"Oh, Papa. Don't be angry."
"I'm not angry. Sleep now."
And again she settled into a restless but silent sleep, only to later mutter, "I'm sorry. I couldn't help it."
"I know you couldn't, Meggie."
"I didn't mean it to happen."
"I know."
That was it. That god-damned quack who pretended he was a doctor was going to do something, and he was going to do it now! Tristan knocked over the chair as he lunged to his feet and ran from the room. Moments later, without knocking, he entered Dr. Morgan's quarters. He glared at the man, who as usual sat with a half-empty bottle at his side and a glass of rum in his hand. "If you know what's good for you, you'll take your face out of that glass and come with me."
Morgan followed Tristan back to his cabin.
"Is she worse?"
The doctor shook his head as he leaned over his patient. "She's the same."
"But if this goes on much longer . . ." Tristan shuddered at the thought. He had a terrible sense of impending disaster. Something terrible was going to happen if he didn't do something about it. "Do something, for God's sake."
" I can't work miracles, man. What hell do you want me to do?"
"Give her more quinine."
"I've been doing that. Give it time. It will work."
"She might not have time. I can't let this go on."
"What else can we do? You won't let me bleed her."
"Jesus God, I can't believe you'd even think of bleeding her after all the blood she's lost."
Dr. Morgan pulled aside the sheet and checked her again. The wound was red, angry, and swollen.
"It's worse." Morgan sighed in disappointment. "It'll probably have to come off."
Tristan looked at him in some confusion. "What the hell are you talking about? What has to come off?"
"Her leg. I don't think we can save it. It's festering badly."
"Get out," Tristan said, his tone so low and menacing, it brought chills up the man's spine. "Get the hell and go back to your bottle." Tristan wondered how managed to hold his fists at his sides, for he wanted nothing more than to smash this man's face for entertaining so horrid a thought.
"Tommy!" Tristan called moments later, his voice nothing less than a bellow as he stuck his head out his door.
Within seconds the boy stood breathless at the door.
"Tell Cook I want a large pot of boiling water. Also of crusty bread and water for a bath. Tell him to take it from the ocean. It doesn't matter, just make sure it's cold."
Tristan paced as he waited, praying he was doing the right thing. He had little experience with illness till now, but he vaguely remembered how the doctors had worked on his mother. The methods he was about to use were much the same. His mother, however, hadn't lived through the doctor's ministrations. He could only pray this woman would.
The items he'd ordered were soon brought to his cabin. He ignored the questioning looks he received from the men and slammed the door after the last one left.
The first thing he did was strip her naked. Bathing her face and arms in cool water had done nothing. He had to get the fever down. She'd die if he let this go on much longer. He knew she would. But if he had anything to say about it, and he prayed God he did, this woman was going to live.
Meg offered no objection as he took away her clothes. Tristan smiled, knowing this was probably the first and last time he wouldn't have the time or inclination to admire her beautiful body at leisure. He didn't want to admit it, but this woman was more than a body to him. Far more.
"I've got to get away," Meg said, her words slurred, almost unintelligible as he brought her against him and walked toward the tub.
"Why, Meggie?" he asked, wondering where she was in her mind. "Where are you?"
"I have to go. Help me. Hurry," she whispered conspiratorially, then screamed as he lowered her into water that could only feel like ice against her feverish body. She thrashed and kicked, soaking not only him but the floor and part of the bed as well, in her wild struggles to be free.
Tristan determinedly held her in place.
"Stop" she cried in agony. "Oh please, stop! I swear it do it any more."
He looked at her in confusion. "What? What wont you do?"
"I won't insult you. I won't nag." Her teeth were chattering so, she could hardly speak. "I promise I'll good." Her entire body shook so violently it was a wonder he managed to hold her at all.
Tristan's smile turned into a grimace as he struggled to keep her beneath the water. For a woman half delirious with fever, she possessed amazing strength.
" I'm not punishing you, sweetheart. I'm trying to lower fever."
" You imbecile! What you're doing is killing me!"
Tristan grinned. So much for promises.
"Let me go, you madman. You giant oaf, you—"
"Meggie, listen to me," Tristan said, interrupting tirade. "It's better, isn't it? It doesn't hurt so much anymore, does it?"
Meg shot him a dirty look. "I hate you."
"I know," he said, oddly sad at the admittance. Tristan shook aside the emotion and leaned his chin against her forehead. She was cooler. Perhaps not markedly so, but cooler. "A few more minutes and I'll put you back to bed."
Meg's teeth were chattering. She'd never felt so cold in her life, but he was right. It was better. The water didn't hurt half so much now.
He held her there until Meg was sure she was about to die of the cold. And then when she was positive she couldn't last another minute, when it took every ounce of her strength just to breathe, he lifted her from the tub.
Gently he wrapped her in a linen sheet and carried her back to his bed. He dried her and ignored her mortified moan as he placed clean padding between her legs. Within seconds her naked body was covered with another sheet.
"Are you thirsty?"
Meg was too weak to nod, even though she was very thirsty indeed. She closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep. Moments later she awoke to find herself in a half-sitting position with a mug pressed against her lips. She drank thirstily, sighing with relief when he allowed her to sleep again.
It seemed only minutes later when Meg cried out, coming instantly to a sitting position at the first prick. She couldn't believe her eyes. Did the man think she'd sleep through an amputation?. Her hand caught his wrist and held the sharp edge of the knife an inch or so from her leg. "Don't do it!"
"Meggie," breathed Tristan wearily, "I know this will hurt, but the wound is festering. I have to let it drain."
She sat there for some moments before she understood. When she did, her eyes glistened with tears of fear.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll hurry. It will be over in a minute."
Meg had to admit the man was as gentle as possible. Opening the wound wasn't the least bit pleasant. Still, it didn't hurt that bad. What she couldn't understand was why she was crying. No doubt it was the fever that had left her drained to the point where she couldn't control her emotions.
Tristan wiped at the now-oozing wound with a clean and put a piece of wet, warm bread over the injury. A second later he was wrapping her thigh to hold bread in place. Tears poured down her cheeks, and Tristan cursed upon noticing. He dropped the sheet over her and gathered her in his arms. "I'm sorry, Meggie. I didn't to hurt you. I only want to see you get better."
"Why?"
Tristan looked at her in amazement as his thumbs brushed away her tears. Didn't she know he needed her madly? Didn't she know that he prized her above all others? That he wanted her only for himself? He smiled at her puzzled expression, knowing the skin beneath his hands was decidedly cooler and she had passed the worst of her illness. "Who will rant and rave at me if you're ill? Who will sass and call me names?" He grinned at her look of surprise. "If you think it's so easy to find a woman with a mouth as nasty as yours, you're wrong."
"You're mad," Meg groaned as she closed her eyes and snuggled her head against his chest.
Chapter Thirteen
/> The worst of her illness was over, and yet Meg suffered still from incredible weakness. There was nothing she could do on her own. She had no choice but to depend on Tristan, for she could barely lift her head from the pillow without his help. He fed, washed, and dressed her. He changed her padding and, worst of all, helped her to the commode. Meg groaned at the mortifying memory. Thank the Lord he did what was necessary with clinical efficiency. She often watched his face as he went about the chore, but not once had a flicker of emotion come to his eyes. It was as if he were a nurse and she a patient. Though she'd been terribly ill and he had been especially kind and competent, she was still horribly embarrassed to realize her body held no secrets from this man. There wasn't a part of her he hadn't seen, touched, and administered to.
They had arrived in port two hours previous, and Still she lay in bed. During that time she'd listened as the authorities had come for the prisoners below. Soon after, the men began unloading the ship's cargo. Her mind screamed for her to move. To hurry and dress, to escape while she had the chance, but her body refused to listen.
Why couldn't she garner the strength she needed? All she had to do was get out of this bed, dress herself, and walk up the steps to the deck. Oh Lord, help me! Meg knew this might be her only chance to escape and here she was stuck in this bed. She had to get away. If it killed her, she was going to try.
A thin film of perspiration covered her entire body and she trembled like a leaf in the wind as she forced her arms and legs to drag her to the edge of the bed. Sitting at last, she reached for the bedpost and pulled with all her strength. The effort brought her to her feet. She clung to the thick wood, breathing a great sigh of relief even as the room spun around her. Meg closed her eyes and took deep, calming breaths as she waited for the dizziness to pass.
Her leg throbbed, but she ignored the pain. Her hand didn't release its hold as she took one tentative step and then another. She had to get to the trunk. She had to get her clothes.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Meg spun around, surprised to find herself no longer alone. Her eyes were wide with shock. Tristan was standing at the doorway, his face twisted into a scowl.
She wobbled almost drunkenly and he was at her side faster than a heartbeat. His arms circled her and brought her trembling form close against his
body. "Meggie, what are you doing up?" he said, his voice lower and decidedly more gentle as he nuzzled his face in her hair.
"Damn," he groaned as he felt an unwanted stirring in his loins. It only took the touch of her, sometimes just the sight of her. It would be weeks yet before he could bed her again. How the hell was he supposed to wait?
But Meg thought his angry exclamation was due to the fact that she was out of bed. She was lightheaded and dizzy, and there was a ringing in her ears. She never realized how his body curved sensuously into hers.
"I have to get dressed. I can't leave the ship dressed only in your shirt."
Tristan sighed as he put her from him, knowing it was wise to keep some distance between their bodies, but realizing how terribly weak she was, he quickly took her in his arms again. "You can hardly stand," he accused. "Why didn't you wait for me?"
"You have things to do. I didn't want to bother you," she lied.
"You're not bothering me. Come, I'll help you dress," he said as he walked her back to the bed. "Just sit there and I'll get your things."
Meg had lost some weight. She no longer needed that wretched corset in order to fit into her dress. In truth, the dress was a bit too loose. By the time she was dressed, Meg felt decidedly better, while Tristan was clearly in some distress. His eyes were glazed, his skin damp with sweat. His lip was nearly bitten through as he strained to keep his hands from caressing her naked flesh. God, she was a beautiful creature. Her skin was satiny smooth and her curves even after her illness, were only slightly smaller but lush and temptingly soft as ever. He didn't know how he'd managed to control his need.
He must have made a small sound, for Meg looked quickly into tortured eyes. "What's the matter? You don't look well."
It was getting worse every time. Thank God, he could avoid most of this agony when at home. Once there, one of the servants would help her dress and bathe. He didn't know if he could stand much more. He didn't know how he'd stood it so far.
"I'm fine, he said with more abruptness than he'd intended. "Our carriage will be here soon," he said as he pushed her to lay back against freshly fluffed pillows. "I want you to rest while you can."
With a frown marring her smooth brow, Meg watched him hurry from the room. What in the world was the matter with the man? He acted as if he could hardly stand the sight of her. Now that she thought on it, each time he administered to her he almost ran from the room. Was seeing to her care that much of a chore? Did he despise helping her so much?
Meg shrugged aside the curiously odd sense of hurt that had somehow caused a lump to lodged itself in her throat. She wasn't well. No doubt that was the reason behind this ridiculous urge to cry. She stiffened her back and squared her shoulders, her chin lifting and her eyes growing bright with determination. It hardly mattered what the man thought or felt. What mattered was that she had to get away immediately.
Meg rose and smiled. The little energy she'd so far expended had increased her strength rather than depleting it. She was stronger. Much stronger. The room no longer spun around her head. Good. She was going to make it.
It wasn't easy, but Meg limped to the door and leaned against it with a sigh of relief. Lord, she was fooling herself if she thought she was all better. She was sweating again. How in the world was she going to make it up a flight of stairs, over a deck and down a gangway unassisted? If it killed her, she would.
Meg cracked open the door, and her heart nearly fell to the floor. Escape was impossible. The corridor was filled with men carrying boxes, crates, and barrels to the deck above. Any one of them could stop her. Any one of them might bring her to the captain's attention.
She forced aside the need to have herself a good cry. She had to think. There had to be a way. In a moment of clarity, she realized she didn't have to escape. Tristan only had to believe she'd escaped. If she found a place to hide until tomorrow, he would have by then given up his search and gone to his home.
Tomorrow she'd be stronger. She knew she would. Tomorrow she would escape.
Meg looked wildly around the room. Where could hide? Oh God, where? And then her gaze fell upon the trunk. Meg almost laughed aloud in her relief. There was enough room. She was small enough to fit with room to spare. Her heart pounded with excitement, with happiness: she'd soon be home. It wouldn't be long before her father joined her and life would return to normal, thanks be to God.
The ship settled into a deep, almost eerie silence, it for the footsteps of an officer pacing the deck above, she could hear nothing. It was impossible to know for sure, but she thought it at least an hour since Tristan had come into his quarters, called out her name, and then left. No doubt he had already searched the entire ship and was by now doing much same to the wharf. She wasn't at all comfortable. Her leg was throbbing again. The trunk was hard against her back, as it turned out, she wasn't as small as she'd thought. In order to fit, she'd had to curl herself in half. She longed to stretch her legs. Lord, she couldn't imagine staying here for the entire night. She waited in silence for his return. He'd have to come for his papers. Meg could only pray he'd soon tire of his search, collect his personal things, and go home.
But Meg's prayers were doomed to go unanswered night. She had no way of knowing that Tristan had been sitting upon the bed for the past half-hour and more, watching the trunk as she raised the lid every so often to allow fresh air inside. The moment he'd entered his quarters to find her gone, he'd known a deep sense of panic. An instant later, however, he had pushed aside that panic, realizing she didn't have the strength to go far. He'd been on deck. She couldn't have left without his noticing. That meant she was somewhere on the shi
p.
His first thought had been to conduct a search. He was just about to leave and do just that when his gaze moved over his trunk and an idea dawned. Suppose, just suppose, he was in her place. If he wanted to escape, but didn't have the strength, what would he do? He'd hide. He'd hide and hope his hunter would soon give up the quest.
Tristan watched the trunk for a long time before he saw the lid rise a fraction of an inch and then lower to a closed position again. A wicked smile played across his features as he planned his immediate course of action. It wasn't going to be easy to get this determined, spirited woman to see to his way of things, but he had no doubt she eventually would. In the meantime, it wouldn't hurt if she stayed in that trunk. He only wished he could keep her safely there for the entire trip home.
Meg stifled a cry of alarm as she heard his footsteps coming directly toward her. She hadn't heard him enter the room again. How had he done so without her hearing? An instant later she forgot her silent questions as the trunk lid snapped tightly into
Next came the sound of metal latches being led, and she almost groaned as she realized the stupid fool had just locked her in. She could hear him moving about. Papers rustled he whistled a tune. He laughed at something, and Meg silently fumed. He certainly wasn't suffering at her absence. No doubt she hadn't been far from wrong in supposing he didn't want to care for her.
Well, that made them even. She didn't want him either. As a matter of fact, he was the last man on she wanted caring for her. Why then did she so awful? Because the lout had locked her in the trunk. Why else?
Oh God, she couldn't wait to get out of there. She going to give this beast a piece of her mind. He'd rue the day he'd met her and curse the fact he'd been so foolish as to abduct her.
Tristan hurried about the chore of packing his personal articles. Quickly he shoved everything into a canvas bag and then walked back to his trunk. With a grunt he lifted the chest to his shoulder.
Meg stifled a cry as she felt the dizzying sensation of being lifted. He was walking with her curled into all inside a box on his shoulder. Damn the stupid brute! Didn't he realize the trunk was unusually heavy? He banged the trunk against the doorway and cursed as it almost slipped from his hold. A moment later he laughed while Meg bit at her lips lest call out in fear. If she fell . . . Meg shivered, didn't want to think about the injury a fall would cause.
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