Once more, the gurgling caught my attention and I pulled my mind from the memories I so pleasantly recalled.
“Hello?” I called, looking around the empty area.
A knock beat behind the crates, the choking noise intensifying.
Panic flooding through me at the sound, I hurried to the corner, trying to move the crates with little success.
“Hold on!” Throwing my whole weight against the box, I grunted, sliding across the floor, until I finally managed to move the heavy block a bit.
Peering through the crack I’d created, I saw someone on the ground, their body twitching, the sounds they were making growing in earnest.
Desperate, I threw myself against the blockade once more, struggling to make a space big enough to slip through. After what felt like a lifetime of trying, I had managed to make a small pathway.
Squeezing myself into the miniscule place, I wiggled through the crack, trying to remember if I knew how to do the Heimlich maneuver, CPR, or anything that might help. It all felt like a haze as I went over it, not sure anything would be able to help whoever was in need of assistance on the other side.
Finally, I broke into the tiny cavern behind the boxes, practically falling right on top of Thomas Randall.
Blood gurgled from his mouth, his eyes wild as he gagged. Legs twitching beneath me, he made a wild grab for my wrist, shaking horrifically. The gore bubbling from his throat had covered his chest and the floor beneath him, staining my white nightgown with angry, dark red splotches.
Screaming, I tried to pull away, but his grip on me was so tight, it felt like he was bruising my wrist with his fingertips.
“Help . . . me . . .” He coughed violently, spraying me with grime, his eyes pleading as he stared at me. “Help.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t get him to let go of me, my screams echoing over the top of his pleas, the entire scene a picture of red and terror.
“Samantha!”
Coming out of the nightmare, I shrieked, wrestling with whoever was on top of me. I could still smell the blood in the air, Thomas Randall’s fingers still pressing into my skin, their rough nails digging in and leaving marks. In the darkness, it was as if he were still there in every single way, the gagging sound of his dying ringing in my ears.
“Sam!”
Slamming my hands above my head, Tristan straddled me, breathless. He acted as if he’d just been in a fight for his life, resting his forehead against mine for a moment as he caught his breath.
“It’s me, love,” he said softly. “Only me. We’re in Saint Domingue, remember?” He continued to murmur, going over the events of the day, explaining how we had turned all of the prisoners over to the city warden in Captain MacDonald’s name, quietly slipping away before anyone could ask us questions. The inn we were in was on the outskirts of town and ran by a shady couple, but they hadn’t asked for names. All they wanted was cash and we gave them plenty. We would slip away at dawn, traveling the coast until we met up with the Isobel. Then, we would be on our way to Atlantis, to discover yet another portion of the Templar’s treasures. Only, this time, there was no immediate threat to beat, no rush to get there first.
There was no Thomas Randall here, no gore, no terror to express. Only the warm bed and my loving husband, trying to lull me into the relaxed state I’d been at moments before.
Taking a deep breath, I blinked a few times, feeling more tears roll down the side of my face. My heart was still hammering, skin tingling, the night terror slowly fading from my mind.
“I’m okay,” I whispered, wiggling underneath him. “How bad was I shouting?”
“I half thought the Devil himself had arrived and was dragging ye to Hell,” he joked, rolling to the side. “Scared the life right out of me when ye started up.”
“Sorry.” Slightly embarrassed, I sat up, wiping my face. It was frustrating, the fact that I was still having nightmares centered around Randall. They weren’t even fear based all that much anymore, but odd conversations I had with him. Sometimes he would try to force himself on me—an occurrence that had never happened when I was his prisoner—but I never felt like I couldn’t defend myself. I knew I was dreaming. Randall seemed to know I was, too.
“Do ye want to talk about it?” Tristan asked quietly. “Ye don’t have to if ye don’t want to.” His fingers danced gently over my skin, tracing circles on my arm, tickling me slightly.
Scooting over, I snuggled against his side, his arm under my neck and my head on his shoulder. Laying my arm over his stomach, I gazed at his face, smiling.
Tilting his face to meet my own, he kissed me gently, holding me close. “It feels nice to have ye in a bed again, instead of on the floor or in a hammock.” He chuckled, resting his head on mine.
Making a noise in agreement, I closed my eyes, wishing away the remaining tendrils of the nightmare. Tristan, seeming to know that I was still bothered, remained silent, holding me in the darkness.
After a while, when I finally felt fully detached from the dream, I sighed, a sense of peace coming over me. “I dreamed he was dying,” I said softly. “Horribly. Painfully. All he could do was ask me for help.”
Not answering, Tristan kissed my forehead, his fingers twisting in my hair.
“Where do you think he is?” I asked. “What do you think he’s doing? The fact that we don’t have any solid idea of what he’s planning makes me nervous. He could be in the room right next to us and we would never know until he came barreling in, guns and blades blazing.”
“I don’t know.” His response was soft, thoughtful. “To be honest with ye, I find I don’t think of Randall so much as I did before. Dwelling on yer own bloodlust isn’t really the best idea, if ye get my meaning.”
“I do. Planning all the possible ways to kill someone can turn you into something you aren’t.”
“This is true.” He paused. “I was so consumed with catching him before, I lost ye in the process. He came in and took ye right from under my nose. It made me realize I wasn’t paying attention to the things that I should be. On the crossing to Arizona, I used to promise God every day that I would focus more on ye if he would just let me have ye back.” Glancing at me, he smiled, squeezing me lightly. “And here ye are.”
Grinning, I pecked him on the lips, basking in the safety of his arms around me. “How do you do it?” I asked, curious. “How do you keep from thinking about him?”
Shrugging lightly, he frowned. “I tell myself not to think of him. It doesn’t always work, but I’ve found, over time, it gets easier to put him away and live in the present.”
“I wish it was that easy for me,” I replied, halfway teasing. “I would lock him in a box for the rest of time.”
“I wouldn’t blame ye.” His voice softened as he spoke, taking on a sad quality, his form going still beside me. “I don’t know if I could lock away the memories that you suffer with. Being threatened personally, having him move to cut the child from your belly without even a second thought for what he was doing. I can’t imagine being locked below deck and then forced to come and spend time with the crew that took ye. Being bound and dragged through the desert like a common animal. Beaten. Holding yer dead child in yer arms and leaving her in a place far from home.”
His voice caught and he cleared his throat roughly. “No. I think I would have nightmares as well. Those aren’t things ye can lock in a box right away and shove out of sight. They’ll stick with ye, until ye’ve suffered with them so much, ye have no choice but to put them away or go mad.”
“It’s nice when you have an extra pair of hands to help you shut everything out.” Smiling, I hugged him tightly, wanting him to know I was grateful for all of his support. It had been a long few months, with both of us still holding on to the baggage that threatened to drown us. Together, though, we’d managed to stay afloat. As more time passed, I was sure we would find ourselves on dry land again at some point.
Scooting away some, he laid on his side, propping himself up wi
th his elbow. Holding my hand to his bare chest, the corners of his mouth turned up, eyes brushing along the length of my body.
“Ye’re so brave, Sam. I knew if from the first day I met ye, but I never could have guessed exactly how much ye could withstand. I’m a better man just from knowing ye.”
“I remember the first time you said that,” I replied, laughing. His words had brought to mind a very fond memory of when we had first been thrust into each other’s company. “In your grandmother’s garden. You took me there after dinner and gave me this whole speech, telling me how brave I was. That was the first time you told me you loved me.”
Grinning, he nodded. “And I still mean it as much today as I did then, if not more. I will follow ye to the end of the earth, woman, no matter the cost or pain it will cause me. The only thing worse than hurting with ye is hurting because I’m without ye.”
I suddenly felt like crying, his words having touched me in a way that made me realize just how much he loved me. We had been through so much, but we had been through it together. That’s how we would be, forever—always together.
Placing my hand on the back of his neck, I met him in the middle of the space between us. His lips were warm and soft, his body pressing against mine as we slid together under the blanket. The warmth that cocooned us only helped to speed my heart rate, my breath catching as his teeth nipped at my bottom lip.
Suddenly, Tristan rolled over, trapping me beneath him with a devilish grin. Slowly, he lowered, pressing against every inch of me, his lips brushing along my neck. His fingers wrapped around my own, holding my hands, making me his prisoner for the moment. Teeth grazing my skin, he sighed contentedly, lifting his head to look at me with smoldering eyes.
Releasing my hands, he slid his fingers down my arms, brushing over my shift. He didn’t stop there, though, drawing a line down my sides until he had the hem of the fabric in his hands. Sitting up, he put his hands on my skin underneath it, pushing the fabric out of the way as he felt my body. His palms were warm and tender, caressing me with such softness I was practically melting beneath him. Every movement he made caused me to feel like I was slipping further into a hazy dream of euphoria.
He slid the fabric all the way up my body, cupping my breasts as they came into view, the shift momentarily forgotten. Leaning forward, he layered a few kisses between his fingers, nipping and sucking as he felt like it. A soft groan came from him as he straightened once more, still touching my chest.
Arching my back, I pressed into his touch, silently urging him to continue his exploration of me. In response, he grabbed the shift and pulled it completely off, tossing it somewhere on the floor, before laying over me again.
I didn’t know what was different about that night, especially after the months we had been reunited, but something changed as he caressed me. We seemed to be growing closer together than ever before, like the string that had connected us had been twisted at some point and was now unraveling. For the first time since I’d been returned to my husband’s loving embrace, I felt as if we were both truly beginning to heal from the trauma that had separated us and scattered the pieces of our hearts across the sea. No longer were we trying to fix ourselves alone, simply leaning on one another to get by. Instead, we moved forward hand in hand, gathering the shards of our past and mending them as one.
“Well,” Mark said, leaning against the railing and looking out over the open ocean, his off-white shirt ruffling gently in the breeze. “We’re officially in The Bermuda Triangle.”
Abella minutely crossed herself, fingers brushing across the brown, laced bodice she wore over her own white shirt. The action brought a smile to his face, though he pretended to have not noticed.
Watching the two of them, I felt a sense of healing in their relationship. It wasn’t anything romantic, from my guessing anyway, but they seemed to be friends again, speaking easily with one another and acting as they had on the crossing back to France. Apparently, somewhere between the fighting and Mark putting Abella’s arm in a sling, they had at least managed to patch up some of their relationship.
Putting my friends odd feelings from mind, I stared at the horizon. “What do you think the odds of us traveling through time are?” I asked Mark, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the question.
He glanced at me with a somewhat amused expression. “I’d say pretty good, since we’ve already managed to do it once.”
Tristan snorted, his hand grasped in my own. “I’ve traveled this lane more times than I can count. The worst that ever happened was skirmishes with pirates—and I was the pirate doing the skirmishing.”
“Still,” Mark said, sounding somewhat disbelieving. “Atlantis is here somewhere. We’ll be at her gate before nightfall, if Captain MacDonald is to be believed.”
“He hasn’t given us any reason not to believe him,” Abella said softly, her gaze still riveted on the horizon. “I just wish he would have explained how it all works better.”
“It’s always a little rough on the new crew.”
Turning, we all looked at Dagger, standing behind us in his usual black, numerous blades in the belt around his waist. His turban was somewhat undone, pieces of the fabric hanging around his face and looping above his shoulders. He was watching the water as well, an easy air about him.
“But it’s not anything to worry about.” Waving a hand in dismissal, he shook his head. “The hardest part is convincing yourself to believe everything you’re seeing.”
“What do you mean?” Mark asked, stepping forward to the front of the group. “How hard is it to believe what’s right in front of your face?”
“You’re quite the skeptic, why don’t you tell me?” Dagger grinned. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“Will Captain MacDonald be the one to barter with the gatekeeper for our entrance into the city?” Abella asked, her question surprising me. As everyone turned to her, she raised an eyebrow. “Ce qui? Samantha said the captain has never been in the city, as there is a complication keeping him from going. I’m simply wondering who we are entrusting our fates to. What will happen if they can’t convince these Atlantians to let us in?”
“The complication doesn’t keep the captain from going into the city,” Dagger replied hesitantly. “No Templar has ever entered the city, so far as we know, but we can easily approach the gate. However, I will be the one to speak with the Atlantians, as Captain MacDonald is unable to approach the gate.”
“Why?” Confused, I watched him with a guarded expression. It felt like someone wasn’t telling us something, besides all the things about Atlantis they weren’t sharing.
He hesitated, glancing between each of us and then sighed. “There’s a woman who waits on the beach every time we come to make our delivery. He knows her, but doesn’t want to speak with her, so he doesn’t leave the ship. I do all of the negotiating and moving of the treasure. Captain usually stays in his cabin. The gatekeeper will join him there more often than not, once I make all the necessary arrangements. The only time I’ve ever seen the captain set foot on the beach is if the red head is nowhere to be found.”
Something in my mind connected together and I blinked, feeling like I’d been clubbed over the head. “Isobel?” I asked. “Isobel is in Atlantis?”
“He told you about her?” he asked, surprised.
“I saw the picture he drew of her in his room. He said the ship was named after her and that she was dead, that’s it.”
“How can a dead woman be on the beach at Atlantis?” Mark asked, some anger in his tone. “What aren’t you telling us?”
“Someone is lying about something,” Tristan agreed. “And that doesn’t sit well with me.”
“No one is lying about anything.”
Captain MacDonald’s voice drew all our attention away from Dagger, the four of us turning to find him in front of his quarters. He’d been growing increasingly distant and the tired air around him grew the closer we got to our destination. Now, it seemed he woul
d rather be anywhere else in the world than here.
“Get in here, the lot of ya. I’ll explain.” He nodded at Dagger. “Get the drums ready. We’ll be at the center within the next hour or so. Start hailing them now, though, so we don’t waste time sitting there.”
Dagger nodded, turning on his heel and leaving us in silence.
“Do ye want to ken what’s going on or not?” Jerking his thumb toward his room, the Scot went in himself, leaving the entrance open.
We filed in behind him, confused and quiet, myself feeling like we had stepped on some toes by asking too many questions. The captain was upset, that much was clear, and I didn’t like feeling like it was my fault.
“Atlantians are a . . . magical group,” he stared, not even waiting for the door to shut behind us. “Their society is shamanistic in nature. Ye ken what a shaman is?”
“A spiritual leader,” Mark replied, folding his arms. “They claim their power comes from the earth itself and her creatures. They are very nature minded and centered.”
“Aye, they are. They’re also highly rooted in spirit magic. They call on the spirits to protect them and guide them through life.” The captain sighed, shaking his head. “Dagger was telling the truth. Isobel is the woman on the beach."
“But you told us she was dead,” Abella said quietly, no judgment in her tone. “What purpose would a lie like that serve?”
Captain MacDonald stared at her, his lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, I thought he was angry with her, his rage boiling beneath the surface, but then he answered, his voice cracking in pain.
Hidden Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book Three) Page 27
