Aching for Always

by Gwyn Cready

  A captain.

  She turned her head toward Fiona’s neatly made bed and then, through the door, back to the gently swinging double-width cot.

  Ah.

  Good manners forbade her from entering—not to mention the guards outside the door—though it did not forbid her taking in everything she could from the doorway. There was a chest of drawers in the corner, and a desk beside it. Above the chest, an oval mirror hung from the ceiling by a ribbon. She wondered if that was where Hugh shaved. The desk was empty—the rolling of the seas made setting anything down an exercise in futility, she supposed—but a dozen or so books were roped into a bookshelf on the wall above it. The most personal object in the room was a small, rough-hewn box that sat just under the cot, the wood around its brass lock burnished by regular use. She would have given up an order from the Chicago Public School system to look inside.

  She heard a noise and turned to find a small wardrobe against the wall where she stood. The noise sounded again, and she realized the wardrobe door was not fully shut. When the ship tipped one way, it yawned open an inch or two, and when the ship tipped the other, it bumped closed. She watched, mesmerized as a glimpse of bleached linen came into view and disappeared. Underclothes? His nightshirt? Fiona’s chemise?

  Leaning in, she tried for a closer look, taking care to keep her toes proprietarily on her own side of the great divide. She thought she saw a hint of ruffle, though that didn’t necessarily clarify the issue, as she knew a man in Hugh’s time might reasonably be expected to wear a ruffled shirt, though she certainly hoped it eliminated underclothes as a possibility, at least for him.

  She grabbed the door handle with one hand and the doorframe with the other and leaned in so far, she was practically doing an iron cross.

  “Miss O’Malley?”

  She slipped and scrabbled to her feet as Roark, clearly taken aback, watched.

  “Yes?” she demanded. “I was doing something for the captain.”

  “I’m sure he is appreciative. I have come about the captain.”

  “What? Is something wrong?”

  “You know his requirements about attendants. He is resting comfortably, but things are a-hoo on deck. I’m afraid a French cutter has clipped the horizon. I am needed. Will you be able to go to him?”

  “Yes. In just a moment. Mr. Roark, I hate to bother you, but I have a plane to—er, a very important appointment to make this evening. I have to return to the islet soon.”

  “We will do our best, Miss O’Malley. I’m afraid the French navy is not always as sensible of schedules as one would hope. Oh, and I meant to tell you the captain has had me move you to a different cabin. It is across the hall from this one—the one with a scorch mark on the door. Nothing to worry about. Just a bit of cannon fire.”

  Comforting.

  “Thank you, Mr. Roark. I’ll be down as quickly as I can. I have a little more to do here.”

  His gaze went uncertainly to the place where she’d been hanging. “Shall I call for a hook and line?”

  “No,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He took his leave, and Joss finished her search, emptying Fiona’s cot of its mattress, shaking out the sheets and tapping the walls in search of a hidden storage area. Nothing. She plopped on the cot and looked at the chest. The room was a bust. In fact, she thought with some consternation, it looked like no one had ever set foot in the place. She could see the mop marks around the base of the trunk.

  Mop marks around the base . . .?

  She jumped up, wrapped her arms around the sides and pulled the trunk forward.

  A folded sheet came into view.

  Bingo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The beautiful mapmaker died, and many men came to court the daughter. But the princess-girl, now an able woman, waited for the knight who would share with her all he possessed—his help and his heart.

  —The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker

  She spread the thick vellum on Hugh’s cot, watching his fitfully sleeping form before returning to the map.

  The Edinburgh map was identical in style to other maps her mother had created. This, she supposed, could mean only one of two things: Fiona or some other time traveler had stolen one of her mother’s maps and brought it to the past, or her mother based her mapmaking on some eighteenth-century artist’s style. There was a third possibility, of course, but it was so far-fetched as to be beyond consideration.

  She examined the work—the lush, hand-printed colors, the beautiful copperplate script. How clearly her mother’s passion for her art had come through in the execution. Though Joss did not know when or even the reason why her mother had abandoned this calling in order to mass-produce maps, Joss had always associated the reason with the story of the heroine in The Little Mermaid—Hans Christian Andersen’s dark, unsparing tale, not the sanitized Walt Disney version. Andersen’s mermaid gives up her voice and tail in order to walk on land and be near the handsome prince, and every step she takes on her new feet feels as if she’s walking on swords. Had Joss’s dad been the handsome prince? She didn’t know, but for all the joy her mother’s hand-drawn maps brought Joss, they held an element of sadness as well.

  But what could Hugh, or indeed anyone, find in a map of Edinburgh? Or, for that matter, in the map of London Hugh had taken from her company? She unfolded that one as well. What struck her immediately was the exact duplication of the cartouche: both had the Scottish Blackface sheep; both had the pele tower; both had the hawk, the hunting dog with teeth bared, and the wild boar; and both had an odd dashed background. Since each of her mother’s maps usually had a cartouche made specifically for it, Joss was puzzled as to why two disparate maps would share not just similar but identical cartouches. What’s more, she had the strongest sense the map that was missing from the map room—not the one Hugh had taken, but the one she thought Building Services might have moved—had the same cartouche. She hadn’t looked at it—really looked at it—in years, but she certainly remembered there being sheep.

  She moved the maps to the side and rested her head on her fist, gazing at them thoughtfully. She could feel the warmth of Hugh’s body and the labored rise and fall of his chest. Maps, maps and more maps. What had her father done? What were Hugh and Fiona really looking for? And what, if anything, did her mother have to do with it?

  She heard Hugh’s voice and realized with a start that she’d been asleep. It took a moment to figure out she was at his side on a stool, not in his arms, especially as the dream she’d been having had been a long and subconsciously enhanced replay of that kiss on the balcony. Di had been right. There was something quite satisfying about having found her Mr. Mistake.

  He shook the covers loose, and when she tried to straighten the sheet, he caught her by the arm.

  “Duck!” he cried in a muffled rumble. “’Tis Reynolds!”

  “No, no,” she said, trying to soothe him. “You’re dreaming.”

  He flopped to his side, breathing shallowly. She laid a hand on his temple. He was on fire. His cheeks were flushed, and a sheen of moisture glistened on his skin.

  “Aye, the fever has begun,” came the surgeon’s voice behind her, and she jumped. She hadn’t realized he was in the room.

  “What can we do?” she asked.

  “Wait. ’Twill grow worse before it grows better.”

  If it grows better. In 1706, they were two hundred years away from having antibiotics. She felt a new kick of fear for him—and for herself were she to lose him.

  “On his phone. The scurrilous cad.” Hugh thrashed at the sheets.

  Joss stole a glance at Lytle. “I mean no disrespect, but I think you had better leave. Can you give him more laudanum?”

  “I cannot. He is a large man, but I fear more would be tempting fate.”

  “May I have a fresh basin of water, then, and some towels?”

  “I’ll tell my boy.” Mr. Lytle exited.

  She touched Hugh’s forehead, caressing that scar that ran
through his brow. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  He calmed a bit. “She must not see,” he whispered.

  “Who, Hugh? Who?”

  “Fiona. Need Fiona. Oh, why did Maggie leave?”

  Joss pulled her hand back as if she’d been burned. Maggie? My mother, Maggie?

  “Maggie who?”

  “The blood! Oh, the blood!” he shrieked. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him with my own hands!”

  Mr. Lytle returned, followed by a boy carrying a basin and towels. The boy handed them to Joss.

  Hugh called out again, and Lytle frowned. “Keep him comfortable. If anything changes”—he shook his head uncertainly—“send for me.”

  For the better part of the afternoon, Joss kept Hugh as cool as she could, and his cries gave her much food for thought. She was heartened to see his discomfort ease, and he fell into a quieter sleep. As for the ship, it never slowed, and Joss prayed they were moving in a large circle that would deliver her soon to the islet.

  Sometime later—she must have dozed—she was awakened by Mr. Roark, who carried a chop and a mug of beer.

  “I don’t think he’ll eat.” She gazed at Hugh’s pallid complexion.

  “It’s for you,” Roark said. “Take it to your cabin. Get some rest. Let me take a shift.”

  “But the French—”

  “Are gone. Did you not know? Ran into the protective arms of L’Achilles, one of the French navy’s largest ships. I called off the chase.”

  “L’Achilles is a rather poor name for a ship, don’t you think?”

  “Hardly matters when you carry forty-two guns. We are heading back to the islet. I am hoping to touch there in half a watch.”

  She must have frowned, for he added with a gentle smile, “Two hours.”

  Lytle arrived with the next dose of laudanum, and Joss got to her feet.

  “Keep him cool,” she said to Roark.

  “When it comes to water, m’um, I am uncommonly handy.”

  Hugh jerked to a thickheaded wakefulness, burning like his limbs were afire.

  A trickle of broth dribbled into his mouth. He lapped it weakly. He felt as if he were made of lead. It required the most daunting attention to swallow.

  “You’ve been sleeping,” Roark said. “How do you feel?”

  “Awful.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “What have I said?”

  “Oh, a number of things. You spoke of the young lady.”

  Hugh had a foggy memory of Joss reaching for him, caressing his head. Had it been a dream?

  “I hope I did not—”

  “You did not. You said nothing to embarrass yourself or her.”

  “And what else?”

  “You spoke of a yellow bridge and something you called a ‘skyscraper.’”

  “Oh dear.”

  “You were on quite a tear,” Roark said. “Called the skyscraper hubris. Then there was the usual—our points on the wind, the dismal state of the chains, calling for your best glass. You did comment upon my sailing once or twice.”

  “I hope not unhappily.”

  “If it had been, I would hardly repeat it.”

  “And that’s all?” Hugh felt awash in snippets of dreams, like rats biting at his extremities. He wasn’t sure what was real or imagined.

  “Well, there was something about a villain named Reynolds—”

  Hugh clapped an arm on Roark’s sleeve. “What did I say? Was she here?”

  “Do not fret yourself. She was not here. You accused Reynolds of the worst sort of mischief. I take it he’s the one who . . .” He made a gesture toward Hugh’s shoulder.

  “She mustn’t know.”

  “I shall not speak of it.”

  “No! Do you hear me? She must not know!”

  “Aye, sir. You must rest. Your fever is getting worse.”

  A knock sounded. “Roark?” Joss called. “Is Hugh awake? May I come in?”

  “Send her away!” Hugh cried. “Send her away! I don’t want her here.”

  “Sir—”

  “Not even for a moment. Only you. You or no one.”

  Roark sighed. “I shall be returning her to the islet within the hour. Are you certain you don’t want to say good-bye before she goes?”

  “No,” Hugh said with a fevered certainty. “Get her off the ship.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “I don’t understand,” Joss said, ignoring the men holding the water-crossing seat for her. “Why wouldn’t he want to see me?”

  “He’s very feverish, m’um,” Roark said. “Do not take it ill. I’m sure he does not know what he said.”

  “Then let me go to him.”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea. He’s resting. Please. The seat is ready. I promise I will give him your report on the map when he is better.”

  Knowing her departure was imminent, she had written up her thoughts, though other than letting him know the cartouche on the Edinburgh map was identical to the cartouche on the one he’d taken from the map room, there wasn’t much to tell. It would help, she thought, if she understood a little more about what Hugh was looking for and, more important, why. But lacking that knowledge, she could do no more than add her belief that the map missing from the map room shared the same cartouche as the other two. Then she sealed the note and gave it to Roark. She hoped it would help.

  Roark had returned her phone, and she knew from checking it surreptitiously below that it was after five. Even if her arrival in Pittsburgh was as quick as their departure, she’d have to hightail it to the airport to make the flight to Vegas. Nonetheless, she felt very uneasy about leaving Hugh.

  “Will he return?” she asked, tilting her head toward the islet and the twenty-first century beyond it.

  Roark shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know the captain’s plans.”

  Joss stepped into the rope seat reluctantly. One of the men tightened the knots around her legs and another the one across her lap.

  The surgeon appeared on deck and caught Roark’s eye. A signal of some sort passed between them.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Roark said, “there is an issue below. Mr. Vanderhaut, the ship’s bosun, will oversee the transfer on this side and Mr. Ross is already on the islet to help you there. Make that a Spanish bowline, if you would, Mr. Vanderhaut. This is precious cargo.”

  “What is the issue?” she demanded. “Does it involve the captain? Is the captain all right?”

  “Miss O’Malley, he is in good hands. Mr. Lytle will do everything he can.”

  Everything he can?

  The chair jerked and suddenly Joss was aloft and moving fast. She squeezed her eyes shut automatically, trying not to let unbridled terror run rampant, but her curiosity was too great. She slitted her eyes and saw Roark’s face pale as Lytle spoke to him in whispered tones.

  “Take me back!” she cried to the bosun.

  “You’ll be fine,” he boomed. “Look at the sky.”

  The sea churned beneath her, in a neat imitation of her gut as she saw Roark tear down the ship’s stairs. “No, it’s not the water! I want to see the captain!”

  But Mr. Vanderhaut only waved.

  When she was in sight of the islet, she repeated her demand. Ross, however, seemed far too busy working the pulleys to respond. When she was on steady ground—the adjective “safe” being out of the question on the windy, sea-swept rock—Ross began to release her from the seat.

  “Don’t know what sort of Merry-Andrew show these contacts of yours think they’re running,” the persnickety Scotsman muttered. “’Tis beyond comprehension that a ship would collect you from here rather than the safety of our deck. I hope for both your sakes you’re worth the effort.”

  Not exactly a man likely to grant her a favor. “I want to go back.”

  “To the ship?” He hooted. “My orders are to ensure you’re comfortable here, then leave as quickly as possible.” He released the final rope and stood.
>
  “Could you at least ask them how the captain is?”

  He gazed out to the ship, moored a good quarter of a football field away. “I dinna have flags, lass.”

  “Is there any other way?”

  He sighed and cleared his throat. “Hail!” he shouted.

  The men on deck stopped, but the winds were strong.

  “Hail! Report the captain’s health!”

  The men gazed at each other, confused, and Ross repeated his request.

  There was a scuffling on deck, and Joss hoped that meant someone was consulting Roark or Lytle. Meanwhile, Ross was knotting himself into the seat. At last a flag went up, then another, then another. Three flags strung on a line.

  “What does it mean?”

  He pondered. “My signal reading is not as strong as it might be. The first is ‘Status.’ The second . . .” He squinted, rubbed his eye and looked again. “I believe that’s the signal for ‘Steady course.’”

  “And the last?”

  He tightened the last knot and gave the rope above his head a strong jerk. “‘Stay clear.’”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PITTSBURGH, PRESENT DAY

  Joss landed in the alleyway with a crash, scattering some trash cans. She put a hand to her aching temple and crawled to her feet as a shower of sparks rained down on her head. She’d waited until Ross touched on deck and the rope had gone slack before making her way to the little cave, and it had been with a heavy heart that she’d watched as the men on the ship ran onto the yardarms, ready to make sail as soon as Roark or one of his appointees spotted the telltale sparks that would mark her departure.

  Almost a whole day had passed since she’d left. She’d left Di waiting for her and then lied to her in order to get her to lie to Rogan. She’d left Rogan in the midst of a party when she should have been at his side. And now she’d left Hugh when he might be very ill. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to end up like her father, irreparably hurting the people she loved.

  And now her teetering business was at risk. If she wasn’t in Vegas and prepared for the meeting with that buyer tomorrow morning, she could kiss good-bye a sale that might pull the company from the brink.