Watson

by L. L. Muir

  In his bones, he believed no one should be trusted. It wasn’t simply his imagination, but his senses that screamed at him, warning him that whoever had thrown the miss into the sea was close at hand, watching impatiently for another chance to finish the job. And though he wanted to believe the big sailor had a soft feeling for the lass, Trem couldn’t keep a disturbing image from his mind—the vision of two large hands shoving the lass from behind with such force that she flew against the ship’s rail and toppled over it.

  It could explain why the brute had been on hand to row the dingy. Or had it been coincidence? When he’d bent over the bed, had he patted her cheeks, hoping the wake her? Or had he hoped to cover her nose and mouth for a moment without Trem realizing what he was about?

  No matter how Trem’s stomach rebelled against the idea, his head went ahead and added the gentle, concerned giant to the list of suspects.

  Before anyone had a chance to interrupt his task, Trem had stripped the wet clothing and shawls away, maneuvered the stretcher out from beneath her, and gotten the woman tucked between clean blankets. He was tempted to lie down beside the lass and help warm her with his own heat—a pity to waste the warmth in his limbs after being without it for so long—but no one in the 18th century would believe his reasoning for doing so. Doctor or no, they’d chase him from the cabin and toss him to the fish. But he could at least rub her hands and feet to encourage her own circulation.

  Two new crewmen delivered four buckets of steaming water. Their round-eyed glances at the captain’s bed were nothing more than curious. Neither of them asked if the lass had roused enough to name her assailant. The look they gave Trem, however, was telling. They didn’t trust him. Either they suspected he was a fraud, or they worried he might come at them with a jar full of leeches. Either way, their lack of interest in his patient convinced him he could at least cross them off the list of possible assailants.

  Two down. A hundred to go?

  God help him, how would he ever whittle such a number down to one when he had less than two days to work with?

  There was a distinct smell of onion clinging to the cabin boy’s clothes when he delivered a tray of food for Trem, and broth for his patient. Trem assumed the lad spent all his free time in the kitchens, hoping for an extra scrap or two of food. It was something he remembered doing often at the same age—possibly nine or ten years of age.

  “What do they call ye, lad?”

  The boy cast his eyes to the floor. “Rat, sir.”

  Trem hid his pity. “I’ll rephrase the question. What is yer name?”

  “Robert, sir.”

  “Robert, then. Are there any other doctors aboard?”

  The lad shook his head.

  “Have there been any other accidents? Any deaths?”

  The edge of his mouth quirked slightly, as if he would have welcomed such excitement. But he shook his head again. “No, sir.”

  “Our destination?”

  “Boston.”

  “And how soon are we expected to arrive?”

  “Four days, sir. Perhaps five.”

  Four or five days! He wouldn’t be able to protect the Campbell woman long enough to see her off the ship! She’d be alone and vulnerable again. Unless… He would simply have to find a way to keep her safe even after his time was up, which meant he’d have to catch the villain, or find someone to trust.

  “Anythin’ else, sir?”

  “Yes. Find that Mrs. Fredrick and tell her to get a move on. I want all the lass’ baggage brought here straight away…” He eyed the platter of food and suspected the rest of the passengers were treated to nothing so fresh, nor so hot. “And I’ll need her to taste all this before it’s cold.”

  The boy’s eyes widened and he looked longingly at the steaming meal. “Ye’ll give that nasty woman yer food, sir?” He suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth as if remembering his place, then mumbled against his fingers. It sounded like “Forgive me, sir.”

  “I say she shall taste it, aye? To determine if it’s poisoned. If she survives, I’ll eat most of it.”

  “Most?”

  “And if I survive, I’ll expect ye to eat the rest.”

  The lad grinned and bolted for the door. Considering his haste, Trem expected Mrs. Fredrick to be herded back through the opening in no time at all.

  ~

  Esme was drowning in a sea of sleep. She knew she dreamed, but couldn’t rouse herself. Far away from morning, she harbored no hope of waking soon. Her strength would give out long before then, and she would sink into the depths of that sleepy, silent ocean without taking another full breath of air into her lungs.

  But that man appeared again. The same as before. He called her lass and smoothed a warm cloth across her face and neck, trying to push the waves of sleep away so she could take that deep breath. But the waves were too strong, even for him, and they took her away again.

  Don’t give up on me, she begged him, with no voice for begging. I’m right here. Just here. Look deeper!

  She must fight harder, she knew. But first, she had to rest.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After two raps sounded on the door, it opened and the unpleasant woman pushed inside. A large embroidered bag hung from her hand which she quickly dropped and kicked to the side, no doubt hoping Trem wouldn’t notice how empty it appeared to be.

  “You cannot force me to taste your poisoned food,” she said, with her nose in the air. “The captain will hear of it, if you try—”

  “It was the captain’s suggestion.” Trem gestured to the tray. “One bite of everything. Now. And a good draught of the broth, too.”

  She eyed the tray as if it were crawling with bugs.

  “Now!”

  She braced herself for a fight, but apparently her appetite won over, for she picked up a spoon, and in an act of defiance, scooped up a large dollop of jelly, wiped it across the largest piece of boiled meat, and shoved it in her gob. And before she had chewed half a dozen times, she pushed the better part of a bread roll in on top of it. A bit of potato she snatched with her fingers and smiled while she bit into it. Then she washed it all down with the contents of the mug before burping in his general direction.

  Grog, then. She was welcomed to it.

  He simply smiled as if he couldn’t have been more pleased, and waved at the bowl. “Don’t forget the broth.”

  The woman considered the steaming contents, glanced sideways at the lass on the bed, then took a deep, bracing breath as if preparing to jump into the sea herself.

  “Do it,” he said quietly, with as much menace as he could muster.

  She huffed out through her nose, lifted the bowl quickly to her mouth, then set it down again. He folded his arms, sat back against the edge of the large table that was bolted to the floor, and insisted she try again.

  The second time, she sucked a modest mouthful, then slammed the bowl on the tray, grabbed her throat, and gasped. “You’ve burned me on purpose!”

  At hearing she hadn’t actually been poisoned, his relief came out in the form of laughter. Red-faced, she turned toward the door.

  “One moment,” he said, then stared at her.

  After a long, silent standoff, she became unnerved. “Well? What is it?”

  He shrugged. “I was waiting to see if ye fell down dead, is all. But since ye’ve survived, I’m not finished with ye.” He walked to the discarded bag, lifted it onto the table, and set all its contents onto the surface before handing the empty sack back to her. “Now, go fetch me the rest of her things. Every last thread, do ye hear me? When she wakes—”

  The woman snorted. “We both know she’ll never wake. And if she’s dead before we reach Boston, it wasn’t my doing!”

  He shook his head. “The lass didn’t drown. And she was awake enough to tell me she’d been pushed into the water. The next time she rouses, she’ll be able to tell me who it was did the pushing, aye? And if she looks through her things and finds anything missing, I’ll have the captain put
ye in chains.” He frowned, pretending to consider. “Since he has all authority while we’re at sea, I wonder if he’ll consider chopping off the hands of a thief. Do they still do that?”

  Her eyes flared, then narrowed with hate, and he was happy to have her ire directed at him and not the lass. How horrible her journey must have been thus far, to have put up with the foul woman for the whole of it. Or had they known each other longer?

  He would need a list of things to ask the lass as soon as she roused, for he was determined to solve this mystery before wee Soni came to collect him. Only then would the lass truly be safe.

  “I wonder,” Mrs. Fredrick said, “what the captain would do with a lecher such as yourself, Doctor, if he knew you’d undressed my lady—alone.”

  “Mrs. Fredrick—if that is your real name—”

  Her mouth dropped open, but she remained silent.

  “If the woman had been waiting for ye to come change her into dry clothes, she would have perished by now. And whether or not ye were the one to push her overboard, ye’d have been guilty of murder just the same. Therefore, it appears ye should be grateful I did remove her wet things, aye?” He strode to the door, opened it, and gestured for her to go. “And I’d rather be called lecher than allow ye close enough to touch her again. Now get ye gone, and bring the rest of her things. If she is missing so much as a bauble…” By the way she hid her hands behind her back, he assumed she remembered his threat well enough. He didn’t bother repeating it.

  After he closed the door, he hurried to the lass’ side to see if she’d roused enough to hear the exchange. When he found her eyes still closed and her breath unchanged, he was at least relieved she’d been spared such nastiness.

  “No doubt ye heard the sound of her voice,” he whispered, “and fled deeper into yer mind, aye?” He brushed the backs of his fingers along the curve of her cheek. “Dinna fash, lass. I’ll not let anyone near ye, so long as I am aboard this ship. But ye must wake, and soon. Ye must regain yer strength before I am taken away.”

  He only hoped that saving her from drowning was not the act he’d been sent to accomplish. Otherwise, Soni might appear before the poor Miss Campbell ever opened her eyes…

  ~

  Young Robert returned only a moment after Trem pushed the tray away. He could easily imagine the lad listening at the door for some signal the meal was over, eager to see if there was anything left for himself. Although any food would have been a delight to taste again, after three centuries of bland existence, the ship’s cook had managed to underwhelm even Trem. And much to the lad’s delight, leaving a good portion of the food untouched had been an easy thing. Besides, feeding himself wasn’t the priority.

  Trem took the broth to the lass and set the bowl on her chest. If he couldn’t get the warm liquid inside her stomach, at least he might get some of its heat in through her skin. As for the rest of the food, he felt confident the lad was safe in finishing it off, since the surly maid had tasted each item, and Trem himself felt none the worse for doing the same. He bid Robert clean the tray well before leaving the cabin so as not to insult the cook, and the boy obliged.

  “Tell me, Robert. Has anyone enquired about the lass?”

  The boy bobbed his head while collecting crumbs with a wet finger. “The captain.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “The cook asked, earlier.”

  “If anyone else asks, I want ye to tell me, aye? And we’ll keep it between ourselves?”

  The lad nodded and his bottom lip turned out when there were no more crumbs to be had. Trem regarded the broth. The steam was gone and the bowl had cooled, so he removed it from the young woman’s chest and pulled the blanket back up to her chin. He would worry about dressing her after the lad was gone.

  “Drink this too,” he said, handing the bowl into ready hands. “Tell the cook I drank it because the lass has yet to wake. But I’ll want more for her in the morning, aye?”

  The lad guzzled it down, then his brows knit together. Trem’s chest constricted with dread. Had he made a mistake? Had Mrs. Fredrick never truly tasted it?

  Robert looked up. “I’ve just remembered. The older gentleman that walks with a cane—Mr. Peebles—he asked about the woman as well. He told me to give ye a message, that he needs ye to attend him tonight, after supper’s through. I’m right sorry I’d forgotten, sir.”

  Trem put a hand on the lad’s head and ruffled his already mussed hair. “Not to worry, young Robert. After ye’ve spoken with the cook, find Mr. Peebles and tell him I will gladly speak to him at yon door, but I’ll not be leaving the lass unattended for anyone, even if the captain himself ordered me to. Can ye remember it all?”

  The lad rolled his eyes. “O’course I can. Sir,” he added.

  After he left, Trem barred the door and slipped back into Doctor mode. He averted his eyes as much as possible while he slipped the lass’s dry shift over her head and down her body, careful to keep her relatively covered to conserve her heat as much as her modesty. There was also the worry she might wake in the middle of his ministrations, and he didn’t want her embarrassed.

  The woman never stirred.

  Trem was pleased to see a blush to her skin, and her breathing seemed deeper than he remembered. The one thought that gave him hope was that surely, Soncerae wouldn’t have sent him to pull her from the drink if she was going to die in any case.

  Of course, he had no idea how the wee witch would have known about the lass falling into the water in the 18th century, or how she managed to spirit Trem back through time to place him on that ship—and all just in time to save the woman. But he was beginning to think Soni and her witchly powers deserved much more respect than he ever imagined—even after he’d seen the ghost of Lachlan McLean disappear from Culloden Moor just after Summer Solstice. And then fifteen more, whisked away, never to return again.

  Trem no longer questioned the young witch’s ability to grant a boon to whomever among them could prove himself worthy. And if she promised he could meet Bonnie Prince Charlie face to face, to vent his spleen, he believed her.

  But he was beginning to wonder if that meeting was the only boon he truly wished for…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Esme felt the pull of the stranger’s voice luring her back to the surface, lifting her through the watery depths as if he’d caught her in a net. His voice promised warmth, and suddenly she felt a burning in her chest. She yearned to wrap her arms about it, curl her body around it, but her limbs were far too heavy to move. All she could do was hope that the tether of his voice would hold…

  Then the burning was gone.

  Wisps of air blew against her hair, arms, legs. Her weight shifted onto her side for a moment, then to her back. If she opened her eyes, would the salty sea burn them again?

  She had to try!

  The orange-red glow behind her eyelids turned to a slit of yellow candlelight. She was awake! She was alive! And she could breathe true air!

  Movement caught her attention. A shirtless man hung laundry across a rope. He wore a kilt. A Scotsman! Was she home again? But no. The room shifted beneath her. Still on the ship, then. But somewhere new.

  She swallowed and tasted the sea in her mouth. Water. She needed water.

  The Scot turned and hurried to her. Had she spoken?

  “Aye, lass. I’ve water for ye.” He lifted her head with one hand and used the other to press a cup to her lips.

  Metal. Cool water. More.

  “Easy, now.”

  Easy, now.

  “Hold on, lassie. Hold on.”

  He was the same man who saved her. She should thank him.

  “No need to speak, lass. Plenty of time later. But I am happy to see those eyes open again.” He grinned at her. Light brown hair, darker whiskers on his cheeks. A crooked nose. Bright blue eyes.

  Darkness spread from the walls into the room and finally ate up the vision. Perhaps she’d only dreamed him.

  ~

  If Trem didn�
�t worry the movement might attract attention, he would have jumped around the room. He was that happy to see the lass awake. He felt light as a feather and proud as a peacock even though no credit was due him. He’d done nothing but kept her warm and been on hand with a cup of water. No doctoring at all. But at least, when the lass was up and about again, it would look as if he’d known just what to do for her. No one would question his right to stay at her side.

  Her eyes had closed and she breathed deeply again, so he indulged in a small jig while leaving his feet on the floor, then glanced over his shoulder to be sure she hadn’t seen it.

  She hadn’t.

  A powerful knock sounded at the door. Not Mrs. Fredrick, then.

  Trem took a firm hold of his dirk, removed the bar, and stepped back. “Come.”

  The latch lifted and the door swung wide. The large fellow ducked through the opening with a heavy trunk on his back, slid it off his shoulder, and set it on the floor with a thud.

  “The rest of Miss Campbell’s things,” he said. “Took the maid a while.” He grinned wide enough to show an impressive array of teeth. “She had to buy much of it back from other passengers, and lost a bit of her own coin, so she says.”

  “Justice served,” Trem said. “What’s yer name, sir?”

  “Nunn, sir. I’d be the bosun.”

  “Well, Mr. Nunn, can ye ensure that same maid delivers breakfast in the morning? I won’t harass her anymore this eve, but tomorrow she’ll have tasting duties to see to.”

  Worry clouded the big man’s brow. “Are you certain that’s wise, sir?”

  “Why?”

  The man grimaced. “I’m sure everyone agrees, she’s a firkin of soured suet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s just say that, if I were set on poisoning yourself or Miss Campbell, I wouldn’t think twice about sendin’ that woman off, and no charge.”