Sapphire Sea

by Kelsey McKnight

  The chamber within was just as she remembered it and she took a moment to take it all in. A fire crackled in the small, iron hearth, filling the room with healthy warmth. Maps were spread over the desk, along with several exotic odds and ends that made up a colorful array. The only thing that wasn’t just as she recalled was the still figure on the four-poster bed.

  Dropping her cloak to the floor as she walked, she made her was slowly—silently—to Gaspar’s side. It felt as if her body wasn’t her own and an unseen force propelled her forward. She was afraid of what she would see in the shadowed space beyond, but she knew she must gaze upon it…to face the truth.

  It was as she feared. One side of his clammy face was black and blue, deepening the already dark-tinted stubble that touched his jaw. His breathing was shallow and ragged, as if each inhalation pained him. It made sense, as the bruising spread over the left side of his chest and down his flank, disappearing below the brocade covers. It was a heavy storm cloud that marred the striking landscape of his form.

  “Gaspar?” she whispered as she gingerly leaned over the bed, trying carefully to hold back the flood of tears that threatened to fall.

  Gaspar’s lids fluttered and his gaze roamed aimlessly about the room before settling on Gwen. His cracked lips opened. “Um anjo,” he rasped. “Um anjo…do céu.”

  He reached out a trembling hand and Gwen took it, pressing his rough palm to her cheek. “It’s me. It’s Gwen…Gwendolyn.” She fell to her knees, still fighting to contain the sobs.

  “Gwendolyn,” he repeated wearily.

  “Yes, it’s Gwendolyn.”

  His eyes shut, but he muttered her name again as he drifted off into a fitful slumber.

  It was then that she allowed herself to cry. But it wasn’t tears of loss. She could hardly pinpoint the emotions that battled their way to the surface. Fear, anger, relief, despair all fought for supremacy in her heart.

  She wished she knew of another sailor who spoke English, as she longed to know the extent of Gaspar’s injuries. From what she could tell, his ribs were bruised at best, and broken at worst. He didn’t cough up blood—a good sign that they weren’t shattered, at least. The sheen of sweat upon his brow hinted at a fever, but his body shivered violently. She even dared a peek beneath the blankets and found a large swath of hip was bound. Gwen couldn’t see what was beneath the dressing, but was content that the cloth was clean and there was no visible blood.

  It almost didn’t seem real. Gaspar was alive and in front of her, but she still didn’t believe it. So she reached over and gently brushed his black hair away from his face, savoring the feeling of his realness beneath her fingers. And as she traced down his unmarred cheek, his lips rose in a small, sleepy smile.

  But still, his body fought the small comfort, shaking harder in cold. Gwen looked over her shoulder at the fire, but it was burning well. And his brocade comforter was thick and warm. Still, he shivered.

  Not knowing what else to do, Gwen took off her slippers and slid fully dressed into the bed. Luckily, Gaspar’s right side was largely unbruised, so she was able to carefully curve her body around his. Although she thought she might be enough to warm him, he still shook, his teeth beginning to chatter brutally.

  Gwen paused, recalling the best way to warm a frozen man was with the help of a warm body. It was common knowledge in the Highlands, where men often got stranded on the hills together while fetching sheep or on long travels. So she quickly pulled her gown and shift over her head and placed her naked body beside him. As soon as she lay her head down next to him, the shaking stopped and his labored breathing calmed slightly.

  In the back of her mind, she thought she should send word to the keep about where she was, but she dared not move from her place. She was finally back where she felt most at home in the world and Gaspar needed her and she needed him just as much.

  As the firelight faded and the sun rose, she lay beside him, looking at each curve and angle of his face. She memorized the straight line of his nose and the arch of his brow. Her eyes traced the thick lashes and the swell of full lips and settled upon the strong, even pulse at the base of his neck. He didn’t even stir when she pulled the crucifix and medallion over her head and moved to hang it upon his lamp as he had done the first time they lay together.

  As each long moment passed, she watched him sleep and wondered how she would ever find the strength to say goodbye.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gwen floated in the turbulent surf, nothing around her but clear blue skies and endless waves. She tried keeping above the water, but her heavy skirts weighed her down, the thick green velvet threatening to drag her under.

  She sputtered as a swell broke beside her head, splashing her full in the face. She tasted the salt upon her lips and felt it sting her open eyes. The waves were getting stronger and she felt her strength begin to fade as she paddled.

  But just as she began to slip into the sea, she heard the faint sound of men’s voices. Gwen looked around, calling out, “Hello? Help! Help me!” until her throat was raw. And soon her prayers were answered; a sleek ship was gliding toward her, neatly cutting through the surf.

  As it approached, she caught sight of the carved figurehead upon front of the boat. It was a beautiful mermaid; her sea foam green tail wrapped around the bow and her yellow hair streaming behind her like a banner of gold. But instead of the angelic face she always imagined the figure to have, it was that of a harpy. Red eyes flashed above a hook-like nose and a sharp-toothed grin leered down at her.

  Gwen gasped. It was La Sereia.

  She frantically waved her arms. “Gaspar! Gaspar, help me!”

  But the ship continued on its path and soon it would be so close, she would be able to reach out and touch the dark wood of the hull. And as it finally came to be beside her, it set off a wake that sent her plunging under the sea and into the darkness. While she fought and clawed her way to reach the surface, Gaspar’s voice called her name from above to where air, sky, sun, and life waited for her.

  “Gwendolyn.” It was a musical sound from his lips.

  “Gwendolyn.” It was closer then, as if he was under the water with her.

  “Gwendolyn.”

  Her eyes opened to see the brightly sunlit captain’s quarters. It took a moment to control her rapidly racing pulse, but when she did, she heard her name again.

  “Gwendolyn.” It was Gaspar. He still lay beside her, his bruising even more vibrant in the daylight.

  “Gaspar, you’re awake.” Her heart beat anew from joy rather than fear.

  “No, meu único ouro,” he croaked, looking at her through half opened eyes. “No, I…I must be…dead.”

  She leaned up on one shoulder and placed a hand upon his cheek. “Never, Gaspar. You’re alive.” Gwen didn’t know why, but tears were welling and she felt dizzy with emotion.

  He shook his head and his lids fluttered closed. His lips were cracked with thirst, but still he spoke. “It cannot be.”

  “It’s true.”

  “No, I saw um anjo…an angel last night…golden haired…a golden haired angel.”

  Gwen choked back a small sob, but a squeak still escaped.

  He smiled softly. “An angel came. Now…must be heaven.”

  “No, you’re alive, Gaspar, I promise you.”

  “I cannot…be so.” His eye opened a sliver and he slowly reached up a shaking hand. Gwen thought he might be reaching to pull himself up, but instead he lifted up the blankets that covered her before glancing beneath. “Sim…I am surely in heaven.”

  “Oh, stop it, you,” she giggled, tears flowing freely. Gwen felt lighter than she had in a week, for that fleeting moment. But then he tried to laugh as well and clutched at his chest, wincing. “Does it hurt much?”

  He nodded, gritting his teeth.

  Gwen slid from bed and quickly crossed the cold floor to the wardrobe, plucking the pink silk dressing robe from where it had been before. The fireplace was barren, but she didn’t mind
. The added smoke in the room may not have been a good thing. She glanced over her shoulder at Gaspar, who had his eyes closed, and went over to the window. The faint scent of blood and sweat permeated the cabin and she could no longer stand the stifling smell that was specific to injured and dying men.

  The large stained glass windows behind the captain’s desk were pretty to look at, but she wondered if they were functional as well. Upon closer inspection, she could see there were small, barred fastenings upon the center window, set in deep upon the sill.

  Struggling a bit, she lifted the bar and pushed the window open, breaking through the salt that crusted upon the glass and wood outside. The fresh ocean air blew lightly in and she breathed great gulps, pondering her next move. But just as she was about to turn away to tend to Gaspar, she realized she wasn’t looking out to the sea, as she would have had she been in her own bedchambers, but toward the cliffs and MacLeod keep.

  She fell to her knees, her back to the wall beneath the window. Gwen had been too preoccupied with the fate of the Portuguese captain; she hadn’t given much thought to being so far from land. It paralyzed her and she clutched her hand to her chest as her gaze darkened and she felt her stomach churn sickeningly.

  But she had a sick man to care for, and that was all that mattered.

  She hoisted herself up, carefully avoiding looking out the window.

  His forehead was warm, but not overly fevered. Her light touch didn’t stir him, so she thought he had fallen into another deep sleep. It would make her next job easier. The bandages that covered the wound upon his hip were still clean and she carefully removed them to see what hid beneath. To her great relief, the skin around the neatly sewn gash was free of the telltale signs of blood poisoning. And even the stitches were neat and straight. Gwen knew by the tiny sutures that Sorcha must have tended to him.

  There had been a small box of medicines on the floor beside the bed when she came to see him, but she hadn’t taken much notice at first. Now she placed it on her lap as she sat beside him.

  She sifted through the small vials and packets of dried leaves and powders. There were a few she recognized as being remedies for aching heads and burns, but most of them were foreign to her. The majority of the labels were written in other languages—none of which she could rightfully identify. Even when she took delicate sniffs of some to try to recognize them by scent, she thought it would be too risky to take a chance. Her healing knowledge was good, but not good enough to risk Gaspar’s heath.

  While he was still sleeping, she dabbed at the cut with some vinegar-covered cloth to keep it free of infection. He moved a bit as she prodded gently, checking for pus and loose stiches as she went. But by the time she finished and was pressing a fresh bandage to his hip, she was satisfied that he had nothing more than some bruising around the ribs and some nasty-looking discoloration around his body.

  Not wishing to disturb him by getting back into bed, nor wishing to leave him to return to the castle, she decided to send a message to Conner by way of a sailor, if there was one to be had. Finding a pen, ink, and fresh paper already on Gaspar’s desk, she took a seat in his red leather chair and penned a short note.

  Conner,

  Do not fret, for I am well upon La Sereia. The good Captain Florencio has been gravely injured and I am tending to him aboard the ship.

  -Gwen

  It was a terribly short missive, but she didn’t know what else to say. Surely she couldn’t reveal to Conner why she cared so deeply about Gaspar’s health, nor that she had spent the night in his bed. Saying she was well and taking part in the healing efforts was good enough for the time being.

  Not bothering to seal the folded note, she quickly dressed and slipped from the room. The noise she had grown accustomed to upon the ship was still there as she recalled it, but it was muted, quieted with the lack of healthy men. Still, she hoped to find some unoccupied sailor to deliver her letter.

  Her search didn’t last long, as she soon found one sitting at the bow of the ship, idly sorting fishhooks and rolls of twine. After a bit of poor Portuguese and some elaborate hand gestures, he had nodded and taken the letter from her, tucking it into his shirt pocket. She watched as he collected another man to help with his task before disappearing over the side of the ship to the small rowboat below.

  She knew Gaspar was in no immediate danger, so she stayed atop, taking in the fresh sea air and the bright sunlight that streamed down from a cloudless sky. It was hard for her to process that she was truly out at sea. Yes, land and her home were both clearly visible from her perch beside the captain’s wheel, but she was still as far away from solid earth than she had ever been before.

  Her father had loved the sea, and it had killed him before he had a chance to grow old, finish marrying off his children, or hold his first grandchild. He had never had a chance to finish rebuilding the clan to what it was before the failed rebellions decades ago. He had never had a chance to finish the life he was meant to have and they were all changed for it.

  Gwen’s mother had left the castle for good, choosing to stay with her daughters in other parts of Scotland and sometimes even with an aunt in Ireland. Conner had been thrust into leading the clan when he was merely on the cusp of manhood, and Gwen was left…well, not just fatherless, but fearful. She had filled her days with stable and unchanging numbers. Books had become her playmates as her siblings all grew up and began their own lives outside the castle. And healing had become her calling when she found she had little else to offer the world.

  When it came to fixing people’s bodies, she felt that she had found a true purpose, one of strength and necessity. While she couldn’t save her father—not that she could have, as they hadn’t found his body for days—she could use her head and hands to heal wounded men, injured children, and sick women. She could put her resilience in the face of death and dying to good use now. And what better use was there than saving Gaspar?

  As she walked back toward the doors that led to the quarters below, Gwen noticed that the sailors paid her no mind. They went about their work with their usual serious demeanors, but a bit more subdued than before. Here and there, men had gashes upon the bared swatches of skin that showed on their tanned arms and faces. Or they stared ahead with blank expressions that Gwen knew only came from seeing a man die before you. But she was not upon the ship for those men—not that any were bad enough to need her attention. Her small talents were needed below deck, where Gaspar lay.

  When she came back to his cabin, she saw he hadn’t moved. His chest rose and fell beneath the brocade blankets easily. She had no reason to wake him, so she crossed the room to a glass-fronted cabinet that was set into the wall beside the desk. A number of books and maps lay stacked within, no real rhyme or reason to their positions. It almost made her cringe to see the leather bound books arranged so. But it wasn’t her place to reorganize his belongings.

  Once she had found a small book in English, she drew Gaspar’s desk chair beside the bed and settled herself in to read. But even though it was something about Indian cultures she had never seen before, Gwen had trouble staying focused on the words. Reading them was one thing, but it was like her mind was incapable of processing what it said. The fact that her gaze kept shifting to Gaspar didn’t help matters either.

  After several tries at the volume, she gave up and stuffed it back into the cabinet with its fellows. She was about to find another when there was a sharp knock on the cabin door. It gave her pause. It wasn’t as if she lived there—or whatever one referred to residing on a boat—but it also wasn’t possible for Gaspar to leap into action and greet the guest.

  “Hello?” Gwen called out as she reached the door.

  “Open up, lass,” ordered a voice from the other side.

  She froze upon hearing the familiar Scottish lilt. And when she opened the door, she greeted her brother.

  ***

  “Aye, he’s a right mess.” Conner shook his head. “He’ll live, ye say?”

&n
bsp; “Aye,” Gwen replied wearily. “There’s some bruising, but I think it looks worse than it is.”

  “Much better than some o’ the lads. I’ve let them bring their dead inland to be buried under a priest.”

  She felt a pang in her heart. She knew Gaspar would regret not being able to lay his men to rest. “That was kind of you.”

  “It’s no’ kind, Gwen, it’s just the decent thing to do. Now, I’ll do the decent thing by the captain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know from your note that ye’ve been tendin’ to him, but I can hardly have ye out on this ship.”

  “You’ve come to bring me home?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even. But the thought of leaving Gaspar so weak and helpless in his cabin seemed unbearable. Even if Sorcha came to take her place, she still would find it impossible to stay away.

  “Aye, I have. But do no’ worry. We’ll bring him up to the keep and have him set right. There are riders out collectin’ more healers and such from the outer villages for the rest of the men.”

  “It’ll be nice for Sorcha to have a rest,” Gwen told him, feeling elated at being able to keep his vigil over Gaspar.

  “I know.” He ducked his head out of the cabin and said something to a small dark lad Gwen had often seen running about the ship before turning back to her. “I’ll have his men bring him up when they can. I don’t suppose he’ll need much?”

  “I’ll pack him a few things, just in case.” Gwen went to his wardrobe and pulled it up, sifting through the hanging garments until she found a worn leather bag lying empty at the bottom. She sat it on the floor and placed in several clean shirts, some pants, his boots, and a few other odds and ends before clasping it shut. And without thinking, she took his crucifix and looped it around her own neck. Then she felt a sharp chill, suddenly remembering that Conner was there, watching her pack up as if she knew where everything was—which was true, no matter how improper it looked.