“Her name was . . . Asharti.” The name came with difficulty to his lips.
Oh, dear. She had a good idea where the story was going. She waited.
“She circled the desert, searching for your lost city, Kivala.”
Beth opened her eyes wide. Had he actually been there? She checked any excited questions. Now was definitely not the time for eager curiosity.
“She traded only to take on new slaves to fill her . . . needs.” Again he stopped. His eyes flickered with memories so painful he looked like they might strangle him.
She must tell him that she knew. It might free him to let his story flow. “I saw the marks of her teeth on your body,” Beth whispered, remembering the fine body as well as the marks.
He nodded, faked nonchalance with a shrug, not free at all. “I lived longer than most. She took only a little blood each time.” There was more; Beth could feel it. He cleared his throat and shut his eyes. “She . . . could compel . . . with her eyes. . . .”
Just what could Asharti compel? Something that shamed Rufford. He must say it or it would eat him alive. “Did she make you kill for her?”
He rolled his head and stared at the ceiling. “No. She never thought of that, thank God.” He gave that cracked half-chuckle. “She thought of other things, though.”
Beth recalled the places on his body she had seen the round scars: loins and thighs and buttocks as well as his throat. A dreadful surety of what Asharti had compelled rose inside her.
“It was her blood that infected me. One thoroughly evil drop of blood.” He took a breath and held it, then consciously released it as he unclenched his hands. “She left me for dead. But I didn’t die, more’s the pity, and now even suicide seems to be denied me.”
He had tried to kill himself? Beth bit her lip to keep from protesting against the act of suicide or even comforting him. He would never allow it.
“You will chastise me for not starving myself of blood. I have tried. But when the craving becomes too strong, there is some . . . discomfort. My mind grows unclear. I am in danger of filling my need recklessly at the cost of lives.” He took a breath. “So,” he said brusquely, putting his palms on his knees and straightening, “I take a very little blood from any one person. I . . . I lost myself with you; I don’t know why. I hope you can . . .” He choked and was silent. He had been about to ask forgiveness but couldn’t because at heart he did not think he deserved it. He started again, without conviction. “Not a happy situation. But I vow I will do no lasting harm. I shall be like a banker who lives off the interest of others’ invested funds, or a painter who captures the spirit of a sitter and sells his paintings for a living. And I can leave them something in return, a memory of being . . . valued by someone.” He looked away.
Now that he had told his story, or all that he could tell, he finally flushed. “I do not know exactly what I am. But I cling to my humanity. The anchor of normal life in England, or at least as normal as I can make it, among people I know and love, may counterbalance the evil blood that taints me.” He sucked in air again. “Some things I am denied. Marriage and children are out of the question, if I can even reproduce. I have reason to believe I will outlive contemporaries, so friends and connections will pass away. She . . . Asharti was very old. But I want to reclaim what life I can.” He looked up at last, his eyes defiant, not realizing that even in his defiance he exuded a vulnerability that belied his more-than-human properties.
No words of hers could erase what had been done to him. All she could do was the one thing he could not ask of her. She looked inside and knew that whatever he was when the madness of his need was on him, she could not hate him. She knew what he was, if he did not. But how could she tell him he was a vampire? Would that not undermine his resolve to fight his condition? She forgave him what he was precisely because he would never forgive himself. And she could never tell him that without shaming him further.
“A normal life does not seem too much to ask,” she whispered.
He swallowed. He licked his lips and she could swear his eyes filled. “It is.”
Her own eyes filled and overflowed.
“Look, your food has grown cold,” he said gruffly. “Let me procure you another plate.”
She had forgotten the tray was there. “I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense,” he said, standing. “You require food to restore your strength.” He turned to the door, dashing the back of his hand across one cheek.
“Redding!” he called.
He had told her almost everything. He would never tell anyone about the final degradation. Only Asharti and Fedeyah knew, for the rest were dead. He would never see those two again once he was safe in England. He watched the girl sleep, weakened by his vile need for blood. She had revealed herself to him as well. Had she not tried to command him when in the grip of fever? Were all women like Asharti in some way? And yet, who had produced her fever? He had. Whose fault that she was weak and said she knew not what? His. He should be wary of her, but he dare not blame . . .
He was exhausted by the strain of reliving the nightmare in the desert. A day did not go by but he reproduced it in dreams, in memories. But to speak of it . . .
Ian closed the book he had been reading to her after she had eaten and drunk her dose of porter. The Iliad. How simple Homer’s view of life’s tribulations seemed. Ian had gotten only a few lines out before she drifted off. In some ways it was a touching signal that she trusted him. Or perhaps it was a sign of her debilitation. He pulled the quilt up around her and retired through the common cabin to his own chamber and shut the door carefully against the light. At least now there was some hope she would not put a spoke in his wheel by accusing him publicly. He knew she would never gossip about him privately to make herself seem important. She was not that kind of woman. The next days would tell if she regretted her decision today.
The Atlantic wind pushed the Beltrane toward Brest more reliably than the variable breezes of the Med. They coursed northward along the coast of Portugal and Spain. Time passed in a blur for Beth. Both she and Rufford acted as though his confession had never occurred. But he called on her daily in the late afternoon, draping her window, and in the evenings. Rufford’s face recovered from its sunburn, and she noticed that his tan was fading, too, as he spent more and more time out of the light. He read to her or asked about her travels. He was most insistent about her drinking the porter and eating, until she was sure she would grow positively fat. For her part, she dozed, even in his presence, and took up the needlework that Lady Metherton had pressed upon her as the sole genteel occupation for a lady of quality. It was the only thing her mind could compass sometimes.
Mrs. Pargutter did not once come to see her, but Jenny stole minutes away from her mistress on several occasions and looked in to dress Beth’s hair, winding the escaping frizz into curls beside her face and pinning her hair up into a thick knot high on her crown. At first she thought that her reputation would suffer from the visits of a single gentleman like Rufford, not that she cared at this point. But if Redding and Rait were any example, the crew turned an indulgent eye on his attentions, perhaps due to her condition. Jenny was most practical about it, noting that under the circumstances it was very nice to have such generous support.
The loblolly boys brought in the hip bath one day and carried hot water from the galley that Jenny poured over Beth. A bath had never felt so good. As Mrs. Pargutter wailed Jenny’s name, she calmly helped Beth dress for the first time in one of her black morning gowns, then gave her over into Mr. Rufford’s care while the seamen removed the bath and tidied her cabin—a task that required swabbing and drying and polishing.
Mr. Rufford handed her to an elbow chair in the common cabin. He had pulled canvas curtains across the small windows under the bow of the ship. “You look charming, Miss Rochewell. I hope you are feeling more the thing.”
“The bath was wonderful,” Beth sighed.
“I hoped it might be.” He sat opposite her.<
br />
“You ordered a bath for me?” She flushed.
“Sailors would never think of it, and Jenny is preoccupied.” His voice was matter-of-fact.
Beth blushed, remembering that he had undressed her in Gibraltar. “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself,” she said crossly. “I am quite capable of ordering my own bath.”
He raised his brows and took a tray from Redding with a telltale tankard on it.
“And I am heartily sick of this dreadful brew.” She pushed the proffered tankard away. “I should like a glass of Madeira, Redding, if you please.”
Rufford had only to shake his head.
Redding bobbed. “Begging your pardon, miss, but Mr. Rufford said wine wasn’t no good for your condition, miss. I dasn’t serve you wine. None of us would.”
Beth sent a furious glance to Rufford, who looked smug. “Mr. Rufford ordering for me?”
Redding bobbed again. “Takes quite the care of you. Orders special dinners from the cook and questions me to see that it was served just so at two. Orders suppers, too. We all put in our Parmesan for your toasted cheese last night. And hopes you liked it.”
Beth sighed. “You are all taking most oppressive care of me. I thank you.”
Redding beamed and bowed himself out.
“Your temper indicates you are recovering quite nicely,” Rufford observed from a safe distance across the table.
“A few more days of everyone treating me like an invalid and I shall go stark, staring mad!” she exclaimed.
“Then it seems to me you might be recovered enough for a game of chess.” Beth saw his blue eyes laughing at her behind their serious pretense.
“Only if you don’t let me win to keep my invalid spirits up,” she muttered.
“No danger of that,” he said demurely.
“I rise to a challenge every time, sir,” she said with asperity as he set out the pieces, automatically giving her the black.
“I shall strive to remember that.” His voice was quite solemn, but she thought he might be making game of her. She sniffed. Did he mean to use her fractiousness against her?
“The crew seems to have lost their dread of you, at least if Redding is any example.”
“I have redeemed myself by my care of you. They seem quite reconciled.”
“They must believe monsters cannot have a softer side.” She was immediately sorry she had said it. She glanced up quickly. He looked as though she had slapped him. She pushed hastily on. “I know I do.” He glowered. “Oh, don’t take umbrage, Rufford, pray. My brain is too fogged to mind my mouth. And, truth be told, choosing my words has never been my best point. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you? Not necessary. Yours is not the fault for telling truth.” He moved his knight out, brashly. He did not even offer her first move.
“I did say true. I don’t think that goodness coexists with evil.” She moved out her pawn.
“Then your view of life is too simple by far, child.” Pawn.
“Oh, are you so much wiser than I?” She made a small moue and cleared her bishop.
“I have experience of evil. Evil can taint anything, anyone.” He got a hard curve to his vulnerable mouth and slapped his pawn down. “And I am most afraid it slowly consumes all that remains of good, a bite at a time.” He winced at his reference to teeth.
She laughed. “See, neither of us is safe with a subtext to everything we might say. We shall simply have to accustom ourselves to this reality.”
He looked at her strangely. There was a puzzled smile just at one corner of his mouth. You might miss it if you weren’t looking for it.
“What is more, you are not attending to your game.” Her bishop took his knight.
He glanced to the board. “I will remedy that.” He studied the board and moved his rook.
He did win, and in spite of her bold front, she was most happy to retire to her cabin for a nap afterward. In the following days she gained strength more rapidly. The Captain visited her for an awkward quarter hour after supper two days later under the watchful eyes of Rufford and hoped he might see her on deck soon. She vowed she would attempt it the next morning.
She was most surprised when Rufford appeared at about ten, dressed in a very well-fitted black coat, with gloves, hat, and blue spectacles in hand. He bowed when she opened the door.
“Miss Rochewell, do you take some air?”
She already had on her pelisse and was just drawing on her gloves. The air was colder as they headed north. “Why, yes. I was just about to go on deck.”
He offered his arm.
“But surely you cannot go out on deck!”
“I am resolved to test my limits,” he said. “If I keep to the shade of the quarterdeck—”
“You must not risk it!” she protested.
“Already I grow less sensitive to sunlight, else I could not have essayed the inn in Gibraltar. When first I woke to my new condition, my eyes could stand no crack of light; my skin blistered at the first ray. From something said by . . . Asharti once, I think it grows more tolerable with time.” Beth noted that he still choked on her name. “Besides, how will I have a normal life if I cannot stand a stray beam of sunshine?” He held out his arm once more.
She sighed and took it. He wanted to be normal with an intensity that flamed in his eyes. The feel of his arm beneath her hand flashed through her. She shook herself. She felt the fabric of his coat, nothing more.
They walked through the common cabin. He opened the door, and though he flinched, he fixed his blue glasses more securely and ventured out into the shade cast by the quarterdeck walls. His muscles tightened as he braced himself against what must be for him intolerable glare. He staggered a bit and put his back against the wall. His breath was ragged.
“Let us go in,” she whispered. “There is no point to suffering so.”
“Nonsense,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Do you care to take a turn or two?”
He made a fair appearance of calm as they paced out of the shade into the waist, to the forecastle wall, and back again. Only she could feel the iron in his arm, clenched in effort. Beth noticed that all hands looked at them kindly. Several touched their foreheads.
“Feeling more the thing, miss?” the purser asked. She thought his name was Gilman. Several others hovered to hear her answer.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Gilman. Mr. Rufford is so kind as to support me.” In truth she half-supported him. But the sailors nodded and looked at her companion with complacence.
Mr. Gilman peered at Rufford. “You seem a bit under the weather yourself, sir.”
“A little sun poisoning I acquired in the Sahara.” He smiled thinly. “Nothing to speak of.”
They pressed on for several turns. Beth glanced at Rufford’s reddening countenance. Knowing he would never relent, she sighed audibly. “That is all I can manage for today.”
His sigh of relief was no less clear. “If you are sure . . .”
They made for the door to the wardroom with haste just this side of unseemly. Rufford sank into a chair, pulled off his gloves, and removed his spectacles, breathing as though he had run a mile. He smiled crookedly. “There, that wasn’t so hard.”
“Your face is reddened even by being out for so few minutes.” She stepped into her cabin and came back with a blue glass jar. “Here, slather yourself with some of this complexion cream. It will ease the effect of the sun. If we had strawberries, it would be even better.”
He took two fingers’ full, rubbed his hands, spread it over his face. “The burn won’t last. I tried, once, to . . .”
“Yes?”
But he would not go on. “Trust that I know that no matter the degree of sunburn, it is not fatal. I blister and crack, then fade. In truth, I grow paler every day. Have you not noticed?”
“Well, I am sure that does not make the burn less uncomfortable.” She looked at him, her natural curiosity bubbling up again. She could not ask him about Kivala. But there were so many other things she wan
ted to know. “It must be so hard to have this condition thrust upon you without knowing anything about it.”
“I would give my left arm to know how to go on,” he said ruefully. “Or possibly my eyeteeth, since they seem to be so inconvenient anyway.”
“But no, you need them now. How else would you feed?”
“You speak of it so matter-of-factly.”
She shrugged. “For you it is like saying, ‘A man requires meat.’ She looked sharply at him. “By the by, do you think you can make it to Brest before you need to feed again?”
“The Captain says that, God willing and wind stays true, it is but another two days. The hunger has not yet grown upon me.” He flushed directly as he remembered why.
She made as if she did not notice. Indeed, something had occurred to distract her. She might be able to help him. “I think I should like to return to my scrolls. They could shed some light upon your situation.”
“I would be grateful,” he said, quite humbly, and she knew he had had it in his mind for some time but would not ask. His humility was a function of great pride. “But only if you will not tire yourself.”
She smiled at him. “Of course not.”
So she began the tedious process of searching for particular information among her many scrolls. Some she knew quite well; others required wearying translation and transcription. The tiny table in the common room of the forecastle could not accommodate the scrolls. So they sat in the evenings in the Captain’s great cabin as his guests at one corner of the long table that also held the Captain and his guests after supper, usually in some state of inebriation, telling stories. Most were old hands who had been in the Navy during the Napoléonic wars, and many were the heroic actions they had seen, both by sea against the French and by land against bastions of female virtue. With the wars resolved and the Navy reducing its force, they had taken merchant berths rather than be marooned on land at half pay with their wives. Their noise gave a backdrop to her labors that soon became much like the heaving of the sea or the creaking of the timbers. After a time they even gave over remarking on her bluestocking ways.
Susan Squires - [Companion Vampires 0] Page 16
