He found no words to begin his tale. Where to start? At the beginning of his friendship with Diego? How the friendship was first filled with times of laughter and fun, adventure and, more often than not, trouble for two young lads becoming men, how over the years Diego became like a part of himself, much as Cajun and Jacob seemed essential parts of his life now. He would do anything for Diego and, when the disease first struck, rapidly and unexpectedly, he brought Diego to every blessed surgeon, medicine man, shaman, so-called healer, in every land they traveled to. Hundreds of cures brought no relief. Relief came only with morphine, opium, cocaine, and the like, medicines which this island could not provide.
If only there had been some way he could have borne his pain for him, he would not have hesitated. He would have done anything for Diego; anything but the one thing he wanted from him, or so he had thought. Diego had been Catholic and, like most Catholics, lapsed until the final call. He could not kill himself. What she saw was Diego asking him to give up hope, an unceasing hope that they would ever laugh as brothers again.
Words were an inadequate vessel to express the emotions of his heart but he knew he must try. "It is difficult to speak of," he finally began, "and I suppose what I fear most—" He turned to her, wiping a tear from her cheek, finishing softly, "is that you'll still condemn me after you understand."
This startled her. Not just that he was afraid— afraid of anything—but that he should fear her condemnation.
"Diego was indeed as a brother to me; I could not have loved him more. We grew to manhood together and—"
"Justin!" The call interrupting him mid-sentence. Justin, like times before, bolted to his feet, alarmed by the excitement in Jacob's call. Christina sat up dazed and tried to cover her nakedness. Jacob raced into view all at once and there was no doubt something had happened.
"A ship off windward, just like the savage said, a man-of-war, and the lifeboats already landing. They spotted our fires."
"Are the men alerted?"
"Nay, 'twas Kafir and meself on the lookout. I came to find you, Kafir went to alert the men."
"Good," Justin responded instantly, already into his breeches and handing Christina her rags, as he snapped off orders. "You fetch Blake, Carrington, and the other men from the Defiant and get them down to the beach before a search can begin. They have their story straight, they are the only survivors. I'll round up the men and head for the high ground."
"Carrington?" he questioned. "Are you sure we should let him go? I don't think I trust the bastard—"
"He's my ace, Jacob; I trust him. However, that lady is to be detained—permanently. Find her. Take Christina with you and meet us at the high point."
And Justin was gone.
"Come on, lass, time's a wastin'!"
He could hardly comprehend Christina's distant, even dazed stare at a time like this. For he didn't know that Christina had just realized it was the last time she would ever see Justin again.
"Jacob, I need your cape to hide my nakedness," she said in a disturbingly calm voice.
"Oh aye, but hurry, hurry." He struggled quickly from the canvas cape, grumbling. "Don't want a lady's modesty to cause a bloody war."
She swung the cape over her head. "You go on ahead, Jacob," she said, thinking that this was the last time too she'd ever see his laughing blue eyes as well as his silvery hair, that special grin of his as he teased Hanna unmercifully. She wanted to tell him to take good care of Hanna, to cherish her always. She wanted to wish them both the happiness she herself could not have. But she said only, "Go on! I won't tarry; I promise I'll catch up in a minute. I just have to... to relieve myself."
Jacob offered a lively curse to women and their untimely ministrations as he turned to rush on ahead. Christina watched him go with tears in her eyes. Then she turned into the wind, heading for a British ship that would finally take her home. Home to England.
CHAPTER 9
Richard Morrison, the ship's surgeon, knocked on what had once been the door to his small cabin.
"Who is it?" Christina asked softly.
"It's me, Richard, I've come bearing gifts for my lady."
Christina turned over on the bunk and wiped her cheeks. "Just a moment, please."
"I'd wait forever," he answered brightly.
She quickly washed her face in the dressing water atop a small set of drawers, not wanting Richard to discern her tears, and pulled the man's coat she wore tight about her person. She opened the door.
Richard burst into the small cabin like a breath of fresh wind, his energy and exuberance following him everywhere. He was a small man, not much taller than Christina, but mayhap one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Fair, with a crown of golden curls and dancing amber eyes, he reminded her of Fielding's Tom Jones in both appearance and character. He had a quick smile and an easy laugh and yet a sensitivity that astonished her. After just a week of being on board the English man-of-war, the Kyte, Christina wondered how she might have fared if not for Richard's kindness and attention.
Taking care to keep his present hidden behind his back, Richard took one long look at her and he knew. "You've been crying."
"Oh no." She thought quickly. "Just a little seasickness. I'm afraid I still haven't got my sea legs back," which was also true.
"Hmmm." He eyed her speculatively and with a doctor's concern. "Well, nothing a little wine and bread won't cure. Which brings me straight to my purpose. The captain has asked you again to share his table tonight. Before you decline," he held his hand up to stop her protest, "I must warn you, I'll not take no for an answer this time. 'Twill just be Captain Shaw and myself, none of the other survivors this time. Make me a happy man and say yes."
"Richard, I can't, not like this." She glanced at the baggy breeches and oversized man's shirt and coat, the only clothes they could find for the only woman on board. But she was glad for the excuse.
"If you had proper clothes would you accept the captain's humble invitation?"
"Well, I suppose, but—"
"Good! Then here it is," and he handed her a large brown package tied with a string.
Christina stared in surprise.
"Open it" came Richard's command.
She slowly unraveled her treasure and lifted a pastel pink evening gown. The exquisite dress had fashionable short puffy sleeves, a low neckline decorated with tiny silk pink and white flowers, an unusually high waist, and flowing skirt. There were matching slippers and ribbons, silk undergarments galore, though no cumbersome hoops.
She was speechless.
"It was Edith's favorite gown."
"Edith?" she questioned.
"Yes, Edith, the general's daughter. I had to seduce the homely thing, then sneak into her trunks to steal it. Yes." He chuckled at Christina's shock. "These," he held up the dress, "are stolen goods. I shall spare you a retelling of the difficulties involved, especially in finding the undergarments."
"Richard!" She almost laughed. "But... how?"
"Yesterday in port."
"But I thought no one was to leave ship, except for supplies and—"
"These are supplies. India, that heathen sewer, may not have any dress shops to speak of, but fortunately it has plenty of generals with spoiled, homely daughters who wear only the latest fashions."
She laughed, indeed she could not help herself. She only prayed it wasn't true. "I don't believe it," she said hopefully, after calming down.
"Believe it," he said. "I'm just glad we're safely out at sea, for on the morrow I'm supposed to meet poor Edith for a quick elopement."
Even the fact that he could make up such a tale made Christina's eyes widen dramatically. Richard only laughed, kissed her cheek, and told her he would be back in an hour to escort her to the captain's table before leaving.
A while later, Christina squirmed in her seat, pricked by the dozen or so pins holding her—or rather Edith's—gown together. Edith must have been a very large girl, and she had not time to make the necess
ary alterations. She stared at her plate of fish, boiled potatoes, bread, and various odd fruits taken from India's port and felt torn between persistent seasickness and hunger. Hunger won and she dug in.
"It's a horrible ordeal you've been through, Miss Marks, just horrible." Captain Shaw was saying this with a shake of his graying dark head. He sipped from a goblet and left a fine red line of wine on his whiskers, then wiped it promptly with his tablecloth. "At least," he thought out loud as he was oft known to do, "the other six survivors were honorable men. Yes, thank God for that."
Richard eyed his captain kindly, having long since grasped the limits of the man's intelligence. Captain Shaw was an astonishingly straightforward man, a good captain but with a temperament unwilling to examine situations or people beyond the obvious, certainly lacking the insight necessary to comprehend the delicacies of a woman's mind. For Richard had no doubt that had Christina been violated repeatedly, she would have reported the same.
Christina blushed shyly and said softly, "I feel very fortunate to have survived when so very many have perished."
"A shame," the captain agreed, "a damn— Ah, well." He stopped to rephrase, hardly accustomed to the propriety necessary to accompany a woman on board. "A true tragedy. Well now," he said, turning to the matter at hand, "Mr. Morrison tells me you have naught plans to go back to Australia to be with your uncle's family."
"No, I think not," she replied, pausing, still startled by how much she had changed from the time of her father's death to leaving Justin—and his love. She could no longer bear the thought of burdening her uncle's family. Somewhere along the way she discovered courage enough to pursue her own life. "I've written them already, though goodness knows how long a post will take from India to Australia. In any event, I told them I was alive and well—which should be good news to them—and of my plans to return to England." England. The very word sounded like sweet music.
"You have other relatives then?" the captain assumed.
"No, but I hope to stay with my father's old housekeeper, Madelyne, until I'm able to secure a position."
"A position?" the captain inquired, already disturbed by the idea. Why he felt responsible for the lovely lady he couldn't say, but he did, uncomfortably responsible.
"Yes. I should like to be a governess or schoolteacher."
"A schoolteacher? You?" Richard asked incredulously and then laughed at the idea. He had never inquired into her prospects, simply because he sensed she had none and while this sad fact had concerned him, he had not a clue as to what to do about it. But a schoolteacher?
" 'Twill never do, Christina!" Richard declared. "You're far too lovely to waste away in some dreary boarding school for monstrous brats and that nobody else wants defiling their home. Wouldn't you agree, Captain?"
"Well... I—"
Richard could not wait for Captain Shaw's slow wits to catch up and he turned at once back to Christina. "You're not really a would-be schoolmarm. I know. This is just a clever disguise to distract us from your dark secret." He paused for suspense.
Captain Shaw stumbled confusedly over the twist in the conversation, grasping little of it. He did not like secrets, anyone's secrets, and he was certain he didn't want to hear Miss Marks's.
"My... secret?" Christina in turn felt nervous.
"Yes—" Richard smiled, "The truth is you're a displaced fairy princess from a faraway land, destined to usurp the evil witch who stole your throne and deliver your people from oppression. Admit it—" he demanded.
Christina blushed at this attention and to her surprise she bantered back. "You've guessed my dark secret! Now whatever shall I do?"
"Make me your knight, swear me to secrecy and let me fight at your side!" He used his eating utensils to demonstrate his swordsmanship.
"Yes! But of course!" Christina laughed, a sound she had not heard for some time. It was Richard's doing, she knew, and she only wished he could accompany her through the dark hours of night when she had nothing but tears. Not that she was attracted to him in that way; she wasn't. She could never but never love another man after Justin and, besides, for all of Richard's attentions, there was absolutely no hint of attraction on his part. More like they were good friends or even brother and sister. And for this she was more than thankful.
The captain's brows were drawn together throughout the young people's lively banter, a banter that continued for some time. His ship surgeon's flamboyance had always confused him; it had taken him nine months of sailing with Dr. Morrison to finally realize that the young man was only serious at his work. And a fine doctor he was—too good if the truth were known. Richard had studied at the best schools and with the finest surgeons known, and he had had what was reputed to be a flourishing practice in London itself. The King's navy never attracted doctors in his class. Nay—the young man was running from something, something he was glad to know nothing about.
"Well." The captain cleared his throat in an attempt to bring their attention back to the here and now. "I know an agent in London who might help you secure a position, Miss Marks."
"You do?" This was an ever-so-helpful surprise.
"Aye. I'll post a letter as soon as we reach port."
"Oh, Captain Shaw, I hardly know how to thank you," she whispered, overwhelmed.
"After what you've been through, it's the least I can do." The captain truly believed this.
* * * * *
Christina's emotions were as violent as the wind, rain, and sea as the graceful ship sailed around the horn of the dark continent. She was lost to the heavy burden of her memories, the uncertainty of her future. Somehow she had thought that by leaving Justin she'd leave the conflict of her heart too, but it seemed to shadow her days and nights, her every thought.
Memories, a montage of memories, seemed to sustain her very existence. She could not stop. She remembered everything: their laughter and play, those long hours in each other's arms talking of everything and nothing, his sharp, quick intelligence that always understood, always was able to help her understand and then she'd remember his warmth, the way he looked at her when he wanted her, his lovemaking.
And abruptly she'd panic.
She left him! She'd never feel his lips again, know his touch, or hear those three precious words of love. No words could describe that panic, an irrevocable horror that she had made a mistake she'd regret with every breath for as long as she lived.
Then she would try to remember the pain. She forced herself to think of each act of violence. Oddly these memories were not as clear, not nearly as vivid as the memories of his love and those times she thought of them, she found herself excusing each with the exception of Diego. The memory of Justin killing Diego spun clear in her mind and she thought of it over and over again, clinging desperately to the only justification for the pain in her heart.
Still the tears would not stop.
Richard knew something was terribly amiss with Christina and knowing women from a different perspective from most men, he guessed the trouble had to do with something she tried to bury on the island. He was a doctor and by no means modest, and therefore he considered himself her best medicine. He insisted on escorting her for daily walks around the deck— weather permitting—as well as joining her for dinner as often as possible. There were times he succeeded in lightening her spirits and these times he was able to glimpse a young woman with whom he felt certain he would have fallen in love—had it ever been possible for him to love any woman.
The winds blew lethargically across the deck, hardly able to fuel the ship's great sails, and the ship sailed at a snail's pace north, along the west coast of the dark continent. Another three weeks to England at this pace, Richard claimed one day as he and Christina slowly strolled the deck. Richard was chatting amicably, admiring the soft sunshine of the day and Christina's loveliness. He particularly admired the way she wore her hair. Parted and braided, then wrapped around her head like a halo. A common sailor had given her a pretty pink parasol, one saved for his gir
l but lent to Christina for necessity's sake, and as it shaded her face, it cast her in an enchanting light. He fancied they made a fetching picture together.
Christina stopped suddenly to stare straight ahead. Richard's gaze followed hers to Colonel Carrington. He leaned against the rail, enjoying a smoke, while staring thoughtfully out to a barren sea.
"Is something wrong?"
She turned to him. "Richard, I must address Mr. Carrington, but I—" She paused to hide her fear. "But, well, 'twill seem a silly request—but would you stand by me as I do?"
Richard not only saw her fear, he felt it as well and this confirmed his suspicion that someone, perhaps Mr. Carrington, had hurt her on the island. "But of course," he said, momentarily startled by the intensity of his protectiveness for her. He forced a smile. "Am I not your knight in shining armor?"
A smile lifted to her eyes. What would she do without Richard? How quickly he had befriended her! And how she would miss him once the voyage was over.
She turned toward Carrington and felt Richard's hand slip through hers offering confidence.
"Mr. Carrington?" she beckoned.
Colonel Carrington was at that very moment contemplating the storm, his confrontation with death, life on the island, all the twists of fate that had changed him: both in mind and heart. He wondered how it was possible that a selfish and simple man motivated only by the petty concerns that ultimately mattered not, a man who saw the world in colors of black and white, could change into a thoughtful and contemplative man, one who could see only shades of gray. His experience pronounced this truth and to contemplate it left him shocked.
At the sound of his name, he turned from the sea to encounter Christina in Richard's arms. For a moment he considered the other man, then he turned to her and waited for her address.
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