There was a small stack of blank Harcourt stationary. After those, there were two parchments left. These contained a series of dates and numbers that Trent could only assume were the number of captives seized on each date. Trent tallied the figures. Nine hundred and ninety-seven people. That was the number of captured. How many others had been deemed unfit for transport and left dead and dying in the wake of Khalifa’s raids? He closed his eyes at the sick feeling of it.
He massaged his fingers over the headache beginning to build just behind his brow. The evidence of such blatant inhumanity, jotted down so casually and now clasped between his fingers, fluttered in proportion to his rapidly growing outrage. After only a moment, he crumpled the pages into a ball and squeezed tight. His hand trembled.
He tossed the parchment down. No evidence of whom Khalifa was working with…
You’ll never find it… Khalifa’s last words taunted his memory. He hadn’t said, ‘You’ll never find him,’ as one might have thought, but it. It… Evidence?
The fact that Khalifa had mentioned finding something meant there had to be something here to find, didn’t it?
He glanced around, then searched carefully inside each of the drawers again.
Nothing.
He overturned the cot, stripped off the sheets and blankets, felt every corner and portion of the feather mattress. He would have torn it open in his frustration, except that he considered it might make RyAnne’s next few nights a little more tolerable. The material was thin enough that he would have felt if there were any hidden items, even letters, in it. Next he turned the cot over and searched the underside, running his hands all along each seam to feel for any oddities.
Nothing.
He sank to his haunches and scanned the interior of the tent again. After only a moment of pondering, he strode to the desk and removed everything from it. He examined it from every angle. Turned it upside down. Shook it to hear if anything rattled. The folding legs didn’t sound hollow, and there were no hidden compartments that he could find. The chair received his examination next, with the same results.
Nothing.
Trent propped his hands on his hips and studied the walls of the tent. The canvas appeared ordinary in every way.
If he were Khalifa and had important information to hide, what would he do with it?
With that many people set to arrive in Bagamoyo just days hence, Khalifa would surely have ships scheduled to be there, ready to take on the cargo and move it. Khalifa could have planned to sell some captives in Bagamoyo, Trent supposed. But most would likely have been loaded onto ships. Information about that had to be somewhere.
“Mzee?” Kako’s voice came from outside the tent.
Disgusted with his lack of success, Trent snapped up one of the sheets, strode to the flap, and stepped out onto the grass outside.
Spear in hand, Kako stood waiting for him. “June has asked that I tell you the wash water is ready. All the meat from the ten gazelles we brought in this morning is gone. I’m going out to hunt for our evening meal.”
Trent clapped the man on the shoulder. “Thank you, Kako. I know you’ve had a long day. And I appreciate your help.”
Kako shrugged off his thanks. “Legs that will not walk shall later find themselves hungry.”
Trent nodded. “Yes indeed.” He went to June then and asked her to carry the hot water to RyAnne. And while she did that, he filled the other pot with water and put it over the roaring fire. Using his knife, he cut a strip of material off the end of the sheet, and as soon as the water boiled, he poured off a good measure into a bucket and then dropped the strip of the sheet into the water left in the pot. He set it back over the fire to keep boiling.
The bucket he carried back to Khalifa’s tent. He intended to have a bath of his own. If he was going to care for RyAnne, he needed to keep his own wound properly cleaned, and he couldn’t wait to rid himself of his beard.
RyAnne couldn’t believe how good it felt to sluice warm water over her skin. There was only a razor-thin piece of soap left, and nothing to scrub with, but just the human act of rinsing dust and sweat from her skin made her feel a bit of her old energy returning. After she washed, she even rinsed her hair in what was left of the water and wrung it out as best she could with her hands.
Her dress and petticoats were still rank and dusty, but they were the only garments she had, so she shook them out and slipped them back on. She had just finished that task and turned her attention to Jabir’s medical bag to see if she could find something to treat her ankle, when she heard footsteps outside.
“RyAnne?”
“Yes, Captain. Come in.” He’d been right in his assessment earlier. None of the bottles in Jabir’s bag were labeled. She couldn’t use any of this without knowing what the various powders and potions were. With a sigh, she turned to face the entry.
Trent entered with a still-steaming pot, and she saw him wince as he bent forward to set it down. Concern turned her to fully face him. “Are you well, Captain? In all the hubbub today, I realize I have not asked after your wound. I know Khalifa shot you, as I saw it with my own two eyes.”
Trent placed one hand to the opposite shoulder and worked his arm in a circular motion a few times. “He hit me high on the chest in this shoulder. June pried the bullet out, but infection did set in. They said they made a pact with God that if I pulled through, they would serve Him.”
RyAnne’s joy bloomed on her face. “Truly?”
He nodded. “To be honest, until a week and a half ago, they thought I wasn’t going to recover.”
All concern for her own ankle and the excitement over his news drained from her, leaving only cold fear in their wake. She strode toward him and snapped her fingers. “Off with that shirt, Captain, and let me see the wound.”
He smiled softly, captured her hand, and tugged her closer. His gaze roamed her face. “I’ve missed your stubborn high handedness.”
She pressed her lips together and pinned him with a look. “I am not high handed. Now off with that shirt.”
He chuckled. “Nothing high handed about that, now is there? And the answer is no. I just washed and made sure to clean my shoulder carefully. There’s no infection in it anymore. Your ankle first.”
He dropped a quick kiss against her lips, and that was when she noticed he’d shaved off his beard.
She touched his jaw, relishing the feel of his freshly shaved skin. “We’ll make a stubborn pair of old goats, you and I.”
A twinkle gleamed in his gray-green gaze. “Mmmm. And one of us is going to have to learn that the other is more stubborn than they are.” A quirk of his lips let her know he was teasing her.
And for some crazy reason she was suddenly in a capitulating mood. “Fine.” She sank onto the edge of the cot. “But as soon as I clean my ankle, I will feel better if you let me look at your shoulder.”
He bowed his agreement and moved the steaming pot closer to her. “Thanks to Khalifa’s sheets, you have your boiled wrap.” He motioned for her to hike her hem.
Despite her embarrassment at the impropriety of it, she stretched out her leg and tugged the skirts up till he could see her broken skin.
He grunted. “It does look a portion better after being washed.” He pressed gently at the area around the wound. “How is your pain?”
She swiveled her foot this way and that. “It’s not too bad unless something presses right against it. I think if I keep it clean from here on, it should heal up in the next day or so. Having the bandage will help with that.”
His lips twisted. “Thank the Lord for Khalifa’s fondness for finer things like sheets, aye? Oh, and I almost forgot—” He pulled a silver flask from his back pocket and held it up, wiggling it for her to see. “And whiskey.”
She started to smile at the joke, when she realized what his intentions with the alcohol were.
He held it above her ankle, one eyebrow lifted as though to ask if she was ready.
Gritting her teeth, she nodde
d for him to get on with it.
Trent drizzled a portion of the whiskey over her wound. Her gasp lifted his concerned gaze to her face. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She took a breath and motioned for him finish.
After another torturous splash of the alcohol, he wrapped the hot bandage around her ankle.
He looked up. “Too hot?”
She shook her head. “No. I actually think the heat might help kill some of the infection also. I’ll be fine.”
He went back to smoothing the bandage and then tying it off. “You’re all set.” He tugged the hem of her skirt back into place and then met her gaze. At the loving look in his eyes, RyAnne’s heart thudded against her breastbone.
He leaned forward, and his hands were warm when they settled against her cheeks. “Now that we have reached our ‘morning,’ I’m reminded that I had asked you a rather life-altering question and had not yet received an answer when Khalifa so rudely interrupted us.”
“A question?” She pretended forgetfulness and placed one finger over her lips as though deep in thought. “You had asked me a question, Captain?”
His lips curved. “Indeed, and as I recall, I had mangled it rather badly, so let me remedy that now.” He moved the pot to one side, took her hand, and settled to one knee before her.
RyAnne covered her mouth with one hand. As tears filled her eyes, Trent’s expression blurred, making it nearly impossible to see him. She dashed them away, not wanting to miss a moment of this.
Trent traced his thumb over the back of her knuckles. “I remember the first time I saw you. Did I ever tell you?”
She shook her head and stayed her breath, the better to hear him.
With a faraway look in his eyes, he smiled at the memory. “Father and I had sailed into the Stone Town harbor and made our way to the guesthouse your parents always made available to us. I was probably sixteen that year, and you were no more than eleven or twelve. We had stayed there many times, but I had never seen any member of your family other than your father before. On this day, however, as we wearily strode down the cobbled walk, intent only on a quick meal and then rest, there were two young girls in the front yard. One of them was blond with a laugh that reminded me of church bells, but it was the other, the one sitting primly on a bench, with a violin tucked close to her cheek, who captured my attention.”
His gaze shifted to her face, and he traced one finger down her cheek. “She had beautiful tawny skin.”
A tingle of desire rippled out from the place of his touch, such that it made its way deep into the depths of her and clenched her stomach tight.
His focus angled to her hair. He wrapped one of her curls around his forefinger and caressed it with his thumb. “And long black curls that shimmered in the sunlight till a lad’s hands itched for the feel of them.”
RyAnne chuckled in embarrassment at that. If only the man knew how she’d despised her curls all these years.
His gaze returned to hers. “Even at that I might have just passed on by, but then you played the first note. It was as though the melody reached out and took me by the shoulders and said, ‘Stand still, lad, and pay attention.’” His eyes crinkled at the corners, as if to admit he knew the sentiment was ridiculous.
He lifted one hand and stroked his thumb down from her forehead to touch the outer corner of her eye. “I don’t remember what song you were playing. But I remember the way you closed your eyes. And I remember how you swayed as you poured your whole heart into the melody.”
He was once again blurred by her tears. She bit her lip to withhold the sob of sheer happiness welling up inside her.
He shifted slightly. “I had first thought you were playing for your sister, but when the song ended, I realized that she was nowhere to be seen. It was from the gardener tending the nearby rose bushes that you sought your compliments.”
RyAnne nodded, capturing the moisture beneath her lashes with her fingertips. “His name was Samir. And he never once criticized my playing. I would mangle a song over and over again as I practiced out on the lawn. And I’m sure his poor ears rebelled many a time, but he always smiled. He would pat me on the head, tuck a rose bud into my hair, and tell me I played as though I were expressing the voice of the angels.”
Trent smiled gently and stroked the backs of his fingers across her jaw. “He spoke true.” He took a breath. “I think that was the day I fell in love with you.”
RyAnne snorted and gave his chest a little shove. “Go on with you. That’s not true. You were ever treating me like a bossy big brother. And I should know. I had one. You made it two.”
He shook his head. “I tried to act the big brother. I told myself that’s who I was to you. But always there was more to it. You made me feel things—make me feel things—RyAnne, that none other ever has before or since… Terror when I would find you gallivanting in some neglected corner of the island helping one poor wretch or another, uncaring of the danger you constantly put yourself in. Sheer frustration when you wouldn’t capitulate and do as I said. Jealousy when you prattled on incessantly about that fop Brayden.”
They both chuckled at that.
He pulled one of her hands to rest it against his face. Kissed the inside of her wrist. Sniffed and blinked dampness from his eyes. “I want to spend my days having the privilege of caressing your curls of a night, kissing your neck of a morning, listening to you pour your heart and soul out through the strings of your violin.” He paused to clear his throat, and then he said, “RyAnne Hunter, will you marry me?”
She went down on her knees in order to be face to face with him. She breathed out, “With every beat of my heart, yes.”
He kissed her then—long and sure and slow—the silken caress of his lips against hers inducing turmoil at the core of her being like a thousand sunbirds suddenly taking flight.
And she gave of herself as she never had to another, offering her soul to him with every snatched breath, every nip of her teeth, every caress of her tongue.
His hands settled about her waist, and he made a low sound of pleasure as he pulled her nearer. His lips left hers and trailed a hot path across her cheek, to her ear, to her neck, and then back to her lips.
Her heart pounded till she could feel it knocking. She curled her fingers into his hair, relishing the soft feel of it against her palms. Between kisses she whispered, “I…love…you.”
He slowed their ardor then, dropping soft kisses against her lips, easing back, and then leaning in again to dole out a few more.
Finally, he pulled back, pressed his forehead to hers, and gripped her face between his palms, holding her back when she would have kissed him again. He shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. “Woman, you can’t kiss a man like that and expect him to be able to sleep at night.”
She smiled softly and traced the corner of his mouth with one finger. “I believe, sire, that it was you who kissed me. I am completely innocent.”
He laughed and leapt up, drawing her to her feet and tugging her toward the flap. “I believe Kako bagged a couple hares. When I came in, June was showing the girls how to spit them over the fire. We should go eat.”
RyAnne pulled him to a stop. “Are you trying to get out of letting me examine that shoulder?”
“My shoulder is very much better than your ankle at this point, I assure you. But come out into the light, where you will be able to see it better, and I will show you to allay your worry.”
Out on the grass he paused and tugged the collar of his shirt to one side so she could see the wound. She did feel a great deal of relief after seeing it. It was nearly healed over completely with no redness or swelling. She tugged his shirt back into place.
“Thank you for alleviating my concerns.”
His lips ticked up at one corner, and he settled his hands at her waist. “Perhaps I just wanted to get you this close.”
The thrill of being in his arms swirled through her, but they were standing out in the open for all who were left i
n the camp to see now. She tilted him as stern a look as she could muster. “I believe dinner is served, Captain.” She started off toward the fire.
He fell in beside her, but leaned close to say, “Indeed. And such deplorable timing, that.”
Jasmine was unsure how cholera had come to Stone Town, but come it had. There had only been a few cases at first, but then suddenly the disease had passed from one to another like flame to dry tinder. For several weeks she’d been helping Dr. Kirk night and day at the clinic.
And now not only had it struck her town, but her family as well. She had just found Mother collapsed on the tiles in the entryway.
With Mother’s head in her lap, she gently patted her cheeks, willing her tears to remain at bay. Wasn’t it enough that first her father had gone off to the Continent to die, and then she’d been forced to watch the relatively quick but excruciating death of several of her students? Was God now asking her to witness the same in her mother?
“Mother, wake up, please. We need to get you to your room. I’ve not the strength to carry you up the stairs.” Even she recognized the desperation in her tone.
Mother didn’t stir.
“Sarah!” Jasmine rocked gently, pressing Mother’s hair away from her damp face. Where had the maid gone? She’d been fast on Jasmine’s heels when they’d walked into the entry and seen Mother, and now she was nowhere to be seen.
With no other recourse, Jasmine turned to prayer. “Oh Father, please don’t take her from us.”
Lusty birdsong slipped through the open front door.
Jasmine frowned at the square of bright sunlight cast upon the tiles beside her. Had the door been open a moment ago?
“Jasmine!” The call came from outside, and pounding footsteps drew the familiar voice of her brother nearer.
The Joy of the Morning: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 6) Page 2
