Confound the tears that pressed at the backs of her eyes. She’d known he would be angry, but she hadn’t counted on how much his anger would hurt. And if there was one thing she’d learned, it was that tears never solved anything. In fact, they generally made things worse for her. “I’m no thief, Captain. I brought money to pay for passage. I just knew you wouldn’t let me aboard were I to try and buy a ticket in the usual manner.”
“Well, you got one thing right, anyhow.”
She blinked hard. But despite her effort to hold the moisture at bay, one tear spilled over.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His throat worked, and his voice was low and raspy when he spoke. “I’m sorry, Miss Hunter. I shouldn’t be so harsh. If I am angry, it only stems from a fear for your safety.” His first knuckle brushed the tear from her cheek. “One day your rash decisions will lead you into a trouble from which I may not be able to save you.”
His kindness heaped upon his anger only made more tears spill over. She gritted her teeth. He was going to think her nothing more than a weak-willed ninny.
“We are in the water because you had gotten overheated and I needed to cool you down quickly.”
His finger skimmed the callus on her jaw where her violin had left its mark, and by all the water in the sea, every muscle in her body had surely just turned to jelly. And he’d thought she was overheated before!
“Captain—” Movement in the water beyond his shoulder drew her attention. A glistening black fin gliding leisurely toward them. Her eyes widened, and he was already turning to see what had caught her attention. “Captain, is that a—”
“Up!” he shouted. “Pull us up! Hang on!”
He clutched her tighter with his supporting arm, but she was taking no chances at slipping back into the water with a shark below! As the rope began a rapid ascent, she clamped both arms about his neck and her legs around his middle, squeezed her eyes shut, and hung on for dear life.
There was the feeling of racing air and then stillness, but she kept her face buried against his shoulder. After a moment, Captain Dawson reached up to loosen her arms. “You can let go now, Miss Hunter. We are safe on deck.”
She pulled back slightly and looked down at him, but her arms seemed locked in place.
He swallowed visibly. “Miss Hunter?”
Her gaze roamed to the pleasant sight of firm lips surrounded by almost a day’s worth of dark stubble, and she wetted her lips and reminded herself to breathe. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat. “I’d like to introduce you to my crew, if I may.”
“Oh!” She scrambled down. But a wave of dizziness suddenly washed over her, and her legs tangled in her water-weighted skirts. She squawked and flapped her arms in a useless attempt to catch her balance.
Captain Dawson grasped her waist and held her steady. “Take a deep breath.”
She suppressed a groan. This man would never see her as anything more than a flighty debutante. Still, she felt a great need for some air, so she followed his instructions.
“Good. One more.”
Again, she obeyed.
Still supporting her with a hand at her waist, the captain turned her to face a group of motley men, all returning her look with varying degrees of incredulity. “Miss Hunter, I believe you know my cousin and first mate, Garrett Holloman?”
She nodded and curtsied, and that was when she noticed how her skirt was plastered against her. As subtly as she could, she pulled it away from her body. But a slurping noise accompanied each tug.
The captain didn’t miss even a beat as he pulled his dry white shirt over his head. “And this is my bosun, John Knight.”
The man who’d been guarding the gangplank that morning bowed to her as though they might be at royal court and she a countess.
Captain Dawson introduced her to the rest of the men, who stood stiff as statues in a perfectly straight line—all except the last. The last was a young boy with a nap of dark curls and skin so black his eyes shone. And he was fidgeting like a lad with a lizard in his trousers.
RyAnne’s eyes grew wide as recognition dawned. “You!? Where’s your monkey, then? Did you bring it aboard?”
Mr. Knight gasped and snatched his cap from his head. “That monkey! That was yours? Why, you imp! I ought to have you keelhauled!” He snatched the boy by the arm and propelled him a down the aft ladder, filling the lad’s ear with recriminations.
RyAnne started after them. “Oh dear. I didn’t mean to—”
The captain stopped her with a touch to her elbow. “Mr. Knight’s bark is much worse than his bite, I can assure you. The lad will probably be eating spoonfuls of honey and drinking peppermint tea in Knight’s cabin before the sun sinks below the horizon. For now, I believe your father waits for us in my cabin.” He raised a brow at his cousin Garrett, who dipped his chin in acknowledgement.
Sickening realization washed over RyAnne. Why had Papa not met her on the deck? Dread gripped her. “Papa’s well, isn’t he?”
Captain Dawson looked grim. He started to say something but then snapped his mouth shut and simply held his hand toward the aft of the ship, indicating she should precede him.
Another thought penetrated. “Captain? How far out are we from Zanzibar?”
“Just over half a day’s sailing.”
Not nearly long enough!
Her plan to sneak aboard had been predicated upon the fact that she not be discovered too soon. She had wanted Papa to have a couple days to realize how much he missed them. How much he needed them, especially during these, his last days.
She sighed. Had she come this far only to have her plans foiled? Still…the closer they were to the island, the more likely he would be to turn back with her, so maybe all was not lost.
“Miss Hunter?”
RyAnne turned to see the captain’s cousin holding out her valise.
He winked subtly. “I believe you might be needing this, miss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holloman. Indeed. And much sooner than I had anticipated.” She lifted her heavy wet skirts in one hand and cast a disparaging look toward Captain Dawson as she reached for the bag.
“I’ll carry that.” The captain took the bag before she could.
As he said a few quiet words to Garret, she took a moment to study him. He looked quite different than he had the last time she’d seen him in his ballroom finery. Today he wore black breeches that ended just below his knees. His feet were bare, but he clutched a pair of boots in the hand unoccupied by her valise. His white linen shirt had grommets from collar to cuff and was laced with linen ribbing along the arms and at his throat. The wind plastered the loose material against well-defined muscles, and her face heated at the memory of the pleasant feel of his skin beneath her fingertips in the water below.
Before he could catch her looking, she focused her attention on the sea, an errant thought lifting one corner of her mouth. It might not be such a hardship, were I to contrive heatstroke at some point in the future. Pressing her lips together to stifle a giggle, she studied the decking at her feet and reminded herself what a drudgery life would be were she ever to be stuck with the man.
Yes indeed, Captain Dawson might cut a fine figure, but he was a bit stuffy and much too accustomed to having his way.
Trent paced the small area behind his desk, one hand cupping his chin, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.
“What do you mean you won’t take me back?!” RyAnne gaped at her father, already lying near death’s door on Trent’s own bunk. “Papa! Look at you. You need to be home in bed, where you can rest and recuperate.”
Trent planted his fists onto his desk. “She has a point, Hunter. And we certainly can’t take her into the wilds of the Continent with us.”
Ryan rasped for a breath. “You don’t know my daughter, Captain Dawson. I didn’t want my family to watch me die, but of all of them”—he fumbled for his daughter’s hand—“RyAnne has the strength to face it. It is good that the Lord has sent her to me i
n my last days.”
“Papa—” RyAnne’s voice broke, and she spun away to stand near the porthole. She stared out at the ocean, but one hand plucked at her lower lip, and he could see moisture glistening in her eyes.
Trent thumped the desk and then turned his gaze toward the ceiling. How had he gotten himself into this predicament? While they’d been on the island, he hadn’t known Ryan was so sick. But the man had come aboard and nearly collapsed straight away. He’d apparently been holding himself together for the sake of his family. Trent had tried to persuade the doctor to return home, but he’d insisted that he’d paid Trent to take him to the shores of Lake Nyasa, and he would have nothing for it but to go.
How could he deny a dying man’s wish to die away from the grieving eyes of his family? He wanted them to remember him strong and steady, he’d said. Not wheezing and weak.
On top of that, this morning Trent had witnessed Khalifa’s Indigo Waves pull from port just before he’d lifted anchor himself. If he turned back now, the man would have several days’ jump on him, and he might lose the opportunity to discover what his business in the Interior really was.
And then weighting the other side of the scale, there was Miss Hunter.
He folded his arms over his chest and studied her in the light cast from the porthole.
She was still trying to keep her composure and doing a fair job of it. But he knew fatigue from the heat exhaustion would be hitting her soon, and one kind word or gesture was likely to put her over the edge. She needed to get out of her wet clothes, and he hadn’t even one suitable place for a lady to dress on the entire brig.
That was only the immediate problem. He pinched the bridge of his nose. If he took her into the Interior, no doubt he would endlessly be chasing her down to rescue her from one dangerous situation or another. And there was the potential hazard to her health and even her life. Could he risk that, even in the face of all the other things weighing in favor of heading on to the Interior?
Ryan wheezed as though it might be his last breath ever, and RyAnne rushed to his side. Taking up a cloth, she soaked it with a bit of water and dabbed at her father’s forehead.
Trent sighed. Maybe the man would die before they reached the coast and save him from having to make a decision.
He took in RyAnne’s downcast expression and rubbed the back of his neck. You’re a callous lout.
He remembered her mother’s almost cruel treatment of her. It would be a burden most grievous for her to lose the only parent who seemed to care for her.
Miss Hunter’s safety, balanced against knowing Ali’s plans, would win out every time. But Dr. Hunter had been a good friend to him. And his dying wish that his daughter accompany them had to be given some weight. So for now they would press on as planned, whether he wanted to rush Miss Hunter back to the safety of the island or not.
Ryan’s jaw slackened in sleep.
Trent took her elbow. She lifted eyes so full of grief he wanted to step back from the force of it. Instead he gently tugged her to her feet. “Let him rest. You need some yourself. You’ll do him no good if you aren’t well enough to care for him.”
She sighed wearily. “Aye. I suppose you are right.”
It was her compliance more than anything that sent a bolt of concern through him.
He strung a line from the hinge of the porthole to the handle of the bookcase behind his desk, cordoning off a triangular segment of the compartment. Flipping a blanket over it, he then tossed her bag behind the makeshift dressing room. With a nod to her, he stepped out into the passageway. “I’ll fetch a hammock while you change.”
When he returned several minutes later, knocked, and entered at her call, he was glad to see she had indeed changed and had even hung her wet things over the line to dry.
In his younger days, when The Wasp had been father’s only ship, he had slept in here in a hammock and his father on the bed. The hooks for the hammock still remained in the beams, and it only took him a moment to hang it for her. Knight entered just behind him with a tray of broth, bread, and water.
Trent eyed the water glass. “Do you need more tonic?”
She shook her head. “I believe the fever has broken, but I find myself most exhausted.”
Remembering her stubborn and insistent refusal to rest at the ball, he stepped forward and laid a hand on her forehead.
She stiffened. “Captain—”
Before she could say more, he cut her off. “Just seeing how candid you were being.” At her outrage, he couldn’t help a grin. “It appears that, at least this once, you have spoken truthfully.” With a slight bow, he backed into the passageway and closed the door behind him.
Much to Trent’s relief yet consternation, Dr. Hunter slowly regained his strength over the next three days’ sailing, but he remained insistent they not turn back to return the stunned Miss Hunter to Zanzibar.
On this night, magnificent splashes of orange and turquoise colored the sky as he joined father and daughter in his cabin for the evening meal. From the moment he arrived, it was apparent that RyAnne was quite put out and that Dr. Hunter was having nothing to do with her persuasion. Yet if persistent didn’t describe RyAnne, Trent didn’t know what did.
“But, Papa, I don’t have suitable clothing for a trek into the heart of the Continent.”
Hunter met Trent’s gaze across the table. “Oh, I’m sure Captain Dawson will happily assist with finding you a suitable wardrobe for the journey. I won’t have you gallivanting around in skirts while we’re traipsing through savage lands. For one, there are snakes, spiders, scorpions, and the like. For another”—the man leaned around the edge of the desk and peered at the girth of RyAnne’s hooped hem—“those will be most unsuitable attire for traveling the narrow paths we will no doubt be faced with.”
She gasped. “You can’t be implying what I think you are implying!”
“I’m not implying anything, dear daughter. I’m stating it outright.” Hunter calmly cut the fish on his plate. “’Tis breeches and sturdy boots you’ll be wearing, or you won’t be taking one step inland with us, young lady.”
RyAnne’s pretty little jaw dropped nearly to her chest. “Papa! This is most improper!”
Hunter pierced his daughter with a look. “So is stowing away on a ship, but that didn’t seem to stop you.”
RyAnne seemed unable to form a response other than to sputter incoherently, and Trent gulped from his glass to hide his amusement.
The doctor went on, undaunted. “Let us leave ‘proper’ to civilization and its courts, and think about safety and practicality while we are trekking the wilds of the Continent.”
With a little huff, RyAnne tossed down her serviette and flounced from the room.
Trent shoveled in a mouthful of rice before his humor could be detected by his companion.
At least this was one battle he wouldn’t have to wage with the little lioness himself, for he’d been thinking the same things. The savannah contained vast stretches of grass so thick and tall that two men marching side by side a foot apart might not know the other was there. And once they put his low-draft steamboat in the water to sail up the Rovuma, there would literally be no room to accommodate Miss Hunter’s skirts.
Canvas pants tucked into thick sturdy boots had saved him more than once, and it would be nothing but foolish to head inland wearing the fripperies Miss Hunter considered her wardrobe. He was thankful her father at least had that much of a head on his shoulders, even if he did wish the man would order her back to Zanzibar.
Perhaps now would be a good time to broach that subject again. He cleared his throat. “Once we arrive at the coast, you and I could head inland and Holloman could take her back to the island.”
The doctor sighed and wiped his mouth. For a long moment he stared at the darkening sky out the porthole. Then his words came slowly. “Rory will be out at the plantation working dawn to dusk. Anne insisted she and Jasmine would remain in town until I returned. So I left RyAnne home,
because despite the way Anne treats her, perhaps because of it, she is the strong one who would have kept them all from falling apart when the word of my death arrived.” He rubbed the back of his neck and hung his head. “It was my sin, Captain, which led Anne to detest the lass so much. I fear I brought a grievous curse on my family years ago, one that may never be broken. I’ve much to make up for.”
Trent frowned at that revelation but held his tongue. The man’s business was his own.
Hunter sighed. “Aye, I wanted her there, yet now that she is here…I fear my human frailty will not lend me the strength to part with her again.” The man pinned him with a stare. “I fear I must ask a boon of you, my friend.”
Trent straightened and set his fork down as sudden understanding shot through him. “I will watch over her and do my best to make sure she is returned safely home, if the time comes.”
The doctor’s face crumpled, and he lurched to his feet and faced the hull. After a moment, he rasped, “You lift a great weight from me, lad. I thank you.”
Trent rubbed his palms together uncomfortably. “I will also ask Garrett to return to the island to watch over your wife and daughter.”
Hunter dropped his head to study the floor at his feet. “Another weight lifted. You bless me in ways undeserved.”
“It’s only Christian duty, sir.”
Ryan spun then to meet his gaze. “Is it?”
“I would do the same for anyone.”
The doctor assessed him for a long moment. “Maybe. But she will make some man a fine wife one day.”
Trent jumped up, his chair shooting out behind him as he held up his hands, palms out. “Christian duty, sir, that is all! Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to relieve my helmsman.”
Hunter placed his fingertips on Trent’s chest before he could make his escape. “Promise me then that you’ll do one more thing for me.”
Lay Down Your Heart: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 2) Page 2
