Isabeau rummaged through his charts, unrolling a few, realizing there was nothing of interest to her. It was when she had neatly banded them together with a short length of string that she noticed his small leather journal in one of the desk's pigeonholes.
Hardly daring to believe he had left it behind, she touched a finger to its dark exterior, the gold mesh band glinting at her. Gingerly, Isabeau picked it up, turning it over in her hand. Lifting the green stone clasp, she released the band.
She shouldn't read it, but part of her had to. There had been so many opportunities, and she had resisted them, but she felt compelled to read it now. Taking a deep breath, she sat in the desk chair. Resting the journal on her knees, she began on the first page.
1878, April 2, I fear I shall never live to see land again…
#
After an indeterminate length of time, Isabeau surfaced from her reading to hear voices and booted feet crossing the overhead deck. It had taken several minutes for the sound to penetrate her concentration. She tilted her head, listening, her mind still caught up in what she had just read.
She hadn't been able to stop reading once started.
The written words haunted her, giving her an insight into the man. He'd faithfully kept this journal since he'd been kidnapped as a boy. He'd written an account of the two years he'd lived at sea as nothing more than an indentured servant. She pressed the book to her breast, unable to shake the disturbing events he'd written about.
The dates following his injury three months ago the tone of the writing had changed, and obviously, so had the man. It had been deeply private what he'd written, uncertain of his identity, grasping at common day occurrences but finding no connection to his own life. Isabeau closed the book, deeply ashamed she had given in to temptation and read his private journal.
The sound of approaching footsteps propelled her into quick action. She secured the band in place and placed the journal back where she had found it.
Guilt flayed her. She'd have to own up and tell him she'd read part of his private journal.
Stepping onto the top deck, Isabeau was relieved to see that while the rain had subsided, the grey skies had not.
An uneasiness gripped her. Someone was on deck -- she could sense it -- but all was now silent.
She walked as quietly as she could along the deck and down the stairs into the belly of the ship. As she rounded the corner, she saw a man crouched in the galley with his back to her. He wore a brown coat, frayed and dirty, and he had matted brown hair which stood up here and there on his head.
His furtive actions told her he did not belong on board. She backed away, her heel making a slight scraping sound. The man spun toward her, splashing clear liquid from the pail he held.
"You're trespassing," she said angrily.
With a muttered oath he lunged to his feet and toward her. Isabeau saw the butts of two pistols tucked into the waist of his pants, but then the man pulled a knife from his boot.
She ran, glad she had taken track in school. Her right foot caught a brass spittoon, sending it skittering lopsidedly ahead of her.
She scooped up the spittoon and flung it behind her, having the satisfaction of hearing the man yelp in pain. Isabeau dodged a work table, her hands gripping the wooden countertop as she pulled herself out of his reach. With a wild yell, the man jumped up and slid over the counter toward her.
She darted toward the door, hopping sideways as the man lunged to grab her feet.
"You should have gone ashore with the others." He cornered her, his grin showing a row of broken teeth. "But no matter. I'll entertain you, missy."
With a screech she hardly recognized, Isabeau threw the closest thing to hand, the cook's heavy kettle. It glanced off his shoulder and gained her precious seconds. Dropping to her knees, she crawled under the wooden counter, squeezing between chairs and sending them skittering. Her arms and shoulders stung from being so abused, but she didn't stop.
Just when she thought she'd make it out the door, bony fingers clutched her sleeve, pulling her around in a half circle. The fingers grabbed a handful of the short jacket Hawk had bought her. She heard it tear as with a quick twist of both arms, she pulled free of the material. From the opposite side of the table, she looked back and saw him fling the jacket away.
Fear gave her added momentum as she bolted up the stairs and out to the top deck. Off-balance, she caught her sleeve on a sharp splinter as she brushed through the doorway. With a moan, she lost her balance and fell clumsily to the deck.
Scrambling to her feet, her ankle burning in protest, she limped as fast as she could, trying to get distance between them.
"I got you now," the man crowed gleefully.
Isabeau forcefully hit the rail with her midsection. The docks below were curiously empty. No one would hear a call for help.
"Hawk!"
Gasping, she darted toward the plank leading to the docks. She could feel the man almost upon her. Ignoring her burning ankle, Isabeau reached the plank and fled haphazardly downward.
"Get the lassie!" the man cried out behind her. A second man waited on the dock. Too late, Isabeau realized her predicament.
Grinning at her, arms held wide, the man at the bottom moved to block her exit.
Cursing, Isabeau stopped, turned, ready to run back up the plank, her chest heaving, her lungs on fire.
Licking tobacco-stained lips, her pursuer on the ship grinned and shook his head at her as he advanced steadily down the plank.
Frantically, Isabeau looked around. Stepping back, she let out a cry as she lost her footing, seeing the water below. Miraculously, she regained her balance, but it made her pursuer hesitate.
"Now, missy, dinna be careless. If you fall, you'll be crushed below."
She looked down at the narrow expanse of murky water between the dock and the ship. The vessel rocked in the water, one moment against the piling, the next free of it. He spoke the truth. She could be killed.
Stomach heaving, she wiped her arm across her face, trying to clear the stinging sweat from her eyes.
The man made a grab for her. Dodging sideways, Isabeau teetered a moment, lost her footing and screamed as she clawed empty air.
She fell, the water rushing up to her. In the moment before she hit the water she heard her name bellowed.
#
Hawk raced across the wharf, Malry behind him. He saw Isabeau the moment she started down the plank. The dirty vagrant lunged for her. God! How could he reach her in time? When her feet slipped on the narrow plank he prayed he would be in time.
"Don't fall, don't fall…" Hawk was afraid he'd distract her so he didn't call out.
In the next moment, her scream echoed all around him, filling his ears, ripping him in two. When he saw her fall, his mind went black with rage.
"Isabeau!"
Ruthless in his unmitigated fury, Hawk charged the man on the dock, chopping an elbow across the man's throat. He didn't look where the man fell.
Malry, behind him, took after the one now running back onto the ship.
Tossing his cloak to the ground, Hawk dove cleanly into the space between the dock and the ship. Icy water engulfed him.
Resurfacing, he grabbed the anchor rope, swinging himself out of the water so he wasn't crushed. He hung there, turned his head, clearing the hair from his eyes, searching . . . searching for her. She couldn't be dead.
When the ship cleared the piling once more, he dropped feet first into the water. He heard Malry from above, yelling at him not to do it. Hawk went down into the black, bubbling depths, down deeply.
He came up again, this time ahead and clear of the ship. In his mind Hawk saw a flash, another scene. Isabeau was there and he called to her, but she didn't see or hear him. Coughing out the water he had taken in, Hawk croaked at Malry to drop a rope.
"Isabeau!" he roared. "Dammit, where are you?"
Suddenly, he saw her float to the surface, face down in the water. Reaching her, Hawk turned her over
and tied the rope securely about her waist and shoulders. It seemed too long as he waited for her to be hoisted upwards.
With adrenaline-laced strength, Hawk climbed the slick piers, helping Malry haul her limp body the last few feet, desperately hoping they were not too late.
He reached for her as Malry gently rolled her over, pushing the hair from her eyes.
Grabbing her roughly, his face that of a madman, Hawk drew her to him, afraid of the blue tinge upon her lips. Memories flashed. He had seen death before and Isabeau was white like death.
"You can't have her," he muttered hoarsely.
He thumped her on the back with the heel of his hand, willing the color and life to return to her face, the light to luminescent green eyes.
Concentrating on her totally, Hawk was unaware of the hand Malry placed sympathetically on his shoulder. All he knew was that he would not let her die.
"Don't give up, damn you!" he shouted, shaking her. He bent her limp body over one knee and hit her back.
Isabeau coughed. He thumped her again, perspiration beading his brow, the intensity in him willing her to live.
Deathly pale, she gurgled water, then began to cough and gasp for air.
"She's breathing."
"My cabin -- put some blankets on the bed -- anything," Hawk barked.
Malry ran toward the plank, jumping over the man whom Hawk had struck down.
Hawk carried Isabeau to the cabin, shouldering his way through the door to lay her gently on the blanket Malry had placed on the bed. She remained still.
He pulled the clothes from her body, his hands trembling with urgency. Hawk barely noticed Malry leave. Briskly, he rubbed her icy flesh with a towel, gratified to see a semblance of pink color beginning to return.
Covering her with heavy wool blankets, Hawk threw off his boots, wet clothes, and climbed in beside her, drawing her shaking body to him, trying to warm her with his body heat.
He continued to rub her skin, speaking to her, saying anything that came to mind, no matter how nonsensical.
She did not open her eyes, but her body warmth and color remained normal, giving him hope that they had pulled her from the water in time. He knew it was not over yet. He had seen men die after a rescue in a near drowning. Complications could occur, pneumonia…and there wasn't much to her. If she died…
Hawk blanked it from his mind. He spoke continually to her. He had to let her know he was here, that he cared.
He tightened his arms. He would do whatever was necessary to keep her warm.
#
Isabeau woke slowly, aware only that every part of her body ached as if she had the flu. Had she been sick? Her mouth felt disgusting, her tongue thick. She felt like she had died.
"Mom?" Was that pathetically weak voice hers?
Opening her eyes, she saw wood paneling above her, a dim light flickering in one corner of the room.
She was warm now, but she recalled an intense, bone-permeating cold.
Memory was elusive, little snatches of pictures flitting away. Groggily, Isabeau turned her head, staring at the man who lay asleep beside her.
Dark hair lay on his forehead, the square line of his jaw shadowed and dark. His eyes were closed, but she knew him. "Pierce . . . Hawk," she corrected, frowning. The ache in her head intensified with movement. His hold on her was secure.
"I feel like I've been beaten to a pulp," she murmured, heavy lids drifting closed.
"Sleep," his voice came from a distance. Hard arms tightened as she drifted into a quieter sleep, secure in the haven of his warm embrace.
#
Isabeau couldn't get out of the nightmare. Struggling, she tried to free herself from iron bands which shackled her, but they were too strong. She was being pulled closer and closer to the dark depths of water. She covered her eyes when lightning struck the ground beside her, the smell of sulphur choking in her throat.
She sat upright, staring at the cabin fuzzily, surprised to see the early morning light filtering into the room.
Filling her lungs deeply, she coughed, clutching her chest. It hurt, so she took shallow breaths, the sound laboring.
Her glance fell curiously on the man lying beside her, his dark eyes watchful. She shivered as cool air touched her back. She was naked, her breasts exposed. Hawk was in bed with her. He pulled the warm covers up to her shoulders, carefully tucking them around her.
"Too late for modesty," he mused gently, shifting his legs and placing his arms behind his head.
Not only was she naked, but Hawk also appeared to be naked. She put her hands to her head. "My head hurts. I can't recall -- what happened?"
He stiffened beside her. "You don't recall?"
Hawk watched her closely, concerned by her apparent memory lapse. He saw the panic on her face.
"It's all right," he said in a soothing voice. "You fell into the harbor and lost consciousness. I found a knot on your head. You must have hit it in the fall."
Isabeau gingerly touched her scalp. He guided her fingers so she could feel the bump at the back of her head.
"Where's my mother?" she asked suspiciously. "Have you told her I've had an accident?"
Hawk blinked, taken by surprise. "Where can I find her to tell her?" he asked, not wanting her to get agitated.
"Leif," she finally said, "Leif would know."
"Where can I find him?" he asked. He put out a hand to steady her as she swayed.
"Hawk's Den," Isabeau murmured, sliding down to snuggled up against him.
"I was really frightened, you know," she muttered sleepily.
"Frightened?"
"I thought it was a dream, my being here. It's really some kind of time warp." Unexpectedly, she scooted around to drop a kiss along his jaw. She slid back down his body, putting her arms around his waist. "I love you, you know -- Hawk -- Pierce. I'm kind of confused, but I love you . . . I love you both."
Closing her eyes, Isabeau was blissfully unaware of anything else.
Chapter Eleven
Isabeau woke the afternoon following her near-drowning, feeling weak but alive.
Hawk hired a carriage and insisted on taking her to a hotel in the heart of New York City. He had booked a suite of rooms for their use, and by the time they left the ship and reached the hotel, it was nighttime.
He left her in her room with the direct order that she was to rest and sleep as late as she wanted. Despite her exhaustion, Isabeau tossed restlessly all night. The doctor Hawk insisted on calling to the hotel said she had a slight concussion but there was no contamination of the lungs. She shouldn't have any lingering aftereffects.
During the following morning, Isabeau found herself staring out the window of her room, blind to the activity below.
She had small lapses in memory that bothered her, gaps between the drowning and when she'd fully woken.
She went to Hawk's rooms next to her own. She paced the floor for several moments, then stopped beside him where he was tallying figures on a clipboard.
"Tell me about the near drowning -- tell me what happened," she finally said.
The day of enforced rest was not what she was used to, and the inactivity chafed at her. She wanted to go out and explore this different New York City.
Hawk looked up at her. "One man had concealed himself aboard the ship. He waited until everyone left. We don't know for sure, but we're presuming he was there to set the ship afire. Malry found some oily rags and a torch concealed in the galley pantry."
"Why would anyone want to burn the ship -- you had sold it?"
"Financially, losing a ship of this caliber would have been a great blow. It would have been our loss because the sale hadn't been completed."
Isabeau drew a deep breath. "Okay, but what about after -- after --"
"You fell in the water," he stated calmly, jotting down figures in a long column. She stood at his elbow, patiently waiting for him to finish totaling the figures.
"I recall that -- what next?"
"You
hit your head. You were unconsciousness when we hauled you out."
"We?" She latched onto that, a hazy memory of another voice teasing at the fringes of recollection.
"Malry and I." Reluctantly, it seemed, Hawk looked up at her.
"I knew there was somebody else there," Isabeau said with satisfaction. "What's he doing in New York?"
"He arrived by rail. He's been taking care of some business for me." Unable to maintain his aloofness, he eyed the beautiful woman pacing the floor beside him. She distracted him. He couldn't come up with a correct total no matter how many times he added the figures.
She wore one of the new day dresses he had purchased for her. A deep blue, it made her eyes look more blue than green. It suited her, though he admitted to himself she looked beautiful no matter what she wore.
"And what else?"
He leaned back, dropping his pen in resignation. "You don't give up, do you, until all your questions are answered?" The problem was she always had a supply of them. A smile pulled at his mouth.
"So how did Malry happen to be there?"
She stared at the back of his head, her fingers curled as they itched to run through the soft hair brushing his collar.
"It was preplanned for him to come by rail," he said patiently. "There was business to attend to. When it was completed, we were to meet at the docks. Simple." He shrugged.
"Nothing is so simple with you," she muttered.
"I have some questions," Hawk said quietly. "Do you know why that sailor was after you? He was supposed to be a crew member for the new owners."
"I heard footsteps up on deck and thought you had returned. I went up there but I didn't see anyone. Looking around, I saw someone in the galley. He was carrying pistols and he had some liquid in a metal bucket."
"He apparently thought there would be no one on board. The liquid was a highly flammable material. As I said, we're presuming he was going to burn my ship."
"I surprised him, and he chased me."
"Did he hurt you?" Hawk asked in a low voice.
"No. When I tried to get away, there was another man on the dock. I was trapped." Pacing, Isabeau came to a standstill beside him again. "You said he was a crew member?"
Time Travel Romance Collection Page 15
