Blaike_Secrets Gone Askew

by Collette Cameron

  Why couldn’t he have a normal pet like her cats, Pudding and Dumpling, or dear toddling half-blind, mostly-deaf old Freddy, their Welsh corgi?”

  “Hello luv.” The bird flapped its wings, revealing subtle yellow on its underwings.

  “Hello to you, too.” Rude little beast. “Your master’s been hurt.”

  After setting the lantern aside, Blaike untied her bonnet and tossed the dainty hat and her reticule onto an impressive desk covered with charts and an assortment of interesting looking nautical tools, as well as an hourglass, quill, and an unusual bronze ship shaped inkwell.

  What were the instruments used for?

  A few detailed, excellent sketches of sailing vessels lay upon the desktop as well, and several more adorned the great cabin’s walls. Had he drawn them? She was no expert at such things, but even she could recognize immense talent when she saw it.

  Her attention drifted back to the curious gadgets.

  Mayhap when he recovered, she might ask Oliver to show her how to use them. She’d always been interested in ship’s navigation.

  On the voyage from London, she hadn’t been inside his cabin, and now amid a crisis, she was intrigued about the contents?

  Had she known what Geneva held for her, she’d never have set foot on the Sea Gypsy last autumn, and Oliver wouldn’t be bleeding all over the floor right now.

  Twisting her mouth, she eyed the dark stain marring her spencer. Ruined for certain.

  “I want out. I want out,” the bird demanded.

  And have it flying about as Blaike tended Oliver?

  Not a chance.

  Besides, how did she know it was friendly? That beak looked positively dangerous.

  ‘No, you may not come out right now.” Did the creature understand? Didn’t birds just mimic words and sounds?

  “Curse ye, cockscum.”

  Good heavens.

  Was there ever such a foul-mouthed creature that wasn’t human? She sent Oliver a castigating glance. Just where had the beast acquired his or her vocabulary from?

  No time for that now.

  Oliver had been shot.

  He groaned, opened his eyes again for an instant, then the lids fluttered shut once more.

  Several times on the way to the ship, he’d done the same, even uttering a low oath more than once. He’d suffered a blow to his head when he collapsed, and that had frightened her as much as the ball to his shoulder.

  The wound didn’t appear fatal, but then, what did Blaike know of such things?

  Swiftly scanning the chamber, she spied a Turkish towel draped over a washstand. She grabbed it, another smaller cloth, and the plain white porcelain basin, then rushed to spread the towel upon the rich maroon, nut brown, and beige counterpane spread atop the bed dominating the stateroom.

  “Quickly, put the captain on the bed, and one of you light the lamps in here. It’s far too dark to assess his injuries.”

  “Hell’s ballocks and bells,” the bird squawked.

  Two burly seaman, their faces creased with worry, carefully helped their captain to his bed.

  Bobbing up and down, the bird yelled, “Bugger yourself.”

  “Beg your pardon for that,” the younger sailor said, canting his head toward the foul-mouthed fowl, his face flushed red as the scarf tied around his neck.

  “What kind of bird is it?” After unfastening her spencer, Blaike slid the jacket off, letting it drop to the floor. She toed it aside. Blood marred her gown across her bosoms as well. At least she didn’t have to worry about covering the garment whilst she treated Oliver.

  “A Moluccan cockatoo,” the older seaman offered as he went about lighting the lamps attached to the walls and the one atop the desk.

  “Do you have a surgeon on board, Mister . . .?” Blaike raised her head after checking Oliver’s neck for a pulse. It beat sure and strong beneath her fingertips. “Forgive me, but I don’t know your names.”

  “I’m Tom Grover, the quartermaster,” the stocky red-head in his fifth decade said. “And this here is Jimmy Webb, our bosun’s mate.”

  The younger, somber-faced fellow didn’t look to be much older than Blaike. Yet from his serious expression and even more solemn eyes, she guessed he’d not had an easy time of it.

  “Is anyone on the ship medically trained?” Blaike shoved a curl behind her ear.

  His face pinched with anxiety, Mr. Webb shook his head. “No, miss. Our other cook used to take care of those things, but Fairnly’s new. He ain’t never treated our crew yet, and I don’t know if he has the know-how McMaster did ’bout medicine.”

  Goose butt feathers. It just figures.

  She pulled Oliver’s unlaced crimson shirt farther apart, trying not to stare at the manly display of crisp, black chest hair. She lifted hers and Blaire’s reddened handkerchiefs from his wounded right shoulder. After dropping them into the basin, she folded the smaller square and pressed it to his injury.

  That much she remembered.

  Pressure to stop the bleeding.

  She closed her eyes, summoning up every recollection she could of times at Esherton Green when a person or a creature had been injured.

  There weren’t a whole lot, truth be told.

  “Move yer fat arse,” the cockatoo shrieked, and Blaike jumped.

  “Can one of you possibly take the captain’s pet somewhere else?”

  “Umm, she ain’t exactly friendly.” Mr. Webb eyed the cage. “There’s a larger cage on the poop deck, but Cap’n Whitehouse doesn’t like M’Lady Lottie above deck while we weigh or drop anchor.”

  “Drop anchor ’twixt yer thighs,” she squawked, flapping her wings.

  “M’Lady?” Blaike arced her brows in disbelief even as heat scorched her cheeks. “With that vulgar vocabulary? Surely you jest.”

  “McMaster was raised in a whor— Um . . . that is, his mother was a—”

  “Cook,” Mr. Grover hastily offered. “Mrs. McMaster was one fine cook.”

  “Aye, yes. A . . . a cook. In a broth—house of ill-repute. McMaster must’ve learned his extraordinary skills from her,” Mr. Webb stammered.

  Mr. Grover made a peculiar choking sound and frantically shook his head.

  “Cooking, I mean. She taught McMaster how to cook. Not to . . .” Mr. Webb colored redder than Oliver’s shirt but forged on. “M’Lady was his as a boy, and now that he’s died, she won’t eat much for anyone but the cap’n. Grieving, he says. We think she’s about twenty years old.”

  Wonderful. Almost two decades to learn curses, vulgarities, and insults from strumpets and sailors. And whoever heard of a ship’s cook also being the medical officer? Was the ability to wield a butcher knife the only qualification to appointment as a ship’s medical officer?

  “What’s yer pleasure?” M’Lady Lottie asked, hanging upside down.

  “I suppose that means she must stay.” Blaike sighed and shook her head. “Can you at least cover her cage?” She pulled a quilt from the foot of the bed. “Here, use this.”

  Perhaps the bird would cease her obnoxious chattering.

  Mr. Webb hurried to do as bid

  “Bloody whoremonger,” M’Lady Lottie screamed as the quilt descended, then in a softer, plaintive voice called, “Petey? Petey?”

  “That was McMaster’s given name,” Mr. Grover volunteered, his worried gaze trained on Oliver.

  What would happen to M’Lady Lottie if Oliver too—

  No. He would be fine. He must.

  “I shall need hot water, clean cloths, long strips for a bandages—a cut up sheet will suffice.” What else? “Salve if you have it, whisky, and . . .”

  “Stop fussing over me,” Oliver grumbled.

  “Shush, and save your strength.” Raising the cloth a fraction, she bent over him and examined the wound again.

  A vague aroma wafted upward from his bronzed skin. Fresh, yet slightly musky, too. Maybe even a hint of cinnamon, cloves, and coffee. Most tantalizing.

  Did he go shirtless when at sea? Th
e notion caused an interesting quiver in her belly.

  And utterly ridiculous that she’d notice at a time like this.

  Glancing upward, her attention caught on the beard covering his olive-toned jaw. He was the only man she knew who sported facial hair, and she found it quite suave, as she did his dark coloring.

  Was his beard soft or scratchy?

  Enough ogling the unconscious man. For pity’s sake, Blaike Regina Lillian Culpepper.

  “Petey?” Pitiful and heartbroken this time. After a bit of shuffling around and feather ruffling, M’Lady Lottie fell silent.

  Blaike scrutinized Oliver’s injury again. Not really a hole, but more of a long furrow.

  Did he need stitches?

  Should they send for a surgeon? A physician?

  How was she to know?

  She’d never doctored anyone before. Blythe had always tended the sick and wounded.

  If a physician were summoned, might that delay the ship’s departure? Somehow she knew that would infuriate Oliver. It was worth the risk if doing so saved his life, however.

  Did Blaike have the stomach to suture the wound?

  Gads.

  She swallowed, her attention drawn to his striking face.

  Yes, if she must.

  Her disgruntled empty tummy took the opportunity to churn sickeningly and momentary light-headedness engulfed her. Taking measured breaths, she willed the dizziness to go away. It didn’t help that she was so famished, her navel gnawed at her backbone.

  She glanced at the sailors, then blew out a sigh. “At least fetch the other supplies, Mr. Grover, at once, if you please. Your captain bled quite a lot on the way to the ship.”

  Not to mention the blood he’d lost while transferring him below deck, as their stained clothing testified.

  Blaire had nearly swooned at the sight of so much blood: one of the few differences between the twins. Blaike possessed a stronger constitution, and unlike Blaire, didn’t suffer from mal de mer either.

  Poor Blaire.

  If this was like the first crossing, Blaire would spend the first three days curled into a miserable ball in her berth, yet she hadn’t said one word of protest about the return voyage by sea. Prior to leaving the academy, they’d discussed traveling by land most of the way home, but Blythe hadn’t known that.

  “Aye, miss. We’ll get what you need.” Mr. Grover slanted another troubled glance at his captain.

  “Can you also look in on my sister, and if possible, see that she has a bite to eat?” Hopefully, he’d change his clothing first, else he might be picking Blaire off of her stateroom floor.

  “Of course, Miss. I’ll ask for tea as well,” Mr. Webb offered.

  Blaike rolled up her sleeves, then attempted to pin her drooping hair. “Tell her I’ll be along as quickly as I can. She doesn’t handle blood well, else she’d also help.” A smile tugged her mouth upward. “Better to let her have a lie down rather than risk her swooning and getting knocked in the head, too.”

  They’d barely reached the door when a sharp rap preceded Hawkins rushing into the cabin as if chased by the devil himself. He pulled up short upon seeing Mr. Grover and Mr. Webb.

  “What are you still doin’ here?” A note of fear crept into Mr. Hawkins’s voice and the look he hurled Oliver bordered on panic.

  His countenance grave, Mr. Webb rubbed his furrowed forehead. “We just now got the cap’n to his chamber, sir.”

  Given the profuse, under-their-breath swearing coming from all three men, it’d been no easy task.

  “And we’re about to fetch medical supplies for Miss Culpepper to tend him,” he said.

  “Off with you then, and no dallyin’.” Hawkins swept his cap from his head and then stuffed it into his waistband.

  “Aye, sir,” chorused Grover and Webb as they hurried from the captain’s quarters.

  “For the love of God, stop blathering and be gone.” Oliver was not a compliant patient.

  M’Lady Lottie stirred. She made soft, throaty noises and ruffled her feathers, but hurled no ear-burning phrases.

  “How is he?” Hawkins asked without preamble, giving the quilt atop the birdcage an inquisitive glance.

  Eyes closed, Oliver mumbled, “I’m fine.”

  Blaike exchanged a knowing glance with Mr. Hawkins and lifted a shoulder.

  “I’m honestly not sure. I don’t know if the captain needs his wound sewn. I’ve no experience with serious injuries. He hit his head when he fell, but it’s not bleeding. He woke almost immediately, but other than cursing a bit, hasn’t said much. He does have quite a bump though, near a scar along his hairline. I think those are his only injuries.”

  “I’m capable of explaining my own condition, Miss Culpepper.”

  “Don’t be so crotchety to the lass,” Hawkins admonished as he rushed to his master’s bed. Tsking and tutting, he examined Oliver’s head and then the gash.

  “Leave off, Hawkins.” Oliver flinched and turned his head away.

  “Good thing you’re such a stubborn, hard-headed fool. Just a nasty lump that’ll give you a whale of a headache. Your shoulder is barely scratched, thanks to Miss Culpepper’s warnin’.”

  That was a scratch?

  She offered a tremulous smile. “I wasn’t quick enough. Monsieur Meunier still managed to shoot Captain Whitehouse.”

  “Just a glancin’ blow. Hardly a nick at all,” Hawkins assured her, though worry creased his brow and pulled his silver-whiskered jaw downward.

  Who was he trying to reassure?

  Blaike or himself?

  Oliver groaned again, and his thick-lashed eyelids fluttered open. Pain had darkened his eyes to coal-black, and he shut his lids again. He swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down the strong column of his thick throat, then he licked his lips.

  Blaike glanced around for something to wet his mouth.

  “Do you have anything in your cabin to drink?” she asked.

  “Brandy. Bottom left desk drawer,” he managed, his voice gruff. Wincing, he raised his left hand and touched the side of his head, whispering through his strong, white teeth, “Ho-ly hell.”

  “Ho-ly hell,” M’Lady Lottie repeated in a raucous sing-song voice. “Ho-ly hell. Holy hell. Hoolee—”

  “M’Lady Lottie, hush,” Oliver ordered, squinting at the cage. “Go to sleep.”

  In response, the parrot screeched, “Lift yer skirts.”

  “Charming.” Blaike couldn’t have prevented her blush or her brows from climbing up her forehead if forbidden figgy pudding—she adored figgy pudding—for life.

  “Need to teach her new phrases, my boy. Scriptures, poetry, nursery rhymes,” Hawkins advised, his pointed ears glowing tulip red. He bustled to the desk and momentarily retrieved a bottle and three small tumblers. He raised a glass. “Miss Culpepper?”

  “Thank you, no.” The few instances when she’d sampled anything stronger than wine or ratafia, she’d found the flavor much too bold.

  Oliver attempted to sit up, but she gently yet firmly, pressed him back into the pillows. “You’re injured, and until we know how badly, you cannot be moving around.”

  Dark brows pulled together in a fierce scowl, he reminded her of a surly boy denied his way.

  “I cannot be lazing about. I have a ship to captain, and we sail on the tide.” Voice stronger than a moment ago, Oliver raised his head again. His dull eyes and the stark angles of his face exposed the discomfort he strove to mask with curt bravado. “Hawkins, my brandy, if you please.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” A grin twitching his mouth, Mr. Hawkins dutifully brought Oliver his spirits.

  Face pale as the pillows cradling his dark head, Oliver pulled his handsome mouth into a taut line and scooted into a sitting position, his movements slow and precise.

  “You really shouldn’t, Oliver. You’ll bleed all over your bed.” Blaike rushed to prop pillows behind him as he accepted the brandy from his mate, then tossed it back in one gulp.

  “More.
” He extended the glass, his belly gurgling loud and long.

  “Most assuredly not. Especially since I gather from your rumbling stomach, you’re hungry, too.” Blaike took the tumbler, pointedly ignoring the sudden irritated slashing together of his brows once more. “I know you’re in pain, but head injuries can be serious. We must make sure you aren’t concussed. Now please, do lie back.”

  Oliver sighed but complied. Turning a sharp eye on Mr. Hawkins, he asked, “Is everyone aboard? The cargos are loaded, and she’s ready to weigh anchor? Are guards stationed as a precaution?”

  “Aye, Cap’n, to all.” Mr. Hawkins nodded and finished his brandy as well. “I’ll go up top and oversee the final preparations. I’ll also request a tray for you.” He opened the door, and after stepping through the entrance, poked his head back in for a second. “Grover’s comin’ with the supplies you asked for, Miss Culpepper.”

  “Oliver, stay put.” Blaike pointed her forefinger, giving him her starchiest do-not-test-me look.

  Other than closing his eyes and grimacing, he didn’t respond.

  Most assuredly not a good-natured patient.

  With an appreciative smile, she accepted the basket from Mr. Grover. “Thank you.”

  “I also brought you a medicine chest and a book I found about doctoring that you might find useful.” He set both on the desk.

  Still not sure how to best treat Oliver, she mentally cataloged the items in the basket. “How is my sister?”

  “She’s settling into your stateroom, Miss. I’ve asked that a tray be taken to her, as well.” Mr. Grover kept peering past Blaike, worry scrunching his rugged features. He slanted his gaze toward Oliver. “Has he awoken yet?”

  “Yes, I have.” Material shifted and crackled with Oliver’s strained movements, and Blaike whirled to confront him. Slightly hunched, he sat on the edge of the bed, his face wan and a wide palm pressed to the cloth covering his wound.

  “Don’t you dare stand up, Oliver Whitehouse!” Her voice rang shriller than she’d intended, but ashen and unstable as he was, she feared he’d topple onto the planking.

  “I think you’re forgetting who gives the orders on this vessel, Miss Culpepper.”