“If I truly cared … ?” Harry choked disbelievingly. “And I suppose you do? Pray enlighten me if I’m wrong, but I seem to remember that you hated him just over a week ago! Rather a quick change, wasn’t it?”
“I was angry,” Cathy confessed, her wrath abating somewhat. “Of course I don’t hate him. He—he saved my life tonight. I’ll take good care of him, Harry, I promise. Only it would make it much easier on me if you wouldn’t watch every move I make like you think I’m going to poison him!”
Harry’s own anger and guilt subsided as he read the sincerity in Cathy’s eyes. He stared at her indecisively for a moment, then nodded.
“All right, I trust you. But if something happens to him.…”
“It won’t, if I can help it,” Cathy said with quiet assurance. “Now, would you please leave? Dr. Sandoz said that Jon needs to be kept as quiet as possible, and we can’t be sure that our voices aren’t getting through to him.”
Harry wavered, then moved toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob.
“I’ll send Petersham down to help you when he comes back aboard. And, uh, Lady Catherine …”
“Call me Cathy,” she said wearily. “Jon does.”
“Cathy.” Harry hesitated for a moment, then took the plunge. “I’m—I’m sorry for anything I may have said to offend you. I’m only concerned for Jon’s well-being. We’ve been friends a long time.”
“I understand.” Cathy smiled at him, then gestured toward the door. Harry took the hint. She thought he looked somewhat relieved to escape.
“I’ll send Petersham when I can,” he repeated, and then departed.
Cathy turned back to check on Jon. He was still unconscious and was muttering unintelligibly. His dark face was pale beneath its tan as his head tossed back and forth against the soft white pillow. His lips and eyelids had a bluish tinge, Cathy noted worriedly, due, she supposed, to the loss of so much blood. When she had arrived with Harry and the hastily assembled rescue force back at the Red Dog, Jon had been lying unconscious in a congealing crimson pool. At his side had been the bodies of three men he had managed to kill before being brought down like a proud wolf. The slobbering beasts had left him for dead, and gone back to their drinking. Not that many of them would drink again, though, Cathy thought with satisfaction. For the few who had escaped the bloody vengeance of the Margarita’s crew would be in no shape to enter a saloon again for a long time to come. As Jon’s body was borne away, Cathy tripped over a familiar form sprawled lifelessly near the saloon’s door. It was Billy, the man who had slapped her. He’d been shot through the head.…
“Cathy?” Jon called, his voice fretful. Cathy bent over him tenderly, catching his big hand in hers. It was fiery hot.
“I’m here, Jon,” she said with quiet insistence, but her words didn’t get through to him. He continued to call and mutter and thrash about for the next several hours. Cathy could only sit beside him, holding his hand. Once he asked hoarsely for water and she gave it to him, pouring some from the pitcher by the bed into a glass, holding it to his lips and letting just a few drops dribble into his mouth. He swallowed, then seemed to sleep. But the quiet lasted only a short while, for his fever began to rise rapidly soon after his brief rest. Cathy poured more water into the basin and then pulled the covers down to his feet, taking a cloth and sponging his naked body as naturally as she would have her own. His maleness held no terrors for her now. The cool bath seemed to bring him some relief, and he lay still. Cathy’s eyes stroked the hard length of him, admiring the muscular limbs that even in illness were corded and strong-looking. He was a handsome man.…
Almost reluctantly she pulled the covers back up to his chin, tucking them firmly about him. She was surprised to see pink heralds of dawn streaking the sky through the window. Soon it would be time to change his dressings again.…
She was so tired. Taking a quilt from the wardrobe, she spread it out on the floor next to the bunk and sank down upon it, leaning her head back against the mattress wearily. If she could just rest her eyes.…
“Miss Cathy?” Petersham’s voice roused her from a sound sleep. “Miss Cathy, it’s moving toward noon. I’ve brought you something to eat.”
Cathy jerked upright, immediately alert. Her eyes flew automatically to Jon, moving restlessly beneath the pile of covers.
“How is he?” she gasped. How could she have fallen asleep when he needed her … ?
“He’s much the same,” Petersham reported gravely. “I came in several hours ago, and I’ve been sitting with him. You’re not to think he’s taken some hurt because you’ve slept.”
Cathy stood up, shaking the sleep from her eyes.
“I must see to his wounds. The doctor said every four hours.…”
“I’ve already done it once. Mr. Harry came in and told me what to do. He said to let you sleep—that you’d been through a bad time yourself.”
“That was so kind of him,” Cathy said, wondering at Harry’s unprecedented concern for her.
“If you hurry, miss, you’ll have time to eat and freshen up a bit before anything else needs to be done.” When Cathy shook her head he added severely, “You won’t be any good to Master Jon if you’re half dead from not taking care of yourself properly.”
Cathy thought about it for a moment. Not eating certainly would not help Jon, and it might actually hurt him. She needed to keep up her strength so that she could nurse him. Petersham had tended his master’s wounds for the last time, she vowed. From now on she was going to do everything herself. She owed it to him. … And besides, she found that she actually wanted to tend him.
Petersham urged her into a chair and Cathy felt her muscles, stiff from sleeping on the floor, scream as she sat. She ached all over. Her jaw throbbed as she moved it experimentally. Every inch of her felt like it was bruised. But she had brought her injuries on herself, she admitted silently. If she hadn’t been so foolish, neither one of them would be in such bad shape now.
An appetizing breakfast was pushed before her by Petersham. There was fresh orange juice, toast with fruit conserve, and even ham and eggs. After the dried salt pork and hard biscuits that had been the Margarita’s bill of fare at sea, the food looked and smelled marvelous. She fell to with a will and managed to eat every last bite. Finally she sat back, replete. Petersham beamed at her approvingly.
“That was delicious, Petersham. I feel much better.”
“I thought you would, miss. There’s warm water in the basin, if you’d like to wash. Master Jon’s dressings aren’t due to be changed for another half-hour.”
“Thank you, Petersham. I’ll call you when I need you.”
“Very good, miss,” he said gravely, and left the cabin.
Cathy laid a gentle hand on Jon’s forehead before performing her morning ablutions. He stirred restlessly, muttering, but his eyes remained closed and he gave no sign that he was aware of her presence. His forehead was burning hot against her palm. Cathy frowned as she turned away to dress. To her untrained eye he seemed even worse than he had the night before. She thought about sending for Dr. Sandoz again as she began to wash, but decided that she would wait until she had checked the condition of his wounds.
While one of the men had run to fetch a doctor the night before, Cathy had hastily shed Jon’s torn and filthy clothes and pulled on a dress. At the time she had been far more concerned with modesty than fashion. Now she saw with a grimace that she had donned her pink morning dress inside out. She changed it quickly, brushed her hair into a simple chignon, and then gathered up the basin, fresh bandages, and the powder Dr. Sandoz had left.
She set her supplies down on the bedside table and pulled back the sheet. Jon’s naked body was long and dark and hairy against the white linen. She sat down on the edge of the bunk and began to ease the bandages gently away from his wounds. There were six lacerations, varying in their severity, scattered randomly over his body. The one on his right thigh was the worst, she decided. Long and jagged, it looke
d like it had been made with a broken bottle. The swollen, angry looking tear ran from just inches beneath his manhood to his knee. Cathy felt tears start in her eyes as she looked at it. She could imagine the feel of the sharp glass gouging deep into Jon’s flesh, ripping his leg apart. God, it must have hurt! And he had endured the pain for her.…
The wounds themselves were serious, but Dr. Sandoz had assured her that Jon would survive them. Infection and its accompanying high fever were the real danger. In his weakened state, Jon would be unable to fight gangrene if it should set in. Cathy shuddered, wiping the crusted blood away from the wounds. The only known cure for a gangrenous limb was amputation. And Jon, debilitated as he was from loss of blood, was equally unlikely to survive that. If he did, he would be maimed for life and she knew that Jon would prefer death.
He began to thrash wildly as Cathy gently bathed his torn thigh. She called for Petersham to help her, afraid that his struggles might reopen the wounds and start them bleeding again. Petersham, when he came, stopped dead in the doorway at the sight of Cathy leaning anxiously over Jon’s naked body, a single strand of her golden hair, which had worked itself loose from the pins, mixing with the black furring on his chest.
“I’ll finish this, Miss Cathy. It’s not a proper sight for a young lady like yourself,” Petersham said when he had recovered his powers of speech. Cathy glanced around at him impatiently.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Petersham. I have seen a man unclothed before, you know. This man,” she emphasized. “Now, would you please hold him still while I put this powder on his wounds? I’m afraid it may hurt him, and if he jumps around he may do himself injury.”
Slowly Petersham moved to do her bidding, his reddened face stiff with embarrassed disapproval. Cathy sensed rather than saw his shock, but there was little she could do about it. Jon’s well-being had to come before Petersham’s notions of propriety.
Jon moaned piteously when the healing powder was poured over his wounds and it began to penetrate his torn flesh. After a moment, his moans turned to howls of pain. Cathy wanted to flee from the sight of his agony, but she could not. He needed her now as she had needed him the night before. So instead of hiding, she cradled his head in her arms and murmured soothing words to him while Petersham did his best to control Jon’s flailing limbs. If Jon had not been so weak, it would have taken four men of Petersham’s size to hold him. Cathy trembled fearfully at the loss of strength that allowed her bold pirate captain to be so easily subdued.
At last the pain lessened and Jon rested more quietly. Petersham stood away from the bunk, but it was a moment before Cathy gently lowered the dark head to the pillow. Jon stirred uneasily as her comforting presence was removed. Cathy’s hand came up to stroke his brow and he was still.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?” Petersham was still being stiffly formal, a sign that he was gravely offended, as Cathy knew from her years with Martha. She sighed.
“Petersham, you must see that this is not the time to be concerned about conventionality,” she tried to explain. “Captain Hale is very ill, and needs care. The rest of you have duties about the ship, which leaves me to be his nurse. Would you have me shrink away because he is naked, and leave him untended?”
“I will be glad to take over the nursing, my lady. When Mr. Harry told me that you were to do it, I did not fully comprehend the—uh—delicacy of the task.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Petersham!” Cathy exclaimed, exasperated. She was too annoyed to pussyfoot around. “You must be aware that I—that he—well, that our relationship is scarcely that of brother and sister. In short, I know all about the captain. The sight of his body is no novelty to me.”
Cathy blushed at her own boldness. Three weeks ago she would never have believed that she could have spoken with such a total lack of modesty. But her words were the plain truth, and there was no sense in wrapping them up in fancy clothes. She looked up to see Petersham regarding her coldly.
“Be that as it may, my lady, such sights are not fit for one of your sex and tender years. Will that be all, my lady?”
Cathy sighed, and dismissed him. Petersham’s unexpected prudery was a difficulty she did not feel equipped to deal with at the time.
For the next five days Cathy nursed Jon devotedly. She cleaned and tended his wounds, and called Dr. Sandoz anxiously when they showed signs of swelling. The gash on his thigh began to putrefy. Dr. Sandoz lanced it, draining off the yellow pus with its streaks of red blood into the basin that Cathy held for him. Jon’s hands and feet were tied to the bunk frame for this operation, and his screams of pain were bloodcurdling. Tears rained down Cathy’s cheeks, but she steadfastly kept to her place. She gathered up the gory bandages afterward, and then when Dr. Sandoz untied Jon’s limbs she gathered his sweat-soaked head to her breast, holding it tightly while she crooned over him. Her wordless murmurings seemed to soothe him and he dropped off into a troubled sleep, his head still cradled on her breast.
In addition, she fed him, spooning thin gruel into his mouth at regular intervals and holding his lips pressed tightly together until he swallowed. She gave him water, and applied hot compresses to his inflamed thigh. As his fever rose she bathed him almost hourly with cool water, but this no longer served to lower his body heat even slightly. His natural functions she tended to herself, knowing that Petersham would faint with dispproval if she were to ask his assistance. Her total dedication to his well-being surprised everyone, including herself. Cathy would never have imagined that she, who had never so much as picked up one of her own discarded dresses, could care so intimately and selflessly for another human being.
Despite her tender nursing his condition steadily deteriorated. Dr. Sandoz, when he came, looked grave and shook his head, which drove Cathy almost out of her mind with worry. Jon’s continued high fever was the most serious threat he faced now. The doctor could only advise Cathy to bathe him frequently, and see that he had plenty of liquids. Otherwise, the captain’s recovery was in the hands of God.
Jon frequently became agitated beyond her ability to control him as his temperature soared, and Cathy was forced to summon either Petersham or Harry to help her with him. Both men gradually lost their stiffness with her and came to look upon her as one of themselves. Cathy pacified Petersham by assuring him that, as soon as Jon’s condition permitted, he would be dressed in a proper nightshirt. But for the time being, even Petersham realized that Jon’s illness was too severe to allow Cathy to spend time worrying about such a nonessential as modesty.
Cathy’s complete devotion to their captain’s well-being won her friends among the crew as well. They would speak to her respectfully when she went out on deck for a breath of fresh air, their manner completely devoid of the lewdness that had marked their earlier perusals of her. For this, Cathy was thankful.
On the sixth day, Cathy could see, and Dr. Sandoz confirmed, that Jon had reached a crisis. His temperature had to be brought down or he would die. The doctor advised frequent cool baths mixed with a large amount of prayer. Cathy snorted angrily as he left. Prayer was a good thing, as she had frequently found, but one of Martha’s most loved axioms was that the Lord helped those who helped themselves. With that in mind, Cathy sent for Harry and told him that he was to send the entire crew of the Margarita out to scour Cadiz for ice. When Harry protested that there was no ice to be found in the humid Spanish city, Cathy refused to listen. If Jon was to live, she must have ice to lower his temperature. The Lord could work on providing the ice.
He did. Harry returned less than an hour later with a huge block of it. Cathy’s pale face mirrored her relief.
“Thank God! He’s getting worse! Here, help me with this.” Cathy set Harry to chipping off small chunks of ice and floating them in a large basin full of water. When the water was icy cold, she had him soak a sheet in it and then wrapped it around Jon’s fever racked body. He moaned, but Cathy repeated the operation relentlessly, replacing the sheets as soon as Jon’s body heat warmed
them. They worked for what seemed like hours, soaking, wrapping, then soaking again. Finally perspiration popped out in tiny beads on Jon’s brow.
“It’s broken!” Cathy whispered, scarcely able to believe that the small droplets were real. “Oh, Harry, the fever has broken!”
In an excess of joy she flung herself into Harry’s arms. They closed around her automatically. It took her only an instant to recollect herself and pull blushingly away. She looked up at Harry, suddenly shy, and what she saw in his face stunned her. He was gazing at her with naked adoration, his eyes showing that he was in love.
“Let me go, Harry,” Cathy ordered tremulously, greatly disturbed by this new complication.
“Lady Catherine—Cathy …” he began. Cathy knew that she had to cut him off before the situation got out of hand.
“You mustn’t forget Jon, Harry,” she said gently, glancing back at the bunk and trying to free her hands.
“Jon,” Harry repeated blankly. Then, coming to himself, “Yes, the captain.”
“Yes, Jon, the captain,” she repeated with gentle mockery. Her eyes warned him to say no more. After a moment his hands fell away from her.
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” Harry muttered, then turned on his heel and strode from the cabin. Cathy shook her head, moving back to hover over the bunk. Jon was still unconscious, but he seemed to be resting much easier. If not for the little scene with Harry, this would have been one of her happiest days since Jon became ill. Oh, why was everything always so complicated?
Love was a funny thing, Cathy mused later, as she wandered across to look out the window. It could grow in the most unlikely places. It was absurd and yet a little sad that Harry, who had so despised her, should now be helplessly in her thrall. Why was it that adoration in the eyes of one man was a matter of total indifference, while if another man were to look at her in such a way. … Cathy’s breath caught as she pictured Jon’s gray eyes soft with love. Then she grinned. Jon would never plead with a lady for her affections. He would demand them as his right, and, if they were withheld, he would fall into a towering rage!
Island Flame Page 13
