Chauncey held out his hand for the certificate, and she clutched it to her chest in an effort to keep his given name a secret. “Suppose I never get married again—this could be my only wedding.” Her comment was met with a combination of sympathetic noises and chuckles that were interrupted by a flurry of movement at the salon doors.
“Make way for the captain!” Alfred elbowed his way through the crowd ahead of the Captain O’Halloran, whose eyes were rimmed with exhaustion but who managed a smile nonetheless.
“A wedding, is it? And where is our happy couple?”
Chauncey spread his arms wide, looking very much like a lion tamer in a circus. “I give you Mr. Maxwell and Miss Baker!”
The captain’s eyes twinkled as he took a position at the head of the room and the crowd shoved Max and Valentine forward. “No music? No traditional walk down the aisle?” Captain O’Halloran raised a brow and looked about in surprise.
“No need!” Chauncey yelled, and several other young men joined their voices to the chorus.
“Truly, no need, sir,” Valentine told him with a laugh.
“You are certainly a raucous bunch tonight.” Captain O’Halloran shook his head with a smile and pulled a small Bible from his coat pocket. The sight of the book of holy scripture gave Valentine a moment’s pause, and she wondered if the storm’s prior lightning would strike the vessel for their mockery of something most revered.
“Going all out, isn’t he?” Alfred chortled.
Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale stood at Valentine’s elbow and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
Valentine squinted at her, trying to reconcile the woman who’d seemed to want Max served up to her on a platter, with the one who now stood next to her as a doting matron.
“Mad, absolutely mad,” she muttered and stole a look at Max.
He grinned at Captain O’Halloran and took the certificate from Valentine’s fingers. He handed it to the captain, who glanced at it in surprise.
“Signed already! Well then, I see you wish to move right along.” He smiled indulgently at Valentine and then Max. “Miss Baker, Mr. Maxwell, you come to this . . . altar . . .” he glanced down at the sidebar Colin had maneuvered into place, “of your own free will?”
“Yes,” Valentine and Max said simultaneously to the delighted chortle of the crowd.
She stifled a laugh at the absurdity of the entire situation and glanced at the widow, who spoke up in the affirmative when the captain asked, “And who gives this woman in marriage?”
Max swayed toward Valentine, bumping into her side, and Valentine threw an arm about his waist to steady him. Truth was definitely stranger than fiction, or so the saying went, and Valentine could only imagine Eva’s face when she read the letter Val would send, detailing the events of the most bizarre evening of her life.
Captain O’Halloran frowned a bit. “The wedding party usually waits until after the ceremony to imbibe so heavily.”
Chauncey, who had by now taken a place at Max’s side, presumably to serve as best man, waved a hand at the captain. “Thrilled to be alive, after the storm that nobody predicted.”
The captain flushed and cleared his throat, “Mr. Maxwell, do you take this woman—”
The man’s voice droned on, and the world seemed to slow around Valentine, as though the entire room were underwater and she stood at the center of it. The heat was unbearable; her hair clung to her neck in tendrils, and the enormous ostrich plume poked her head. Her wedding! She laughed again, unable to help herself, and when the captain asked if she would take Mr. Maxwell to be her lawfully wedded husband, she tightened her arm about his waist and firmly said, “I will.”
“. . . may kiss the bride!”
The world suddenly stopped swirling and came to a dead halt on Max’s very blue eyes. He smiled, took her face in his hands, and gently brushed his lips against hers. The crowd in the room whipped itself into a joyful frenzy, and Valentine laughed again. It was the stuff of dreams—granted, very strange dreams—but for one aching moment she wished it were real. Her eyes clouded, and she blinked back the moisture, feeling ridiculous.
Mrs. Willoughby-Glendale openly sobbed and accepted a fresh handkerchief from Mr. Stewart, the art dealer. Captain O’Halloran signed his name to the certificate with a wide smile and a flourish, and Valentine marveled at the man’s good heart, that he would patiently play along with his passengers’ silliness in order to see them smile.
“Many congratulations, dear lady.” The captain clasped her hands while The Trio made a big show of smacking Max’s shoulders. “I shall affix my personal seal and file the certificate tomorrow.”
Her smile faltered ever so slightly as he was drawn away into the crowd. A tiny twinge of uncertainty slowly crept up her spine. File the certificate? Surely he jested. He was still playing his part in the elaborate show, wasn’t he?
That must be it . . .
She frowned and decided to follow him, to ask for clarification, when Max fell to one knee. The men around him gasped and laughed, and Valentine took a good look at him. His eyes were glassy, and he looked at her as though trying, and failing, to focus. His head tipped and he jerked it upright again as though attempting to maintain consciousness.
She shot her hand out and slapped it flat against Chauncey’s chest. “What,” she asked, through clenched teeth, “did you put in his drink?”
His drunken smile slipped, and he looked, for the first time, uneasy. “Perhaps I might have crushed a bit of opium into the whiskey. It hardly affects me in the least, and he’s several times my size.”
Opium? Opium? Her eyes widened in alarm, and she reached her arms out to Max, who was being hauled to his feet by several well-wishers.
“You gave him opium?” she screeched as the musicians again took up their instruments and chaos returned tenfold. She clasped her hands around Max’s torso, staggering under the bulk of his weight. “Not everyone reacts well to such a heavy sedative, Mr. Payne! What if you’ve killed him?”
“I say, Chauncey, I told you it was a bad idea,” Colin muttered, and Valentine whipped her eyes to his face.
“What, exactly, was your idea?” she spat out, and the two looked at each other guiltily.
Alfred finally spoke up, his eyes, by now, as bloodshot as the rest. “Chauncey wanted to slip Maxwell a bit of opium so he’d relax and finally give him a sparring match.”
Valentine felt a surge of horrified outrage and wondered if she would suffer apoplexy from it. “You had better hope,” she snarled at The Trio, “that he doesn’t die!”
“I say, Miss Baker, sleep-like comas from opium are quite rare,” Alfred scratched his neck and regarded her with a smile.
Valentine could only hiss in response, and the three stepped back as one. Tripping, she gathered the fabric of her dress in one hand and staggered to the door with an arm about Max as the revelers in the room at large cheered, chortled, and jeered.
“Come along, Octavian,” she groaned as he pitched to the side, “you must help me, I cannot carry you.”
“Strong, though, for such a little thing,” he muttered, and she looked at him. He was talking. Surely that was a good sign.
Valentine pushed, shoved, grunted, and possibly cursed as she dragged Max back up to his suite in their corridor. He tried unsuccessfully to fit his key into the lock, and she took it from him, opening the door herself.
They stumbled into the dark room together, and she closed the door, hoping desperately that nobody had seen her enter the room of a confirmed bachelor. Max had secured the help of a paid steward, who was currently attending to the gas sconces on the sitting room walls.
“Oh!” He turned in surprise when he saw them, and then smiled knowingly.
“No, this is nothing like anything you’re imagining.” She shook her head. “Please help me get him to his bed.” She flushed just thinking about it, and forced herself to consider Max as she would one of her brothers. She’d sat by their sick beds often enough to read them
stories that passed the time.
The steward nodded quickly and shouldered Max on the other side, and between the two of them, they maneuvered the large man into the adjoining room and lowered him to his bed. He shifted and groaned, and Valentine put her hand to his forehead. He was warm, but then, so was every person who had been in that salon, herself included.
“If you please,” she addressed the steward as she shrugged out of her short jacket and unbuttoned the cuffs at her wrists, “find the ship’s doctor, and send him here immediately.”
The steward nodded, eyes wide. “Shall I turn down the sconces in here, miss?”
She glanced up at the walls. “Perhaps a touch.” Her own head was beginning to ache—she could only imagine the effect bright light would have on someone whose alcohol had been dosed with opium.
The servant made quick work of the lights, turning them down so there was only a dim glow in the room. He promised he would return with the doctor and quickly left.
Valentine studied Max, one hand on her forehead and the other clenched at her side. She had absolutely no idea what to do for him. How long had it been since he’d taken that fateful drink? If enough of it still resided in his stomach, she could induce vomit as she’d seen her sister-in-law do for her nephew the year before when the child had feasted on poisoned berries.
She bit her lip and sat next to him on the bed, her eyes filling with tears. It was too late for that, and she knew it. The opium and alcohol were well into his system, and her only option was to wait it out.
“Max?” Her voice trembled, and she cleared her throat. “Max. Can you hear me?” She patted his face, gently at first, and then with some force.
His eyelids flickered, and then he lifted them fully to reveal blue irises nearly eclipsed by his pupils. She hoped it was due to the low light in the room, and even if that were untrue, she chose to believe it anyway.
Max smiled at her and lifted a hand to her face. “What is it, little Valentine?”
“You’re ill, Max. I need you to be well.” She sniffed and smiled.
His brow wrinkled. “Did we just get married?”
She laughed. “It was a hoax. The Trio have outdone themselves in terms of entertainment on this voyage. I doubt Captain O’Halloran will ever again see its like.”
“A hoax,” he murmured, as he trailed his hand down her arm, coming to rest on her hand that lay clenched in her lap. “What a shame.”
Her heart jumped, and she wished he were in his right mind. His tongue would not be loose, and he wouldn’t say things she so desperately wished were true. Needing something to do—anything—she went to the small powder room, retrieved a cloth, and soaked it in cold water. Wringing it out, she then went back to the bed and sat, placing the cloth on his head.
“Mmmm,” he groaned. “Feels lovely, Val. My head is spinning, and I’m beginning to feel rather wretched.” He rested his arm on her leg, his hand landing comfortably on her hip.
Her heart thumped. “With any luck, you won’t remember any of this,” she muttered, “and I will, somehow, be able to forget it.”
He shook his head. “Never want to forget,” he mumbled. He turned onto his side toward her and shut his eyes tightly. “I am going to kill that boy. What did he put in my drink?” He sounded a bit more lucid.
“Opium and whiskey,” she told him with a sigh.
Max opened his eyes and stared at her before wincing and then closing them tight again. “Where is Henry?”
“Unconscious in the second class salon.”
“Someone should see to him.”
Now that he seemed to be returning to himself, Valentine was unsure of what sort of liberties she could, or should, take. She glanced down at his arm, still across her lap, and brushed her fingers through his hair, shoving it gently off his forehead.
He was warm, overly so, and it gave her concern.
“Help me remove your jacket, Max. I worry you may have a fever.”
“Not surprised,” he mumbled. “Had a dust-up with opium once before when I was a boy. Made me rather ill.” He chuckled shallowly, and then coughed. “Only thing worse was my mother’s reaction when I was well again.”
He moved as she tugged on his coat sleeve, and with a series of shifts and maneuvering, she divested him of the heavy material.
“Surely you have something lighter to wear. This is not your first journey to Egypt, after all.”
“I do have lighter linens.” He shifted restlessly, and she moved to help him remove his boots. “Can’t wear them now, however. Must remain culturally appropriate, and I am an Englishman. When in Rome, and all.”
With a grunt and a heave, she removed one boot, dropping it to the floor.
“. . . difficult enough for me as it is . . . people already believe me to be nothing but a ruffian . . . I did go to school, I learned well . . .”
Valentine paused, her heart aching for him. “I never would have believed you to be a ruffian, Max.” She tugged on his other boot and finally yanked it free. It joined its mate on the floor, and she shoved her sleeves to her elbows as she sat gently by him again. “Indeed, when first we met I found you so handsome I was tongue-tied. Quite at a loss for words, and as you should know by now, that is an anomaly.”
He chuckled again and smiled. “I thought you were a snob.”
She grinned wearily. “Yes. So you’ve said. And yet who married you tonight in a room full of staggering fools?”
“Ah, if only, sweet Valentine.” He put both arms around her waist and snuggled her close up against his chest. “But then you would not have your cottage by the sea.”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Perhaps there are things more valuable than a cottage by the sea.”
“This is different, though, isn’t it? It is a sign of your independence. Your own property, something you’ll achieve against all odds.”
She laughed. “It isn’t as though I am beating back suitors. The cottage comes to me as a bit of a consolation prize for not managing to snare a husband. Not much of an achievement, is it?”
He tilted his head and cracked an eye open. “You are deluding yourself, Valentine Baker, if you believe for one moment that you are not desirable. You haven’t moved enough in rigorous social circles.”
“Well,” she sighed, deciding to humor him, “I suppose that is true. I shall have to impose upon Eva for a time—perhaps she can introduce me to enough eligible bachelors that my odds of bringing one up to scratch would improve.”
His arms tightened slightly, eyes closed again, and brows pinched in a frown. “I believe it best for you to claim your cottage, don’t you agree? Besides, who will take possession of it, if not you?”
She laughed lightly. “The next unfortunate family female who remains unmarried at the age of twenty-five. At the moment, I am the only candidate for the position. I do have a cousin, however, who is seventeen. Should I not claim the cottage and she suffers my same sad fortune, she shall inherit.”
“Is this a Baker family tradition?”
“Yes, truly it is. It was begun by my great grandmother. The cottage has been vacant for the last fifteen years after the passing of my spinster aunt.”
A perfunctory knock sounded in the sitting room just before the steward poked his head inside. Valentine disentangled herself from Max, who voiced a feeble protest. She joined the steward in the sitting room, where he regarded her with a most somber expression.
“Miss, a thousand apologies, but the doctor is indisposed, himself.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He suffered a bad reaction to some salmon.”
Valentine gaped. “Is there no one else aboard with medical knowledge?”
The steward shrugged miserably.
“Would you remain here for a moment with Mr. Maxwell while I dash across the hall? My traveling companion may have some advice.”
The man nodded, and Valentine dashed out. She fumbled in her pocket for her key, and made her way through the connecting doors in
to the countess’s suite. It was as dark as a tomb, and not a soul stirred. One of the maids and the butler had likely retired to their own cabins, and Martina slept in a small bed in a room just off of Contessa’s. Martina must have heard Valentine, though, because her head poked out of her room and she blinked sleepily.
“Miss Valentine?”
“Oh, Martina, I must have some advice. Do you know how to care for someone who has imbibed opium?”
Martina blinked. “Opium?” She pointed at Valentine, brows raised high. “You? For pain?”
“No, no. Not me. Mr. Maxwell.” Valentine wrung her hands, desperation mounting. “Perhaps Contessa would know?”
Martina shook her head, her eyes worried. “Contessa has laudanum. For her sleeping.”
Of course. Contessa had told Valentine she intended to sleep the rest of the way to Alexandria so as to avoid further nausea. Valentine’s eyes filled with tears.
“He drinks water.”
Valentine looked at Martina, who nodded. “Mr. Maxwell. He needs water.”
Valentine nodded and thanked the woman, making her way back across the hall. It was as good as she was going to get, she supposed. So, she would make Max drink some water.
He was all too happy to comply. “I am so thirsty,” Max said when Valentine returned to him.
She poured him a glass of water, and he downed it in a few long gulps, his hand shaking. She gave him another glass and set it on the night stand when he finished. He was shivering, drifting into and out of consciousness, and began mumbling nonsensical things. She sat on the edge of the bed as dragons flew at his head, holding his hand and murmuring as she often did for her young nieces and nephews. Then there were pirates chasing them, and he was in desperate fear for Valentine’s safety.
“No. No!” He muttered the word repeatedly, tossing and turning and still, that horrible shivering.
Valentine’s heart constricted. He’d said something about a bad brush with opium before, and apparently he hadn’t developed a tolerance for it even now, because he seemed out of his head and physically weak. It scared her.
“Shhhh, Max. I am here, nobody is chasing us. We are fine.” She leaned over and placed her hand on his cheek, which was clammy.
From Cairo, With Love (Timeless Romance Single Book 1) Page 6
