Fire Dragon's Angel

by Barbara Blythe

  “I don’t think you’ll ever be that old.”

  He chuckled wryly. “You don’t, eh? How can you say that after so brief an acquaintance?”

  Ceressa could tell he was teasing, and she was glad his somber mood had lifted. “Re-acquaintance,” she suggested. “I know you would fight for your Tidelands.”

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t want to lose the promise it holds. I have this dream of raising sons and daughters who will love the land as I do, who value the freedom and cherish the wonder of molding and shaping a destiny.”

  “When you speak, I can almost see it.” Ceressa marveled at the emotion his words inspired. Expectation and hope rose up within as she met his gaze.

  Latimer leaned toward her and lowered his head, his mouth close to hers. Suddenly rain drops splattered. Raising his head, Latimer looked up at the pitch black sky.

  “You should return to the cabin,” he said huskily. Standing, he drew her up.

  “Latimer, you can’t stay out here.” His gaze locked with hers, but he wrenched it away when a jagged bolt of lightning lit up the sky.

  “Go back to the cabin. Now,” he added sternly, but rather than take offense, and fearful of the ferocity of the wind, Ceressa obeyed. She wanted him to come back to the cabin, yet she couldn’t find the words to tell him. Turning away, she hurried toward the steps just as the heavens unleashed their fury. As she entered the cabin, her cheeks were damp, but not from the rain—from her tears.

  Crawling into the bunk, she pulled the coverlet up and lay there thinking of her conversation with Latimer. Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep though the ship tossed violently, and she woke each time thunder boomed. A frantic pounding on the cabin door roused her from unsatisfying repose, and she wondered if Latimer had decided to take shelter from the storm. Throwing off the coverlet, Ceressa left the bunk. She made her way precariously toward the door while the ship lifted and lowered with stomach churning lurches. Opening it, she was surprised to find a terrified Mariette standing there, nervously twisting her hands. Had something happened to Latimer? What if her wish that he’d fall overboard had come true? No—no—no.

  “What is it, Mariette?” she asked, taking hold of the girl’s hands and drawing her into the cabin.

  The girl was crying. “It’s Grandfather. He’s burning with fever as are several others below deck. I didn’t want to bother Lord Kirkleigh or the captain as they and the crew have their hands full with the storm.”

  Dear God, Ceressa prayed silently, keep Latimer safe.

  “I’m afraid, Lady Kirkleigh. I don’t know what to do to help him or the others.”

  “I’ll go with you to see your grandfather. Let me put on my robe and shoes.” Turning away, she moved to the chair where she’d thrown the garment.

  Then, Mariette cried out. “Lord Kirkleigh, what’s wrong?”

  Just as Ceressa whirled around, Latimer took two steps toward her through the door then slumped to the floor.

  Fire Dragon's Angel

  14

  Latimer swirled through the murky waters of half-consciousness, weaving in and out of lucidity and confusion. A slight miasma had assailed him when he and Ceressa had dined with the captain and his officers, but he hadn’t felt unwell when he’d conversed with Ceressa on deck. However, after she’d surprisingly and dutifully gone to her cabin, he’d realized he was feverish; uncontrollable chills divesting him of his customary haleness.

  Soon after, the storm unleashed its fury. A spar crashed down, and he, along with two other men had struggled in the rain to make repairs while Captain Stokeley and the remainder of his crew did all in their power to keep the ship afloat. Latimer had no idea how long they’d struggled, but as soon as the storm abated, he’d gone in search of Ceressa to assure that all was well with her. Something strange happened then.

  Forcing his eyes open, he saw the sunlight streaming through the cabin window. And seated beside him was Ceressa, asleep, her chin resting on her lace covered chest. Her shimmering hair bore evidence that it had once been pinned but now fell in unruly, haphazard curls. How long had he been in the cabin? Was he needed on deck?

  Attempting to sit up brought forth a groan, and instantly Ceressa was awake. Leaning over him, she pressed her hand to his forehead. Never had he experienced anything so exquisitely gentle, and he had to shut his eyes for fear he would reveal his deep need of her touch. What was happening? What had the fever done?

  “Latimer?” she spoke softly, then turned away. When she once more hovered, she held a cup between her hands. “Here, take a sip of water. I’ll help you.” Placing her arm beneath his shoulders, she leaned forward so that he could drink from the pewter cup. Never had water tasted so marvelous.

  “I’m not sure—what—happened,” he began unsteadily in a voice raspy and weak to his ears.

  “You succumbed to the fever that many of those traveling in the hold have suffered these past three days. Mariette’s grandfather passed away yesterday, as have four other souls. I can’t think of a time I’ve prayed harder. I thank God He has spared you.”

  “I’ve been ill for three days?” he asked, trying to piece the facts together. “The night of the storm—”

  “You came to the cabin and collapsed. Mariette and I managed to get you into the bunk. As soon as we made you comfortable, we went to her grandfather and the other sickly ones below deck and tried to help them. The younger ones who took ill have fared better than those advanced in years. Mariette is devastated, but she is determined to help the others and has remained very brave. I suppose helping has taken her mind off her plight, and she’s also assisted in nursing you.

  “Mr. Jones was buried at sea, along with the others, last eve. Captain Stokeley read from the Bible, spoke most kindly of each individual and offered a prayer. I’m so relieved that you are awake. What are you doing?”

  He sat up, determined not to need help. Looking down at himself, he realized he was hardly decent. He was bare-chested, and he wore only his worsted drawers. Not one easily embarrassed, he now found himself heating uncomfortably. “Might I have my clothes?” he asked, his tongue thick, and his cracking voice reminded him of his first awkward attempt to request a dance with a young lady when he’d been but ten and three years of age.

  “I’ll not give you a stitch to put on, Latimer Kirkleigh. For nigh on two days, you’ve been delirious and so ill I feared you would be the next body to be dropped into the sea. I didn’t do battle with that cook Captain Stokeley claims is a doctor just so you can get up and make yourself ill again. That uninformed dolt with his medical knowledge gleaned from the Middle Ages wanted to bleed you. I informed him that such a procedure is of no benefit whatsoever when treating a fever.”

  “I suppose you’ve also studied medicine,” Latimer managed while dropping back upon the bunk. He was admittedly weak, but the spirit flashing in Ceressa’s eyes was slowly, but of a certainty, stirring his blood. How could this mere girl both infuriate and captivate at the same time?

  “I’ve done some reading,” she said, the ire now absent from her voice. “And my father has friends in the medical community who say that bleeding hastens death. The cook now knows how I feel.”

  “I’m sure he does.” Latimer found himself smiling, and he reached out and took her hand. Ceressa’s eyes widened in surprise, but then she relaxed. “Thank you for protecting me. I’m sure there’s no one I’d rather have on my side.”

  A soft blush suffused her face. Lowering her gaze, she fussed with the lace on her gown. There was a knock, and Ceressa quickly hopped up to open the door. Mariette came in with a tray containing toast and a pot of tea then sat it on the vanity.

  “How is he?” Mariette whispered.

  “Awake,” he answered before Ceressa could respond, which brought a shocked look to the girl’s face. “And eager for a taste of that toast and tea. Ceressa tells me you lost your grandfather. I’m heartily sorry, Mariette. Don’t trouble yourself over your future. I’m s
ure something will work out.”

  “It’s quite kind of you to reassure me, Lord Kirkleigh,” she murmured. “Both you and Lady Kirkleigh have been so kind.”

  “As you have been to us. First I impose upon you to care for Lady Kirkleigh. And then you help Lady Kirkleigh when I fall ill. Thank you.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said and made a quick curtsy. “Do you need anything else, Lady Kirkleigh?”

  “No, Mariette. But I don’t want you back in the hold in case this fever hasn’t run its course. I’m going to see what other arrangements Captain Stokeley can make for you. I’m sure Latimer can make it worth his while.” Ceressa looked pointedly at him, and he smiled. He wondered if she realized if she asked him to jump over the moon, he’d try.

  Mariette nodded then left.

  Latimer noticed that Ceressa avoided looking anywhere below his chin. That also amused him. “Would you bring the tea and toast?”

  She nodded and did as he requested, pouring the tea into a fine china cup Latimer recognized as belonging to Stokeley’s personal service, and brought the tray to him. He managed to push up as she settled the tray on his lap.

  “If you don’t need anything else, I believe I’ll go up for a breath of air. It’s a beautiful day and such a relief after the horrid weather.”

  “Do as you wish,” he replied, then ravenously attacked the toast. A minute later, she let herself out, and to Latimer, it was as though the sun had disappeared behind a cloud.

  ****

  Ceressa strolled on a deck littered with debris.

  Laboring sailors and recovering passengers took their first breath of fresh air since the outbreak of the mysterious fever. It was a scene of much activity supervised by the bellowing Captain Stokeley.

  As she walked, Ceressa’s thoughts ran wild. Nothing had changed between her and Latimer. For a good two days she’d been fearful he would not survive the fever that had burned and raged. But God had given Latimer the strength to fight, and now he was awake. And alive. Ever so alive, she thought with unrepressed excitement.

  In her efforts to nurse him, she’d come to realize there was much more to a man than what she read in a book, serving as a reminder that she was indeed a woman and not blind or stupid And Latimer was indeed a fine man—a very fine man in form and figure…

  Sternly and silently, she admonished then forced her mind on to other things. Latimer’s description of Virginia left her confused. Was it a terrible place where bloodthirsty savages ran about murdering and pillaging? Or was it a beautiful, unspoiled paradise where one could live one’s dream? Perhaps it was both—if one survived attacks, then one could live a bounteous and joy-filled life.

  The sun was welcome and warm. Spring would be fully arrived in Virginia when they reached its shores. Pausing by the rail, she shut her eyes and drew in deeply of the salty air, a light spray misting her upturned face.

  “You have an infuriating habit of spending far too much time by the rail.” Why that—Ceressa whipped around, fury racing as she leveled a blazing glare upon a pale, unsteady Latimer who’d somehow managed to find his clothing, leave the cabin, and make his way up on deck.

  “I told you to stay in the cabin. Haven’t you any sense? Don’t you realize how ill you’ve been, that I’ve been out of my mind with worry, that you could have died, that—why are you smiling?”

  “You were actually concerned about my welfare.”

  “Of course I was,” she exploded, while tears trickled down her cheeks. Furious with herself, she turned away, refusing to let him see how very, very worried she’d been. His hands clasped her shoulders, and she immediately stiffened, determined not to give in to her emotions. Several interminable seconds passed before he finally released her. She shuddered at the knowledge that if he’d pulled her into an embrace, she would have contentedly remained there.

  “It’s most sad that Mariette’s grandfather died.”

  “Latimer, what will Mariette do?” Ceressa dared to turn around, steeling herself against the emotion that threatened to overwhelm. She raised her gaze to meet his, not quite as golden green as when he was fit and hale.

  “She has an indenture to work off. There are plenty of households in the colony in need of a reliable servant.”

  “I was thinking, Latimer.” He arched a brow inquisitively, and Ceressa took a deep breath before continuing. “Mariette is well-educated, mannerly, and schooled in comportment. And though I don’t really require the services of a lady’s maid—”

  “Say no more,” he interrupted. “You want me to buy her indenture so that she can accompany you to Tidelands to be, let’s see, your lady’s maid, perhaps?”

  Ceressa couldn’t keep the smile from her face, and throwing her arms about his neck seemed the natural thing to do. Until she felt his arms tighten, and a strange breathlessness assailed her. She pushed away and clasped hands tightly, lowering her eyes. “Thank you, Latimer. At least I won’t have to worry about her and wonder if she’s working for someone cruel.”

  “And I can’t have you worrying,” he gently teased as he reached out and took hold of her chin, forcing her to look up. “This means you’ve come to terms with being my wife?”

  Panic and anticipation, fear and hope warred within. What was he really asking? Dare she think he meant—and if he did, that meant she would be expected to—oh no, he couldn’t mean that. He thought of her only as an irritation and unplanned complication.

  “I don’t see that I have a choice,” she replied falteringly.

  His brows lowered in displeasure. She’d said the wrong thing. Again.

  “I suppose you don’t because no other man was foolish enough to entangle himself in your peccadillo. Not even Sir Geoffrey.”

  “Sir Geoffrey was right about you,” Ceressa snapped, wondering how a polite conversation had deteriorated so quickly. She was instantly contrite when she saw the look that sprang into Latimer’s eyes. Hurt, pain, regret. Just as quickly as she’d identified the emotions, one, burning anger, replaced them all.

  “In what way?” he demanded. Ceressa knew she shouldn’t encourage the argument given Latimer’s weakened condition, but somehow her tongue chose its own course.

  “He finds you ill-tempered, hardheaded, and reckless. And a trial to his soul.”

  “Apparently you share my uncle’s fine opinion of me.” Latimer’s icy sarcasm made her shiver although the sun still shone with warmth.

  “Why must you be so unkind to him?” Ceressa asked. “He’s a good man and compassionate—noble and wise.”

  “All the things I’ll never be.” His words were uttered harshly

  “Latimer, I don’t want to argue. You’ve been most generous in offering to help Mariette.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, madam,” he replied stiffly. Stifling the urge to scream, Ceressa pivoted and marched away, wondering how she could have done something so foolish as to fall in love with Latimer Kirkleigh.

  ****

  As soon as Ceressa walked away, Latimer started to follow, gripped by an urge to tell her he was sorry. As quickly as the notion struck, her eloquent defense of his sire stilled his impulse.

  Reason told him not to let her words bother him, but there was no denying he was beginning to think of Ceressa in that way a man thinks when tenderness dulls the hard edges that the realities of life have carved. And he wanted her to think highly of him. He would be willing to do anything for Ceressa if she would look at him just once with the childhood adoration she’d lavished upon him so long ago.

  She intrigued him in ways he’d but dreamed of. He enjoyed their spirited debates and intellectual disagreements. He found a strange pleasure in doing and saying things that made her eyes flash and her body quiver. She challenged and needled him, and yet he only desired more of her sweet torture.

  Now he feared he’d ruined any chance of earning Ceressa’s kind regard with his sarcasm and condemnation of Geoffrey Kirkleigh. With every insult Latimer heaped upon the man who’d been to
o cowardly to admit that he was his true father, Ceressa more staunchly defended him.

  It didn’t help that Latimer still bore the wounds of Geoffrey’s disapproval.

  Turning, he looked over the deceptively serene ocean, recalling its tempestuous fit of several nights ago. Geoffrey had once told him that every event in one’s life added to one’s knowledge. What had he learned from this experience? What direction would his life now take, wedded to a woman he desired but had recklessly assured he’d not assert his husbandly rights. He saw no way to retract without admitting his idiocy. Perhaps he should try wooing her. He’d never had any use for the men of his acquaintance who went to such ridiculous lengths to impress their lady love. Latimer wanted more than a fleeting flirtation. He wanted something permanent and fulfilling. Something vague that hovered on the fringes of his consciousness. Something like…love?

  Still deep in thought, he made his way to the cabin, not certain how to commence this wooing, but praying the Lord would see the sincerity of his heart and help. As he neared the door, he paused, aware that Ceressa and Mariette were conversing. He raised his hand to knock and alert them of his presence until he heard Ceressa mention Sir Geoffrey.

  “Oh, Mariette, Sir Geoffrey doesn’t even know what has happened. You’ve no idea how much I care for him. I would never have believed I could feel this way. But everything is ruined now. I dread this uncertainty, knowing that he…”

  Latimer moved back from the door as though he’d been burned. Now Ceressa was telling her maid how much she missed Geoffrey; almost as though she was romantically attached to the man. And Geoffrey could have solved her problems so much better.

  Her words were a cruel reminder that she could never care for him. Not as long as she pictured Geoffrey Kirkleigh as the knight who would slay her dragon.