by Lisa Shea
The room settled back into stillness. The man who had shot her lay back against the far wall, eyes glazed in death. It was a long moment before she could slow her breathing and force the words out through her hoarse throat.
“Sweep the ship.”
He looked down at her, his brow creasing, then spun as the sound of running feet thundered from behind them. He eased as his men came up to the door, looking between them.
Isabel staggered to sit on the small, wooden bed built against one side of the cabin. “Sweep the ship,” she insisted again, looking up at Philip. “I can see to my wound. Time is crucial.”
He glanced down at the bolt in her thigh, back into her eyes, then nodded. He made a whirling motion with his hand to the men. In a moment they were off.
Isabel breathed against the pain throbbing in her leg, then turned to rip a strip off of the blanket at the end of the bed. She carefully wrapped the fabric first below the bolt, then above it, doing a cross-weave to hold the item in place. If they survived the next twenty minutes she would put more effort into its care. For now, simply keeping the blood from making the floor slick would have to do.
She had just finished tying the bandage off when Philip strode into the room, his eyes moving to her in concern. “Ship is clear,” he reported. He took in the bandage job and nodded in approval. “That looks well done – you have had experience in a healing ward?”
She gave a chuckle, shaking her head. “I have had experience in being injured,” she countered with a wry grin. She became serious. “And we have barely twenty minutes before this ship goes down, if I heard that woman right.” She pushed to stand, winced as her leg refused to bear the weight, and Philip was at her side, supporting her. Together they moved to the small table at the center of the room. A map covered its entire surface and a small, metal die was placed on top.
She stared at the die. “I assume the captain used this for our current position. It would seem we are right in the center of the channel,” she mused. “I would have said we were the furthest from danger of rocks here.”
Philip turned his head back toward the door. “Johann,” he called out. A man’s head immediately looked in, his blonde curls traced with white. His features were rugged and worn.
Johann voice was edged by a trace of German accent. “Here,” he responded.
“Go query the passengers, and be quick – we have little time. See if any have sailed these waters.”
The man was off at a trot, and it seemed only a minute before he returned with a tall, reedy man at his side. The man’s sparse, dark hair was plastered down on his skull.
Philip did not mince words. “What in this area could sink us within twenty minutes?”
The man barely glanced at the map before responding. “Nothing,” he replied. “This is the deepest part of the channel. Ships which go down here are lost for good.”
Isabel leant heavily against the table, then turned to look at Philip. “Maybe that was it, then. Maybe Marianne’s purpose was to sink the ship beyond all hope of recovery.”
Philip nodded. “If the ship has been sabotaged, the chance of our finding and fixing the damage in the time remaining is nil.” He looked back at the sailor. “Is there anywhere we can safely ground her in that time?”
The sailor stepped forward, this time taking in the map with more attention. After a moment he pointed. “Here. This island is barely a sandbar with a hill and a few trees, but we can certainly ground on it. It is barely within our range.”
Philip turned to Johann. “Get up there. See if we can find it.”
Johann nodded, and he mounted the steps two at a time. The other three men went up after him.
Philip’s deep gray gaze swung to hold Isabel. “You will be all right?”
She looked in his eyes, and time froze, liquefied -
A shaft of longing tore through Isabel with a force she had never felt in her life. The strength in his shoulders, the firm tension of his bicep, the soft curve of his lips – suddenly she wanted him with a power that nearly took her breath away.
It struck her, suddenly, that this was what the men at the garrison had often talked about. The flame of desire that came hard after a dangerous action. The need to celebrate life when surrounded by certain death. She had always dismissed it with a laugh. Surely this was simply another way in which the bright-eyed men could lure an unsuspecting tavern wench into their room.
But now, her breath coming in deep draws, she wondered how one could make it through without –
Philip blinked in awareness, and he half took a step forward. His gaze went smoky, and it was with visible effort he held himself back.
“Not now,” he growled, as much to himself as to her.
Then he turned, climbing up the ladder.
Isabel felt the loss of his presence as a visceral pain.
She had to follow him.
She took a step forward – and promptly tumbled sideways against the bed. She cursed, shaking her head. She pulled herself back up to her feet and carefully hopped across the distance, using the toe of her other foot for balance, until she reached the ladder. Then she pulled herself up, rung by rung, until she made it to the drenched deck.
The rain had eased to a stinging mist, but the sky still boiled with dark clouds. A constant spray came from the sea as the ship crashed its way steadily through the waves. The ship’s mast was barely visible in the gloom, the sails billowing out under the strong wind. The sailor was by the rudder, gripping it with both hands, while the other men moved to and fro securing lines.
Philip was at her side in an instant. “You should be below,” he called over the deep groans of the ship in motion. “This is no place –”
Isabel kicked the hatch shut with her off-foot, bracing herself on her good one. “I will face my fate with both eyes open,” she shot back. She glanced around at the shimmering darkness that seemed to draw closer with every moment. “Have we sighted our sandbar?”
He shook his head, pointing forward off the bow. “The sailor has made his best estimate, but in this fog and spit we could sail right past it and be none the wiser.”
Her feet were in motion before he finished speaking. “Right,” she called, approaching the mast. “Give me a boost.”
He shook his head. “In this storm – ”
“In this storm we will be sunk in under ten minutes,” she interrupted. “Either we find land or we drown. Boost me up.”
She stretched as tall as she could against the mast, wrapping her arms around it, easing her thigh so the bolt would not be further pressed into her leg. A sturdy pair of hands latched onto her waist, lifting her high, and then in a moment the hands were beneath her good foot. Soon she was half-way up the column of wood. She carefully sought out the small foot-holds and eased her way further up. The motion of the ship was exaggerated up here, swaying with the waves, but she kept her gaze firmly forward. The noise of the ship below her faded from her mind, with only the wind, rain, and waves filling her ears.
She searched through the gloom, allowing her gaze to sweep far to the left and right as the ship coursed through the gray swirls. Somewhere out there lay a tiny spit of land, the merest of slivers, and it would spell the difference between life and death for them all.
The thought came to her that surely the lady in crimson and her motley crew had their own plan for escape. She pushed that aside. Undoubtedly the rogues had arranged some sort of signal for their rescuers, one she would be hard pressed to guess at in the time available. Even if she did manage to draw in the pirates or smugglers who were involved in this murderous plot, chances were the wolves’ heads would be quite happy to let the ship go down as planned. Once it had been plundered, of course.
No, finding that landing spot was their only chance of success.
A glimmer caught her eye to the left and she turned, snugging herself tightly against the slick, soaked wood. Her eyes watered, went out of focus, and then suddenly a thin line resolved itself.
She aimed her voice down at the men below. “Land Ho!” she screamed out with the full depths of her lungs. She then pointed at the glorious sight.
All motion beneath her stopped. Five pairs of eyes first swept up to her perch, then followed her outstretched arm.
The sailor’s voice carried faintly over the wind. “Do any of you see it?”
The men were shaking their head. Philip sprinted to the front of the ship, balancing on the prow. “I cannot,” he called back, “but I will trust Isabel with my life. Change course, Jeffrey.”
The sailor nodded, hauled on the rudder, and the ship pitched sharply. Isabel wound her body tighter around the mast until the ship stabilized and settled on its new course. Jeffrey was good at his craft – they were now aimed directly at the beach.
The ship crashed through the waves, the wind driving them on, and finally Philip’s voice called out in relief, “I see it! We might make it!” He turned to look up at Isabel. “Get down from there; we have it now.”
She nodded, carefully untwining her legs from the ropes and easing herself down the slippery wood. By the time she made it near the deck Philip was there at her side, catching her. She was grateful for his assistance – her injured leg was throbbing vigorously and would not hold her weight.
His eyes shadowed with concern as he took in the pain in her features. “And now, surely, into the hold.”
She shook her head, looking back at the cargo net which lashed across the stern port corner of the hull. “I will get behind that,” she compromised. “It will hold me in place and I will still see where we are going.”
He looked as if he might argue, but at a shout from Jeffrey he instead moved into motion, helping her stumble toward the corner. She carefully eased around behind the net, tucking herself into the hollow between the sturdy wood and the tightly stretched network of ropes. The web formed a secure barrier from her chest to her knees.
Philip knelt down before her, brushing the hair back from her face. “That was a brave thing you did in the hold,” he offered hoarsely. “If we don’t make it through this, I wanted you to know that.”
Her mouth quirked. “I knew you were there behind me,” she countered. “Where I was relatively safe, you strode directly into the mouth of the lion to provide the necessary distraction. You trusted me to take them down in time.”
The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “We are well matched partners.”
His eyes caught hers, and a fresh tidal wave of longing swept over her, nearly submerging her. She breathed in his scent; soaked in the warmth of his body, mere inches away. She glowed with passion. Every fiber of her body wanted him.
His eyes flared with answering heat. His lips lowered down toward hers.
A surge of concern coursed through her and she pulled back from him.
He went still, his eyes holding hers.
She wanted him, craved him, needed him with every iota of her soul. It was only with desperate effort that she put breath behind her words. “Are you … married? Spoken for?”
His face eased and a new glow came into his eyes, one of respect. “I am not,” he murmured, his gaze steadily on hers. “And I assume the husband you spoke of, when you approached the hijackers, was fictional?”
Her eyes shadowed. “He is dead,” she corrected him.
His gaze softened in sympathy.
The ship tilted, her body slid against his, and she glowed with heat at the contact. His gaze flared afresh into deepest desire. His hand brushed back the tendril of hair at her ear, her own fingers twined into the dense waves at the back of his head, and then he was pressed full length against her. His lips molded to hers as if they were carved to fit. They were kissing, breathing in each other’s warmth. Her arms sought to draw him down even closer, as if that could be achieved.
God’s Teeth, she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.
Jeffrey’s voice carried through the pounding waves. “Here we go!”
Philip’s strong arms drew her head in against his chest. He sheltered her with his body, wrapping his arms securely through the cargo net to cocoon her within him. She nestled in against him as if she had been custom made to fit against his shape.
For a long moment the world stood still. There was his embrace, the roaring of the sea, and nothing else.
CRASH.
Chapter 2
A concerned voice was speaking into her ear. “Isabel? Are you all right?”
The world seemed quieter than it should, and she blinked her eyes open. The ship was mercifully silent and still, and even the rain had eased up. Philip was kneeling at her side, his gaze steady on her.
She wriggled her toes and did a brief stretch. “As fine as I can expect,” she reported, holding back a groan as her injured leg throbbed into fresh life. “Go on and help the others; I will be all right to wait here.”
“Stay put this time,” he advised her, a sparkle easing into his gaze, and then he was turning, calling to his men. In a moment they were descending one after another down into the hold.
She carefully worked her way free of the ropes as the men ascended and descended, helping the passengers make their way out of the bowels of the ship and down the gangplank to the sandy shore which stretched before them. Jeffrey had been downplaying the truth when he called this a mere sliver of land. The island must have been two miles long; a fairly sizeable hill poked up from its center, ringed with a scattering of birch.
By the time she had eased herself from within the tangle of ropes it seemed everyone had been helped to the safety of land. The last she had seen, Philip and Johann had been carefully moving a large, wooden object of some sort down onto the beach.
She slowly hopped her way over to the hold, easing her way down the ladder into the flickering darkness within. The area was completely silent now. She worked her way over to the far wall, picking up the small leather sack which held all her worldly possessions. There had not been much left after Diggory’s funeral expenses had been paid for and gambling debts settled. She had even been forced to sell her beautiful sword – the one entrusted to her by Alicia when she first departed England with her new husband.
And now she had nothing.
A stream of water tickled at her foot and her eyes followed it with interest. It was coming from the bow of the ship, uphill, which seemed quite unlikely to her. They were beached on a sandy outcropping after all. How could water be coming in here? She hobbled her way through the first class area and into the captain’s cabin.
The bed had been ripped from its fastenings; an open space now gaped where it had once sat. But rather than smooth wood along the side wall of the ship, Isabel was surprised to see a spongy material, with the thin stream of water easing from its surface.
What in the world?
There were running footsteps behind her. Philip stepped into the room, his breath heaving out of him in a sigh of relief as his eyes came to meet hers.
“Stay put, I said,” he reminded her, his shoulders easing.
“What is this?” she asked in curiosity, pointing at the spongy material.
His gaze grew serious. “It is what would have killed us all, had you not acted so quickly,” he returned. “It looks as if they kept a wooden plank over it until they were ready and then ripped that free to start the countdown. They knew how long the material would take to give way beneath the pressure of the water.” His eyes moved to the spongy material and then back to her. “It was nearly there.”
He stepped forward and gathered her up into his arms with an effortless heft. “Hold my neck,” he instructed.
She dutifully wrapped her arms around his neck, careful not to choke him. He turned and moved to the ladder, holding her in place with his left arm while he climbed up with the right. In short order they were moving down the gangplank and onto the beach prop
er.
The passengers were setting up blankets and barrels beneath the trees, but as Philip approached the group turned and let out a rousing cheer. Isabel blushed at the shouts and praise, while Philip held her out to the applause.
Finally he set into motion again, moving to the top of the hill. A campfire blazed to one side and his men had set up a tent at the crest. The captain’s bed had been centered within the tent. Philip moved to one side of it, carefully laying her down on its surface.
His eyes shadowed as they held hers. “Isabel, I am afraid that this next part will not be fun.”
Isabel had been floating in a dream while in his arms. Now the reality of the situation came crashing back in on her with ice-cold sharpness. She shook her head, a shaft of fear burrowing deep into her body. “Not fun?” She shuddered, wrapping her arms about her. “I know well what torture I am in for. I would not wish this on my worst enemy.”
His brow furrowed. “Have you seen this done before?”
She reached down a hand and hauled up at the bottom of her dress, revealing her left thigh. There was a pair of circular wounds on either side of it, the dimples showing where an injury had pierced through.
Her voice was raw. “I was thirteen and out riding my horse through the forest. Some idiot nobleman thought my stallion was a ebony deer and shot at it.”
His eyes held hers. “So you know what is to come. What would you like?”
She looked up into those eyes, smoky gray, and the full force of his presence hit her. She viscerally remembered how it had felt to have his arms around her, his body pressed up against her, his lips …
His eyes lit with an answering heat, and he half reached out his hand. Then he gave a wry smile before reluctantly shaking his head. “The wound first,” he advised her, the smile remaining on his lips.
She glanced back at the headboard of the bed, at the posts on each end. “Two ropes, one for each hand, for me to brace against. The strongest mead you can find. A leather thong for me to bite on.”
