she pulled mussels off the rocks and filled up the pot.
“With some garlic, tomatoes, oregano, and basil we could have a real treat,” she said as she brought her cache back to the fire. “I love mussels marinara.”
He put the pot on the fire to boil the mussels. Broken planks from the raft served as plates and she gathered shells to serve as spoons.
Surprised at Harlan’s prowess in the culinary arts, she asked, “Where did you learn to cook?”
“I was marooned once before with several shipmates.”
“How long did it take before you were rescued?”
“Nearly a year.”
Her forced optimism faded. “Did the ship sink like the Lyrical?”
“There was a mutiny. I sided with the captain.”
A thread of hysteria twisted through her. “The crew took over the ship?”
“They were later hanged.”
She put her hand to her throat and swallowed hard. “You could get hanged, too.”
He did not comment, but his lips thinned in annoyance.
They shared a small amount of the wine. She longed for bread and cheese to accompany the meal. She closed her eyes and envisioned a nice chunk of cheddar, extra sharp. She could use several thousand more calories.
“I will look for fresh water and see if others are here,” he said after they had finished.
She cast a fearful glance at the forest. “Do you suppose there are wild animals in there?”
He gave her a puzzled frown. “What other animals would live in a forest?’
“Some cute little ducks? Or a few chipmunks?”
“A turtle would be good. It would satisfy you.”
She could not help stealing a glance at the bulge in his britches. Forget about hunger, she thought. When it came to satisfaction, he would not leave a woman wanting. He stood and started to walk away.
Pirate's Wraith, The Page 13
