Lost in thought, she did not hear the door open but felt a draft of cold air upon her nearly bare back. She turned. Ian stood frozen by the door, one hand holding a bundle of herbs, the other crossed at his chest, long fingers drumming a rhythm. And all the while, he stared at her as if transfixed.
“Whatever are you doing here?” She hissed. “Why have you come in unannounced? How long have you been standing there, watching me?”
He gazed at her, a smile like sun on sea lighting the hollows of his cheeks and raising the corners of his mouth. “I am sorry, Mistress Maggie, but I did knock—softly. I did not want to wake anyone.”
She followed the path of his eyes upon her, starting with her eyes, then resting languidly on her mouth. His gaze glided to shoulders, arms, one to the other. She felt his eyes burn through the thin linen cloth of her shift. Her nipples tightened in response. Her heart beat at the base of her throat. A slow trickle of honey spread throughout her center. She could not escape those eyes, that green glow, as they followed the rise and fall of her belly and swept to her bare legs.
“I did say I’d return.” He met her gaze and closed the gap between them, holding out the bundle of herbs tied with raffia.
“Could you not have waited until morning?”
When she did not take the herbs, he put the bundle in her hand, wrapping his fingers round, and covering it with his own. Every bone in her hand felt lit from within.
“Ah, but you see, it is morning.”
She raised her eyebrows. “It is still dark out.”
He closed the gap between them. “But past midnight.” His breath swept over her shoulders like a zephyr.
She stepped backward, faltering. Maggie the workhorse never felt this...alive. He caught her at the waist and steadied her. She smelled the sharp tang of orange and tasted saltwater on her lips. Each of his long fingers pulsed with heat through her thin fabric. Warmth flowed to her secret place as he slid his hands down the curve of her hips, fingers whispering across her thighs, spreading his fingers wide, closing and opening, rhythmic and hypnotic. She could not look away.
She came to her senses upon hearing the frantic rustling on the pallet and Samuel’s panicked, “Maggie, something is amiss with Sarah!”
Chapter Three
Maggie and Ian rushed over. Sarah thrashed on the pallet, limbs jerking spasmodically, arms flailing, eyes wide open, bloodshot, and filled with terror. Her mouth opened and from her very center, she hissed, “Venganza. Venganza.”
Samuel kneeled and grabbed her shoulders. She hit him across the face, the slap echoing through the room. He held her arms to her sides.
“Talk to her, Samuel,” Maggie urged, as together she and Ian held her legs. “She must stop this thrashing. It will weaken her and make her womb bleed too much.”
“Perhaps,” Ian told Samuel, “if you embrace her skin to skin she will recognize and find comfort in the familiar.”
She watched as Samuel nodded, stripped down to his drawers, and climbed in beside Sarah, wrapping his muscular arms around her. He scissored her legs with his own to keep them still. Sarah’s thrashing abated, but she shook with such force that Samuel’s chin knocked against her head with a hollow sound.
Out of the corner of Maggie’s eye, she saw Ruthie cringing in the corner, holding the squalling baby in her arms. “What is wrong with Mother? That thing is not my mother!”
Ian went to Ruthie, kneeled, and took the baby out of her arms. He led the poor girl to the table and put his arm around her. With the other arm he held the babe, jostling her slightly to calm her. “Ruthie, your mother has been through a terrible ordeal. She has had a frightening experience, and it has overwhelmed her. Have you ever had a nightmare?”
“Yes,” Ruthie sniffed.
“Your mother is experiencing a nightmare from which she cannot awaken. Do you understand?”
She nodded, her face white and pinched.
He smiled and met her eyes. “It is alarming at present, is it not?”
Again she nodded.
“Do not worry, we will heal her.” He joggled the babe. “It will take a bit of time, and you will have to be brave. Do not worry, my sweet. She is still your mother—just very frightened, that is all.”
He took his arm from her shoulders to pull an orange out of his pocket. He gave it to Ruthie. Her eyes grew round. She held it to her nose, sniffing. Maggie wondered from what exotic place he had procured that orange, a most delectable and rare treat.
Samuel had succeeded in calming Sarah down a bit, murmuring over and over like an incantation. “All is well, my love. You are safe. Rest, all is well.”
Sarah leaned against Samuel’s chest again, eyes closing to slits, but the deep shuddering continued.
The babe cried in Ian’s arms and began to root for a teat. He grinned. Maggie hurried over to retrieve her. As she bent to fetch the baby, Ian leaned forward as well, and she felt his warm breath upon her breast through the thin shift.
Samuel’s voice slapped her. “Maggie, for God’s sake, clothe yourself!”
A blush crept up her body, but she could not look away from Ian’s eyes. Her world became his gaze on her. Never had she exposed herself so to a man, yet it felt as natural as breathing to have Ian look upon her body.
With the next breath, she roused herself from her fancy and backed away, setting the baby in her cradle and grabbing her cloak off the hook by the fire. There was not a man alive who could entice her to undergo the rigors and mortality of childbirth, not after what Mother had endured at the hands of Father and all she had seen in her daily life as a midwife. What could she be thinking, letting him ogle her?
Perhaps the tone of Samuel’s voice had disturbed Sarah, for she began to thrash again. Samuel lay down with her as before. Maggie could not help echoing Ruthie’s words in her mind. This was not Sarah—the blank blue eyes darkened with terror, fighting against—what? Did she still think she was buried? Had she plunged into madness from the horror of it? She must heal her sister and find out who had done this to her.
She racked her brain for the answers, but her thoughts misted around her murky as the morning fog. She fixed a pot of tea and set bread and preserves out for a repast. It seemed this odd apothecary was making himself at home here and would require feeding. He certainly was thin, except for those wide shoulders and upper arms, muscled and straining against his coat.
Ruthie sat at the table, peeling the orange with painstaking care. Ian grinned at her, receiving a gap-toothed smile in reply. The tang of the orange wafted over from where she stood by the fire.
He rose and pulled a wooden flute out of his coat. “Might I play, softly? It may soothe your sister.”
She nodded. He played a slow, rhythmic tune, eyes closed, body slightly swaying. She watched his fingers covering and uncovering the holes on the thin pipe. He could not seem to hold still, this musical apothecary, and she could not seem to look away.
Before long, Ruthie fell asleep, her head on the table. Sarah rested quietly, nestled in Samuel’s arms. The music seemed to calm her and indeed, a feeling of peace enveloped the room. The tea grew cold. After a time, Ian put down the pipe and stretched, his gaze alive on her, always on her. Did he never fatigue?
“I’d wager a guess you have not eaten,” he said. He went to the table and lathered a piece of bread with butter and preserves. He put it on a plate in front of her.
She choked back a retort. Why would this man show such concern for her, Maggie the workhorse, black hair, sturdy body, nothing remarkable? He was fair taking over.
He warmed up her tea and sat down again, nibbling on a piece of bread. “The word that your sister hissed, ‘venganza.’”
She shivered at the memory. “Yes?”
“It means ‘vengeance.’ I learned some of the language of New Spain in my travels.”
“Vengeance? Why would Sarah say that, and in a voice not her own? What does this mean?” Her head ached with confusion. “Who delivered Sarah? Who is respo
nsible for burying her alive?” She set her cup down on the table hard, making Ruthie startle in her sleep. “What do you think? Do you believe she was resurrected from the dead?”
“I have been trained as a physician, although I do not practice as such, and I confess I do not know what to do for your poor sister, other than keep her warm and dose her with herbs.”
Maggie gaped at him.
“Although I have seen many strange things in my travels, I have never seen anyone buried alive. I had thought about bleeding her, but my instincts tell me it would only be detrimental.” He gave her a pleading look, as if he asked for forgiveness.
“I promise you I will do everything in my power to help awaken your sister,” he murmured. “I’ll begin immediately.” He smiled, showing the dimple under his right eye, and took his leave.
Soon after he left, the baby began to squall. Maggie quickly changed her clout and picked her up. Sarah suddenly grew more agitated, her glazed eyes open and hands grasping the air. Had she possibly heard the baby cry? Ideally, she could give her sister the child, and she would feed her, but that was impossible while she was in this state.
Luckily, Joannie the wet nurse arrived, and she soon had the baby sucking greedily. A similar sound emanated from the pallet. Maggie turned to see Sarah, eyes open, sucking noisily on two fingers. A chill skittered over her. She had thought nothing else could shock her, but she was wrong.
Chapter Four
He returned to his apothecary shop in a sea mist as grey as Maggie’s eyes, skin tingling from the sight of white arms, strongly muscled, stretching upward in supplication, black hair with chestnut sheen flowing to the cleft of her bottom. Firelight illuminated her wide hips in the worn linen shift, drawing him like no Eastern temptress ever could, wide hips innocent of his hunger, the sweat upon her full upper lip, the taste he longed to have salty upon his tongue. And then to touch her softness, fingers’ journey on generous hips...he could no more help himself from touching her than keep a song from rising up within, but swallowed it down for her sake.
The dust motes appeared as dawn lightened the shop room. A heavy coat of dust covered the vials, bottles, jars of remedies, and herbs. He studied the shelves, unfamiliar with brother Daniel’s organization of the materials. The crates and supplies gathered on his journeys would have to be catalogued and assembled today. Work would still the music in his mind for a time if he applied himself.
Daniel lingered everywhere, in the minute details of his efficiency, in the broad, legible script on the jars, so much so that Ian could not resist speaking aloud. His voice echoed in the empty room.
“You were always here when I returned, Brother. No matter where, the Far Seas—a year or London for a day, you showed no surprise at my sudden appearance, only acceptance.”
It would not do for someone to find him talking to himself like a lunatic. Poor choice of words, that. He grabbed a rag and wiped the counter down. He would wipe the memories of Bedlam clean, the chains biting into his bare wrists, stone walls dripping with cold, the reek of unwashed bodies discordant with the perfume of weekday visitors, and the cries of fellow Bedlamites.
He would sing now, to silence the rattle of chains like cymbals crashing in his head, the echoes of laughter down the long gallery as tourists and society came for their entertainment, the keepers happy to show the lunatics off for profit.
His turn. Throw a few buckets of cold water on him, and he would comply with a song and perhaps a dance, bones rubbing against each other resounding in his head: phalanges, talus, and tibia screeching with fellow unfortunates, made a melody and vied to emerge. Fellow inmates beating on the bars in sympathy provided rhythm for the song gushing out of him like blood from a slit artery. Visitors pelted apples, nuts to spur him on. The perfection of the music in his head pulsed within him. He tried to share it with the guests, but they only pointed, laughed. The stench of his humiliation overcame him.
Ian dropped the rag, and as he had been taught, took the air into his lungs, slowly and steadily, listening to his breathing. He let the memory pass by until the memory of rescue took its place, recalling the feel of Daniel’s arms wrapping the blanket around him, his strength and calm encircling his emaciated body. His brother had saved him, and he had failed his brother.
A jar of Rauwolfia fell to the floor, and the lid rattled off. Indian Snakeroot, obtained in the holy and most ancient kingdom of Varanasi where he had hoped the most learned doctors could help him. The good Hindu doctors in Ramnagar did dose him with it there. The bitter smell assaulted his nostrils, and so too did his stomach cramp up reflexively at the body’s memory of the medicine and the bitterness of yet another treatment failing. But perhaps a smaller dose, mixed with something yet unknown would save him and keep him here, close to Maggie.
He took a candle into the living area behind the shop and lit a fire in the sitting room. There was no portrait of Daniel, only the memory of his lanky frame and the way he made him laugh with dry asides. What would he have thought of Sarah’s return from the dead? Ian’s heart raced as he relived the horror at the kirkyard, feeling the import of all he had seen.
After his first encounter with Maggie, he returned home. But there were things he needed to say to Daniel at the grave, with a melody. So later, he ventured out again to sing his grief. But he was not alone.
He heard the dogs howling before he arrived. Surrounded by piles of dirt, a man crouched over a grave. He stumbled backward and screamed, staccato and high-pitched. The whites of his eyes gleamed in his lantern light. Ian approached and beat the dogs away. A figure, wrapped in a shroud, writhed upon the ground.
He grabbed the gravedigger by the shoulders. “What has happened?”
The old man covered his eyes, gasping between screams. “It was the dogs—they dug her up—Mistress Sarah, moving. I cannot touch her, I cannot.”
Blood gleamed on the sleeve of his cloak, but no time to tend to him. Ian bent over the shrouded figure on the ground, medical training coming to the fore.
“What is your name, man?” He removed his cloak to cover up the writhing figure.
“Jonas.”
“Jonas, you must be quiet and tell no one what has transpired. Do you hear?”
He stared with abject fear. Ian gathered Maggie’s sister in his arms and tore the linen shroud off her face to reveal ice-blue eyes, blank and wide with terror.
He spoke above Jonas’ screams and the howling of the dogs. “Mistress Sarah. All is well.”
She thrashed so violently it took all of his strength to hold her. “Mistress Sarah, you are among the living, do you hear me? You are alive and safe.”
Her blue lips opened in a silent scream.
“I am taking you home. Home.”
Thank God he knew where she lived, for there would be no help from Jonas. “Be still, man, and tell no one what has transpired tonight. You need not accompany me. Do you understand?”
He covered her face with the cloak to keep out the rain and fought against the wind to her cottage.
Jonas followed behind him, moaning.
“If you must follow me,” Ian yelled, “then be silent or be gone.”
They sped through the dark streets of town, down alleyways, heading north. By the time they had turned toward the docks and around to the blacksmith’s shop, he had to caution Jonas again to keep still. The townspeople should not see her in this shrouded state. Ian had seen what superstition could do to a town and would not have it happen to Maggie’s sister.
Jonas reached the door before he did and pounded, but he shoved his way into the warm, smoky air, standing in front of Maggie, her sister’s body in his arms. Maggie froze, face white, pupils huge in shock. Then, as she recognized her sister Sarah, she sparked alive and sprang into action. She took control without flinching, hands and mind capable and strong in the midst of her terror.
How would it be to command the focus of Maggie’s attention, to have those eyes and heavy brows survey him with such intensity, to b
e the recipient of her good intent? She looked as if she could withstand anything that befell her. Could she withstand his affliction?
His mind spun in revolutions, like a carriage wheel beset by the wind. His blood sang with all his senses had taken in—the memory of her sweet skin and the sight of her welcoming hips in the firelight inviting him to the peace and comfort of her body. If he could but silence the cries, clean the filth of nightmares from his soul, so she need never know where he had been, perhaps then he would be worthy of her. Somewhere, in the storehouse of Mother Nature, was an herb, mineral, concoction that would cure him.
Chapter Five
After Ian’s departure, Maggie had fallen asleep with her head on the table, sleeping deeply for a few hours. Joannie the wet nurse had just slipped in and stoked up the fire.
As Joannie filled the kettle for tea, she whispered, “Mistress Maggie, ye must be done in.”
She shrugged her tight shoulder muscles. “Oh, midwives aren’t allowed to be tired, you know that, Joannie.”
She glanced at Sarah and pressed her lips together. “Mistress Maggie—”
Just then, the babe began fussing.
“Looks like the little mite smelled breakfast,” Maggie said, gratified to see the babe latching hold in no time. She and Joannie shared a smile.
Joannie deserved credit for her calm reaction to Sarah’s eerie condition. Sarah breathed evenly and deeply, her coloring pale like parchment with only a trace of blue around the lips. Good. She had improved, but the sight of those light blue eyes and their sightless stare chilled her. What was she to do?
Samuel rose from the pallet and tucked the covers around Sarah. He lumbered over to the table, resembling the baited bear they’d seen at the county fair. Poor man, who could blame him, for all he’d been through?
“I have repairs to do this morn,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
She handed him some bread and a cup of tea. “I must go to the Siren Inn.”
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