The Blue Enchantress

by Marylu Tyndall

  “The hut is on fire.” The words squeaked from Hope’s dry throat.

  “No, you are safe. Nothing is on fire,” Nathaniel said. Was he caressing her hand? And what was that infernal pounding in her head?

  She rubbed her eyes and managed to pry them open, but only blurry mirages met her gaze. “Where am I?”

  “You are in our hut.” Abigail’s hazy figure leaned over her and dabbed a cloth on her neck.

  Hope shifted her gaze to Nathaniel. The slight wave of his brown hair came into focus, then his dark eyes that reminded Hope of the coffee her sister Faith liked to drink. He shifted his jaw, dusted with black stubble. But it was the look in his eyes that drew her attention. Concern, fear, and something else. Such a different look from the one she had just seen in Arthur’s eyes.

  “Lord Falkland was here.” She shook her head, trying to jar loose the tangled web in her mind.

  “It was only a dream.”

  “Only a dream,” she repeated. An unrelenting heaviness pressed upon her eyes, and no longer able to fight it, she closed them and faded into darkness.

  ***

  Nathaniel released Hope’s hand with a sigh and rubbed his aching eyes. The hint of dawn glowed through the leaves of the hut as the crickets hushed to silence. After Hope had collapsed in his arms on the beach, he and Abigail had attended her through the remainder of the day and all through the night. But despite their continual ministrations, she had remained unconscious, save for the brief moment when she’d just awoken. Regardless, her fever still soared, and Nathaniel feared the worst. “At least she awakened.”

  Abigail smiled as she dabbed the wet cloth over Hope’s face, pink with fever. “’Tis a good sign.” But her unsteady voice stole conviction from her statement. “Who is Lord Falkland?”

  “The man who abandoned her in St. Kitts.” Nathaniel flexed his jaw, but pity soon eased his taut muscles. From the few intelligible words Hope had uttered, he gleaned her memory of Lord Falkland’s betrayal had been quite traumatic—and quite painful.

  “Ah, no wonder she has nightmares about him.” Abigail sank back, folding her legs beneath her, and dropped the cloth into the bucket. “Her fever is far too high.”

  Nathaniel grimaced and sat on a barrel on the other side of Hope. “Do you know the cause?”

  Abigail swallowed, her hazel eyes stricken. “I fear it is marsh fever. I saw much of it on Antigua when I worked with my parents.”

  Marsh fever. Nathaniel’s stomach coiled in a knot. “But isn’t that...” He didn’t want to say the word fatal aloud, couldn’t bear to think it, let alone hear it.

  “Yes. It can be.” Abigail’s eyes swam, and she stood, wiping sand and leaves from her skirt. “I’m going in search of Indian fever bark. I believe I saw some in the woods.” She headed for the flap of sailcloth that served as a door. “I can make some tea from it. It’s all I know to do.”

  “Ask Kreggs to accompany you. I heard him up earlier.”

  She nodded, pushed aside the cloth, and left the hut.

  Several hours later, Nathaniel shielded his eyes from the sun as he emerged from the tiny shack. He stretched his cramped legs and stared at the breakers glistening in white, foamy bands across the blue sea. Their beauty held no allure for him today. Gavin stood knee deep among the incoming waves, spear in hand, and battled to keep from falling. When he saw Nathaniel, he plowed through the water and onto the shore.

  Hanson entered the camp, his arms full of firewood, as Gavin rushed toward Nathaniel.

  “How is she? What news?”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “Abigail ... Miss Sheldon and I gave her some tea, but I don’t know how much she swallowed. She’s resting now.”

  Hanson dropped the load of wood onto the sand and scratched his chest, eyeing the hut nervously.

  Panic sparked across Gavin’s boyish face. “And the fever?”

  “It hasn’t broken.” Truth be told, the fever had only worsened. Nathaniel’s gut hardened into a ball of lead.

  “I must see her.” Gavin tossed down the spear and started for the hut.

  Nathaniel held up a hand. “I’m told it is contagious. Miss Sheldon and I have already been exposed. No sense in putting yourself in danger.”

  Hanson’s eyes widened. “I’ll jest go find some fruit.” He darted from the clearing.

  “But if there’s something I can do,” Gavin said. “Some comfort I can give her.” Nathaniel had seen evidence of Gavin’s affection for Hope, but the stark clarity of the desperation on the man’s face hit him like a punch in the stomach.

  Shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling, he released a heavy sigh. “She’s not conscious. We can do nothing now but pray.”

  “Pray?” Gavin snickered. “A desperate measure for weak men.”

  “Or a powerful measure for courageous men,” Nathaniel responded with authority, even as he wondered where the words had come from. For he felt weak and desperate as Gavin had said. But perchance the answer had come through his own lips—from God’s heart. He needed to pray—and pray hard.

  Gavin gave him a look of derision, then shook his head.

  Hoping to alleviate the tension, Nathaniel pointed to a flounder lying on a bed of leaves near Gavin’s spear. “I see you’ve caught a fish.”

  “Only one in two hours.” Gavin’s boyish smile returned. “And a tiny one, as you can see. I’m afraid I don’t possess your skills.” He raised his brows in an invitation. “We could use some fish for supper.”

  “I need some rest first.” Nathaniel hated spending even a few hours away from his vigil, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be much use for anything.

  He headed toward his hut, but a red and white figure storming toward him caught the corner of his eye. Major Paine. Nathaniel groaned.

  Drawing up to his full height, the major gripped the hilt of his sword. “What has happened to Miss Hope?”

  “She is sick with fever, Major.” Nathaniel rubbed his eyes, willing the man to disappear.

  “Fever? Egad, I knew you couldn’t take care of her.” He brushed past Nathaniel, leaving the stench of sweat and moldy clothes in his wake. “I shall take her back to our camp where she can be tended to properly.”

  Nathaniel turned “Be my guest, Major. Perhaps you have discovered a cure for marsh fever?”

  The major stopped in mid-stride. “Marsh fever, you say?” He faced Nathaniel, his ruddy face faded to white. He adjusted the torn black cravat at his throat. “Miss Sheldon attends to her?”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “Then ’tis best not to disturb her.” He stretched his neck. “But be advised, Mr. Mason, I shall return to check on her soon.”

  “I cannot wait.” Nathaniel bowed, an unavoidable grin on his lips.

  With a snort, the major sauntered off to where the sailors still hammered away on a raft that was beginning to take shape.

  But Nathaniel had neither the time nor the inclination to worry about that now. The totality of his thoughts and his heart focused on the lady burning up with fever not five yards away. As he plodded toward his hut, memories twisted through his mind, setting off a blaze of panic. His mother had been deathly ill, eaten alive by some unnamed disease. Her vocation and poverty kept all doctors at bay, and even the priests would not set foot in her house. Nathaniel had been only eleven years old, but he had done the only thing he could think to do. He prayed. But his prayers had fallen lifeless before God’s throne, leaving him an orphan.

  Staggering into his hut, he fell to his knees and clutched a fistful of palm fronds and squeezed until the sharp edges stung his skin. “God, if You answer just one of my prayers, please let it be this one.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Two days had passed. Exhaustion crushed Nathaniel like an anchor. Sitting beside Hope in the stifling hut, he dabbed her burning face and neck with a wet cloth, easing the moist strands of hair from her forehead so that her golden curls formed a halo in the lantern light around her head. Like an angel. Night had fall
en as black as ebony outside the hut. Although he and Abigail took turns attending Hope, continuing to douse her with cool water, her fever remained high. Now, with her breathing shallow and labored, he feared the end was near.

  Dark lashes fluttered over her inflamed cheeks as she moaned and writhed on the leafy bed. Oh, how he longed to see those clear sapphire eyes staring back at him again—even when they shot sparks of biting sarcasm his way—instead of the dull hazy blue that had fixated on him of late.

  He bowed his head. “O Lord, don’t take her. Please let her live.”

  For the life of him, he could not understand the dread that consumed him at the thought of losing her. He’d seen many people die—friends, shipmates, even his mother. But as grievous as their passings had been, he could not shake the feeling that if Hope died, he would lose a part of himself forever.

  Rubbing his eyes, he wondered at his sanity. The woman had brought him nothing but trouble. Yet she had been his obsession since the first time he’d laid eyes on her in Charles Towne. A burning rose in his side, and he rubbed his old wound and released a sigh of frustration. He could only attribute this pernicious enchantment to a flaw in his character—something passed down from his mother and perhaps from her parents before her.

  Which was precisely why he must continue to resist it—later after Hope had recovered, of course.

  Hope gasped and tossed her head back and forth. Sweat beaded on her neck and chest and streamed down onto the bed of leaves. Her petticoat clung to her moist body, and he eased the sailcloth a bit higher, forbidding his gaze to wander into danger.

  Drawing his knees to his chest, he dropped his head onto his arms and allowed his tired eyes to close, if only for a moment.

  “Nathaniel?”

  He pried his heavy lids open and stared at the fronds by his bare feet. How long had he been asleep?

  “Nathaniel?” The voice sounded weak and muffled.

  Rubbing his eyes, he lifted his head and smiled when he saw Hope staring up at him. She reached a trembling hand toward him, and he took it in his own. Searing heat scorched his skin and radiated up his arm, but he did not allow the stab of fear to weaken his smile. “You spoke my Christian name.”

  “Surely,” her faint voice cracked, “formalities can be tossed out the window when one is dying.”

  “Dying ... You’re not dying.”

  A smile. “You’re too honorable a man to be a good liar. You forget I’ve had much experience with liars.”

  Nathaniel swallowed. “The tea Miss Sheldon has been giving you may yet perform its magic.”

  “I fear I shall need more than simple magic.” She struggled for a breath and glanced around the hut, then out the door. “What of Mrs. Hendrick and Elise? Did you take them food?”

  Nathaniel flinched. “You concern yourself with them when you are ... in such a state?” By the board, this lady constantly surprised him. Her gaze remained locked upon him, and one determined brow arched, awaiting an answer.

  “Yes, never fear, I took them enough food to last several days.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezed his hand, the minuscule effort visible in the lines on her face.

  “Nathaniel.” She coughed and gazed up at him, her blue eyes dull and cloudy. “I must tell you something.”

  “You need your rest.” Nathaniel patted her face with the cool cloth. The normal pearly glow of her skin had faded to a gray sheen, broken by red blotches where the fever consumed her. Dark half circles hung beneath her once luminous eyes. His heart ached.

  Hope’s chest heaved. “Nay. I must. I know I’ve told you this before, but it weighs heavy on my heart.” She swallowed. “I am so sorry about your ship.”

  “Fire and thunder.” He dropped the cloth into the bucket with a splash and raked a hand through his hair. “You think that matters to me now?”

  “Now? Why wouldn’t it?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Nothing has changed for you, save you have been struck with a multitude of disasters.” She gasped. “As you have said, I brought you bad fortune.”

  A chill etched down Nathaniel’s back, followed by the eerie sense something was in the hut with them. Running a sleeve over his sweaty forehead, he scanned the palm fronds that formed the walls and roof. The dark shadows cast by the lantern light hovered like beasts about to pounce.

  “See. You do not deny it.” Hope choked out a laugh.

  Shaking the prick of unease from his shoulders, he dropped his attention back to her. “I will not deny misfortune has followed me lately, but as to the cause, I cannot say.”

  “Cannot, or will not?” She brushed her fingers over his hand in a familiar way that shocked and delighted him. “You are too kind, Nathaniel, but then, that is your nature, is it not?” She flung a trembling hand to her head.

  Releasing her other hand, Nathaniel wrung out the cloth and brushed it over her cheeks and forehead.

  Hope blinked and drew a deep breath. “Please tell my sisters how sorry I am to worry them so. I’ve not been a good sister.” A smile faltered on her lips. “And tell my father he owes you a ship.”

  “Shhh now. You can tell him yourself.”

  “Nay.” She chuckled, then broke into a cough. “He won’t listen to me. He has never had much use for me, I’m afraid.”

  Sorrow constricted Nathaniel’s throat. He’d always assumed Hope had grown up in a good home, sharing her life with an adoring father and loving sisters.

  “Surely your father loves you.”

  “He’s oft gone, and when he’s home, he does not hide his disappointment in me.”

  “I don’t see how he could be disappointed.” Though shocked by the bold admiration in his words, Nathaniel realized he meant every one of them. Before him lay a sweet, humble, repentant girl, not at all like the libertine woman her prior actions had revealed.

  “Now I know I’m dying.” Her lips curved in a sly grin. “You’re being far too kind.”

  Nathaniel eased a finger over her cheek. She closed her eyes. He’d not seen such bravery in the face of death, even from hardened sailors.

  He would not relinquish her to the grave. He could not. Lord?

  “Death need not be the end, Hope. God has offered a way to eternal life.” Nathaniel detested the fear muffling his voice. He hated talking about death. Just saying the word gave the consuming entity more power. But he had to ensure Hope’s eternal destiny—just in case.

  She groaned. “For some, I suppose. For people like you. But not for me.”

  He dropped the cloth and took both her hands in his. “For all. You have only to accept His gift.”

  “Nay. Don’t waste your efforts on the likes of me. I fear in my case, your God has withdrawn His offer.”

  Nathaniel opened his mouth to respond, but she squeezed his hands and shook her head. He let out a ragged sigh.

  The stench of decay and hopelessness crept around him, and his skin prickled despite the heat. Crickets harped their shrill cries into the night, vying with the thunderous crash of the surf. The wind fluttered the leaves of the hut as if trying to gain entrance.

  “Please don’t laugh when I tell you this,” Hope whispered, her eyes closing again. “I always dreamed I would open an orphanage—take in every unwanted child I could find and raise them with more love than they would ever need.”

  Nathaniel stared at her agape. Children? Hope? Somehow he’d always pictured her marrying a wealthy landowner, surrounding herself with opulence, and being waited on by a bevy of servants. Yet he could not deny the ease with which she had befriended Miss Elise and the way the child adored her.

  But children? Nathaniel had abandoned his desire to sire offspring long ago, for he did not trust himself to raise children. No doubt he’d corrupt them with whatever depravity slithered through his veins. No. He could not take the risk nor even entertain the thought.

  Hope moaned and began wheezing. Thrusting his arm behind her shoulders, he lifted her and grabbed the shell beside the bucket. Fiery heat radiated f
rom her frail body. He dipped the shell into the water and raised it to her mouth, water sloshing. “Drink.” Although she parted her lips and took in a few sips of the fluid, she folded into his arms with a wretched sigh and faded again into unconsciousness.

  Nathaniel laid her down, forcing back the sobs clambering to escape his lips.

  “How is she?” Abigail’s soft voice jarred him from sinking deeper into grief.

  He shook his head as she plopped to the ground on the other side of Hope. Sighing, she rubbed her arms as if chilled. Hadn’t he felt a cold draft only moments ago?

  “Sounds like a storm is coming.” He took Hope’s hand in his again. Though hot, the life flowing through it brought him comfort.

  “Yes. The wind has picked up, but I—”

  Nathaniel looked up. Abigail’s wide hazel eyes shifted across the shadows, then locked it upon his. Terror and urgency flashed across her face.

  “What is it?”

  She nodded toward Hope. “How fares her soul?”

  Guilt churned in Nathaniel’s gut. “If you mean, did I speak to her of her eternal destination, I tried, but her heart remains locked.”

  Abigail’s face paled. She took Hope’s other hand. “Something dark pulls her. I feel it.”

  Nathaniel studied Abigail, remembering their time in the hold of the merchantman with the dying sailor. “You have a sense of these things, a spiritual sense.”

  Truth be told, he believed he did as well. How many times had he sensed the same malevolent force in his mother’s chamber when he was a boy?

  “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “My parents told me I saw things as a child that were not there. Beautiful beings.” She huffed. “But as I’ve grown, the things I perceive are not so beautiful.” She took the cloth and wiped Hope’s neck. Then she stiffened. “Perhaps this is no sickness at all. Perhaps this is a battle.”

  “A battle?” But Nathaniel knew what she meant. The enemy wanted Hope, wanted to kill her and drag her down to hell. What did Paul say in Ephesians? “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”