by Anna Small
Her practical nature returned in the rush of the moment. She patted his cheek until his eyelid flickered open. A silvery blue eye stared up at her, unseeing and unfocused. A frown creased his forehead, and then he gasped. A torrent of seawater spilled from his mouth in wracking heaves, and he weakly pushed up from the sand to a kneeling position. Abigail quickly whipped off her shawl and wrapped it around his waist, securing it with a knot. She’d tried to avert her eyes from his nakedness, but in his confusion, he pushed her hands away, and the shawl slipped past his hips.
He coughed up more water and shook his head like a dog, only moving very slowly, as though the slightest motion was exhausting. She supported him with an arm around his bare waist.
“Sir, can you stand?”
He convulsed a few more times and dragged his hand slowly across his mouth.
“Hmm?” It seemed a great effort for him to utter a single syllable.
“Let me help you to my cottage. It’s not far, and we can warm you up.” Good heavens, how long had he been in the water? The closest the ships ever came was at least four miles. Perhaps the horrendous storm last night had swept him overboard. He stumbled to his feet and groped her arm for support. She pulled his arm over her shoulder and settled her other arm around his torso. Cold from his body seeped through her sleeve. He groaned, and she noticed the dark bruise on his side.
“I must hold on to you so we can get you to safety.” She eased her grip on him. He clasped her upper arm until she winced, but she pressed on. They made their way toward the cliff edge, each step laborious and dragging as she half-pulled, half-pushed him through the deeper, softer sand toward the stairs. Out of breath, he paused when they reached the top.
“Where…where am I?”
She could barely hear him through his strained whisper.
“Lobster Cove.”
“I mean…” He spat weekly. “Is this America? Or Canada?”
“America. The area of Massachusetts known as Maine.” She pulled him up the last step, and they stood on the smooth shells of her path. They paused to take a breath. Her head was dizzy and light, but she wouldn’t relinquish her hold, fearing if she did, he would collapse without her support. “Where was your ship heading?”
“What ship?” He kept his arm around her shoulders but leaned forward, his other hand on his knees while he struggled to catch his breath.
“Why, the ship from which you were swept. There was a terrible storm last night.” She waited for him to gather his strength. Warmth and food and water were only steps away. She urged him toward the cottage, and he resumed his slow, uneven pace.
“I do not remember a ship.” He paused and straightened to his full height, some six inches or so above her head. “I had hoped you would know who I am.”
She shook her head. “I do not know you, sir. I have never seen you before in my life.”
His gaze locked with hers. She’d never seen such an intense look in someone’s eyes before.
“Perhaps it is the shock of the cold water.” He gave her a half smile, and his eyelids flickered closed. “Forgive me, mistress—I fear I will be ill again.”
She no sooner helped him to his knees than he vomited the rest of the seawater in his belly. Trembling, he rose to his feet on his own strength. He glanced down at her shawl, its woven lace pattern ridiculous on his body.
“All your clothes are gone,” she said, stating the obvious.
“I apologize for my state, mistress. Is your father at home?”
He leaned on her as they took their last steps toward the front door.
“My parents are dead.”
“Husband, then?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Gulping back a sudden lump, she gave her head a quick shake.
“He was lost at sea, two years this summer.”
The arm around her shoulders tightened briefly.
“My deepest sympathies.” His words slurred into a mumble until she barely caught the last of them.
Making no reply, she helped him inside. The cottage was small. Caleb had intended to expand, but time was a precious commodity they dreamed they would always have in abundance. Her poster bed was in the next room, but she didn’t think he could take another step. Before she could wonder what to do with her mystery guest, he solved the problem.
“I’ll just rest a minute...” He collapsed on the rag rug in front of the fire.
She stood over him, at a loss of what to do. Then her nursing instinct roused itself, and she took a quilt and a pillow from the chest against the wall. She slipped the pillow under his damp hair and tucked the quilt up to his chin. Ensuring the fire had enough wood to keep it burning, she knelt beside him to assess his injuries.
He was English. His accent, his dignified manner despite his condition pointed to this fact. His short hair with the curving sideburns was the very look of an English officer. English sailors and soldiers were a part of life this far north, although their presence in Lobster Cove was limited to the cartoons depicted in The Anchor, the single tear sheet printed in town, and her brother’s biannual journey to the border and the Canadians with whom he traded furs and supplies.
Being English made him her enemy, but she was not frightened or anxious. If anything, she had a duty to help a soul in need. It was not his fault he had ended up on her beach.
The villagers across the Canadian border in Sainte Marie were a friendly lot, equally at home with their American cousins in the south and their common homeland across the ocean. English soldiers from the nearby fort paid the American traders little notice, and Elias had told her of a sort of friendship he’d made with a captain stationed there. Perhaps word could be sent to him for assistance with her strange guest. But she didn’t dare risk telling Elias about him. Not yet, at least.
Possibly, the captain or anyone else at the fort would not assist. Worse, they could suspect Abigail and Elias of a plot, and the mystery man part of their conspiracy. England was at war again, after an uneasy truce of some thirty-five years with their former colonies. War raged up and down the American coast, but the battles on the St. Lawrence River and the neighboring sea were the worst. She’d heard of the quick trials and hasty imprisonment of patriots taken captive. So many young men from Lobster Cove had given their lives for their country. The villagers would frown upon an enemy in their very midst. For herself, she cared little. Caleb was gone, along with any hopes and dreams she might have had for a future. But Elias had a family. Children, and a wife who needed him. She could not risk his life or safety.
The man stirred slightly; so slightly she thought she only imagined it. She still had not touched him. Was almost afraid to touch him. What if he died? It would mean trouble for her if he died in her home, and an English patrol were to make its way ashore. If he had fallen overboard from an English ship, there could be soldiers looking for him. Lobster Cove was far from the protection of Boston, a city that had conveniently forgotten its northern brothers, leaving them to their own means of fighting off a potential invasion.
Her heart pounded sickeningly in her chest. He could not die. She could not let him die. If the British came seeking him, she would present a living, healed man. His condition depended upon her.
She settled the quilt where his movements had pushed it off. He must have been in the water a terribly long time. His hands lay at his sides away from the quilt edges and were puffy from saltwater exposure. His lips were cracked and dry. She could only imagine what toll the sea had taken on the rest of him. With an audible gulp, she eased her hands under his head to feel for any lumps or bumps. Perhaps he’d banged into the rocks during his long swim. That would explain his apparent memory loss.
Her fingers felt something spongy beneath his hair. Gingerly lifting the dark strands, she examined a jagged line of torn skin streaked above his ear. It looked like a gunshot wound, although it was not deep. Perhaps he’d been in a battle and had barely escaped with his life. Regardless, she would have to clean it befo
re it suppurated. Elias’s oldest son had nearly lost his left arm from a minor cut that became infected. Had it not been for Mrs. Cross’s knowledge of herbal remedies, he might have been maimed for life.
If only she could send for Mrs. Cross. The old dear would be of great help but would probably refuse to come. The first war with England had taken her husband, and her only grandson had died in the fighting in New York.
No, she would have to do it alone and hope for the best. She reached beneath the quilt and felt along his ribcage. His abdomen was wreathed with hard muscles. His obvious strength had helped him to survive. She shuddered at the idea of what he must have gone through.
He could have injuries invisible to the eye. Hapless shipwreck victims who’d washed up on the shores of Lobster Cove had terrible internal injuries from being tossed upon the rocks lining the shore. This man could suffer wounds she could neither see nor help.
She forgot she was touching another man besides Caleb and drew the quilt down to his waist. A slight shiver twitched through him. Patting his chest as if he could sense her reassurance, she gave a quick scan of his torso. Except for some bruises on his ribs, he looked remarkably healthy, exhibiting none of the dark marks on his abdomen, which indicated internal bleeding. His broad, heavily muscled shoulders and strong chest looked as if he could swim a hundred miles, let alone the few he apparently had. Were he not unconscious and lying on her kitchen floor, he looked as if he would spring up at any moment, full of life and energy.
Raw, red marks on his wrists caught her notice. She lifted his arm to study them. Manacles could have caused the marks. And there was only one reason why he would be in manacles.
She sat back on her heels. He might not be an unfortunate sailor swept overboard in a freak accident. It was bad enough for her if the English were searching for him, but if he were an escaped prisoner of the Americans, they might accuse her of aiding the enemy.
Forcing these new fears from her mind, she replaced his arm at his side and went to the cupboard where she kept remedies and bandages. Patience had made her own version of Steer’s Opodeldoc, which would be beneficial to the wounds on his wrists and head. She tore the wax seal from the bottle and sniffed it, her eyes watering at the strong smell of camphor. Taking some strips of clean muslin and a pair of scissors, she returned to his side.
As she smoothed the ointment on his wrists and wrapped loose strips of muslin around them, she pondered what had happened to him. She would have seen a ship going by, especially a large battleship, whether English or American. Not many big ships graced the horizon, especially with the war moving farther south. Fishing boats and whalers were usually all she saw when she stared out at the sea on clear days. She always watched the horizon, hoping beyond hope that one day Caleb would walk up the path to the cottage, whistling the tune he loved most about coming home.
****
Fragrant willow leaves brushed across his face, light and tickling, smelling of grass and flowers and something that burned and tingled his nose. He tried to reach the fronds, but they moved and danced out of his reach, leaving him helpless yet enticed. A low voice, musical and sensual, yet urgent and questioning, tried to enter his ears, but he didn’t want to listen. All he wanted for the rest of his life was to feel the willow fronds, gentle and light, stirring his pain into a gauzy mist.
He lay on his back, on the green lawn in front of his father’s house. He couldn’t remember his father’s face, nor what the house looked like, but the knowledge he had both was strong, despite the fog seeping into his brain. Wanting to clear his vision to see the willow tree, he blinked fast, but the action was met with a stinging pain above his ear, just below his left temple.
He called out to his father, but no one came. Mother? He could not drag up the image of a woman he sensed he had known. He didn’t know when it had happened, but knew, somehow, she was dead. She’d died long ago, but he couldn’t remember anything else. A blurry memory of pain shot through him, to merge with the throbbing ache in his head.
****
“Can you hear me?” Abigail leaned close to the man, who seemed half-alive, yet closer to death by his cold skin and weak pulse. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
The broad fingers remained lifeless in her palm. She gently chafed his hand between hers, careful of the skin, made delicate from exposure. She returned it beneath the quilt to rub his other hand. It was impossible he could have survived overnight on the beach. Being in the sea as long as he obviously had was bad enough, but the exposure he’d suffered during the night was nearly unbearable to think about. The idea he was a spy crossed her mind again, but she forced the thought away. Spy or not, enemy or not, she had a responsibility to help him. Destiny or fate had sent her to rescue him, and she would accept the responsibility no matter the cost.
His eyelids flickered. He had not spoken since collapsing on her floor. She squeezed a few drops of water from a rag onto his lips. They twitched, but he remained nearly lifeless, as before.
Making him comfortable was her first priority. The hard floor wasn’t a good alternative to her bed, but she would never be able to drag or carry him across the room. She gathered the down pillows from her bed and all the blankets she had from the chest against the wall. With a bit of effort, she shoved and pushed the layers of quilts beneath and around him, careful to avoid disturbing her shawl, which was all the clothing he had. Within minutes, the color returned to his face, and his breathing, shallow and faint before, grew deeper.
She set a pot of water on the hook above the fire to boil. Sharp grains of sand and other bits of debris stuck to his body, especially to the cut on his head. Pushing aside the reality that a half-naked man lay on her floor, she prepared to see to the rest of his wounds.
His feet stuck out from the ends of the blankets. She decided to start from the bottom and work her way up. It was better to prolong the moment when she would finally relieve him of her shawl. After seeing to the superficial cuts and scratches on his legs, she wiped him gently with a sponge dipped in steaming water. In minutes, healthy color flushed his skin, and a low moan seeped through his closed lips.
Although she’d been married for two years and had shared her husband’s bed on more occasions than she could count or remember, she’d never seen a naked man before. Shy and restrained, she’d worn her nightgown when Caleb took her to bed, and he wore his shirt, long enough to cover him to his knees. Not prudish by nature, she just didn’t think it essential to know what a man looked like without his clothes on.
But now she would.
The man stirred, and she realized she’d rested the hot sponge on his thigh. She quickly wrung it out into the bucket of steaming water. Her stomach fluttered, and she mentally scolded herself for acting silly.
“He needs your help,” she murmured through gritted teeth.
Steeling herself as if she were about to embark on a dangerous journey, she counted to three then grasped the side of the quilt and threw it back. Her shawl covered him from his navel to his upper thigh. The feminine pattern seemed ridiculous against the sculpted muscles of his abdomen, especially where it covered the noticeable bulge she purposely avoided looking at.
Most of the sand and dirt came off, but some stuck to his skin. She resorted to scraping it lightly with her fingernail. Tiny bits of broken shells and other debris were tangled in the wiry black hairs on his chest. She ran her fingers through the dark curls to collect as much grit as she could. Her palms skimmed his nipples without her being aware of what she was doing. His heartbeat, calmer before, thudded beneath her hand. He stirred restlessly, and she patted him before she realized what she was doing.
The broken shells and sand adorned his navel, covered with the same dark hair as his chest, but in a narrower pattern that disappeared beneath her shawl. She tried to swallow, but a giant lump had formed in her throat. He could have injuries hidden by her shawl. A sharp piece of shell could have pierced his thigh, and he would suffer because of her girlish, ridicul
ous…
Stifling a shudder, she slowly untied the cloth and opened the edges. He lay completely naked by her hearth. But not helpless. There was nothing helpless in the long, muscular limbs or powerful chest. His naked form brought a muffled gasp from her tight lips. She nearly teetered over on her heels and sat cross-legged beside him.
The sponge…where was it? She automatically lowered it into the hot water and applied it to his body, washing and rinsing, cleaning and caring for him until all the sand and debris was gone. When she finished, his skin was pinkened and fresh, as if he had just come out of a luxurious bath and was not a victim of the stormy sea. As she went to fasten her shawl around his waist again, she noticed a tiny bit of shell tangled in the springy hairs surrounding his manhood. Forgetting to blush, she plucked it neatly from his groin and covered him.
****
Soft, soothing river grass caressed his body. He sighed, reveling in the ticklish sensation as he swam like an otter, naked and unashamed, in a clear blue stream crossing through a forest lush with flowering trees and green foliage. The grasses wove around his legs and torso, silky and smooth, leaving a cooling touch in their wake. He stretched his arms to run his hands through them as he passed, but they slipped through his fingers like wet ribbons.
The sun warmed his body. He knew he’d been very cold before; so cold he thought it would kill him, but the chill was gone. He heard strange sounds for a forest. Clinking of metal and scissors cutting through cloth. A woman’s voice from far away murmured sounds he’d never heard before. He tried to turn his head to look for the source of the voice, but his head felt caught in a vise.
The fog vanished. A vision of exquisite loveliness appeared. He gasped in delight, reaching for the angel who hovered above him, her face wreathed in a mass of golden hair. He forgot the river grass and wanted to touch her instead. Her eyes blazed in a blurry, dizzying shade of green. A memory of rolling hills echoed in her eyes, and he recalled the place of his childhood. Her lips, pink and full, moved in silent words. More than anything in the world, he wanted to feel those lips on his skin. They looked so cool and soft, and his body burned with an increasing ache from the sun overhead.
