“Quite,” Smith said. His eyes suddenly rolled upward, and Alban and Dove were only just in time to catch him.
“What’s the matter with him?” Dove demanded.
“Here, drop him on the bed through here. It seems he can’t take his brandy.”
It struck Tillie as they half-carried the man into the inner cabin that even she could manage three sips of brandy. On the other hand, she had no idea what he’d been drinking before. He and Alban could have been at this since the afternoon.
A moment later, Dove and Alban returned, the captain closing the door on the inebriated Smith.
“How much has he had?” Tillie asked.
“How much of what?” Alban inquired.
Her eyes widened. “You drugged him?”
“I have a very knowledgeable physician who has travelled the world. Don’t worry about Smith. He’ll wake up in an hour or so.”
“Then what on earth was the point?” Tillie demanded.
“The point is, we’ll anchor a few miles up the coast and when he wakes, we’ll tell him he’s been asleep all night and day and he’s in Ireland. Then we’ll offer to help him on his way. He’ll need it, for he’ll feel like death for several hours after he wakes.”
Understanding began to dawn. “Then you are on our side!” she exclaimed.
“I apologize,” Alban said. “It was my men who took you. They were under orders not to harm you, so if you suffered at all—”
Dove rubbed his ribs. “I wish you’d given them the same orders for me.”
“Well, we didn’t expect you. Miss Dawlish was to be enticed from the party. I gather she came before she was enticed, with you hard on her heels. Since they couldn’t shake you off, they brought you.”
But Tillie had moved on. “The letter I found definitely said Sweden, not Ireland,” she insisted.
“Yes, but you found it nearly two weeks ago,” Dove pointed out. “Time was, no doubt, moving too fast while Winslow and I kept Smith in Blackhaven. Aren’t you tempted to go to Ireland?”
Alban wasn’t a man who seemed to smile much. But he brought two fresh glasses and poured a measure into each. “There is more than one way to skin a cat. Your health and happiness, Miss Dawlish.”
Doubtfully, Tillie raised her glass and looked at it.
Alban’s eyes gleamed. “The drug is not in the bottle. If you noticed, I had already poured Smith’s before you came in. And I am still standing.”
Dove gave a crack of laughter and drank.
Watching him, Tillie touched her lips to the glass and then lowered it. “Dove, will you take off your coat and let me see your arm?”
Rather to her surprise, Dove set his glass on the table. “Maybe I will.” He unfastened the coat, and to Tillie’s surprise, Alban helped him off with it. He obviously knew the story of the wound.
Tillie’s stomach twisted when she saw the bright red stain on Dove’s otherwise pristine white sleeve, but she swallowed back her instinctive cries of distress.
But Dove met her gaze. “Captain. Did you say you had a physician aboard?”
*
When James, the Grants’ large footman, currently masquerading as the driver of a hired cab, saw the figure of Miss Tillie in her bright red cloak hurrying up the side of the house, he acted quickly. The carriage which had turned and halted in front of him did not block his way. In fact, in obedience to the owner’s instructions, he had walked the horses up and down the path twice already while waiting. Now, he climbed back up on the box, and gathered the reins. But before he could move, he glimpsed Tillie vanishing into the other carriage. He opened his mouth to call a warning to her, then, with some relief, saw the unmistakable figure of Major Doverton running after her at full tilt.
James’s heart misgave him as the carriage in front began to move. The major leapt in just in time. The door slammed and the carriage lurched forward at an almost instant gallop.
“What the…” Instinctively, James urged his horses to follow, but they seemed to be set in their ways and determined to cooperate as little as possible with their unfamiliar novice of a driver. They strolled to the end of the house, by which time, James could see the lights of the other carriage disappearing off the drive and onto the road beyond. He’d never catch them, and if he did…
“Oh, God,” he muttered, helplessly. “I knew I shouldn’t have done this!” Clambering down, he abandoned the horses, merely shouted a plea to the stable lads to look after them. He then bolted into the kitchen, demanding someone take a message to Mr. Grant.
“Take your orders out of here, James Taggart,” the cook told him roundly. “We have enough to do.”
“It’s urgent,” James pleaded.
“What’s so urgent?” the cook demanded.
James closed his mouth. The impossibility of explaining without landing Miss Tillie in a mess finally struck him. The story would be all over Blackhaven by morning.
“Never mind,” he muttered. “I’ll go myself.”
“James Taggart, you’ll go nowhere in that dreadful overcoat!” the cook exclaimed, scandalized. “In fact, I won’t have it in my kitchen!”
James, already striding for the stairs, tore off his coat as he went and rolled it into a ball under his arm. He had no more time to waste. In the footman’s livery he wore beneath, he hurried through the house and toward the noise of voices and music. Elegant guests had spilled out of the drawing room, but none of them were either of the Grants. He stopped a scurrying maid. “Have you seen the vicar or his wife? Are they in there?” He nodded at the drawing room.
“Likely,” the maid said, shaking him off. She paused. “No, wait, they’re with the master in there.” She pushed him toward a closed door and ran off.
James took a deep breath, knocked, and strode in.
Mr. and Mrs. Grant were with the squire, a tall old gentleman he couldn’t recall ever seeing before and a small, near gent who looked like a solicitor or a man of business.
“What?” the squire demanded, then peered at him, frowning. “You’re not one of mine.”
“No, sir,” James said apologetically. “I’m theirs.” He nodded awkwardly at the Grants, who had swung on him in surprise at the sound of his voice.
“James?” Mrs. Grant said in clear astonishment. “What are you doing here? It’s your night off.”
“I need to speak to the vicar, madam. It’s important.”
In fact, they both advanced on him. He’d always known he would be in trouble for this. He’d probably lose his position, but it had to be done.
“It’s Miss Tillie,” he blurted, remembering at least to lower his voice. “She got me to help her play a trick on the major, but they got into the wrong carriage somehow and now they’re gone, and I don’t know where. Too fast to follow.”
Somehow, they didn’t seem quite so surprised or quite as angry as he’d expected. To his amazement, Mrs. Grant immediately began regaling the information to the others while the vicar demanded, “Which direction? Which road?”
James scratched his head. “South.”
“Then they’re not eloping,” the elderly gentleman said with apparent relief.
“They were never eloping,” James insisted. “It was a jest.”
“It always is,” said the solicitor chap with a sigh.
“Where’s this carriage of yours?” the vicar demanded.
“It’s a hired cab, sir,” James said miserably. “Just at the front drive.”
“Come on then,” the vicar commanded, striding for the door. “It will be quicker—and more discreet—than getting our own organized so early.”
“No, it won’t, sir,” James protested, following him. Mrs. Grant trotted at his side. “I can’t drive ’em fast, and they don’t pay much attention to me.”
“They’ll pay attention to me,” the vicar said.
“They will,” Mrs. Grant agreed. “James, we may need your size and muscle. And Tillie will most certainly need a chaperone. Mr. Winslow, I am so so
rry about this…”
Chapter Eighteen
Alban opened a cabin door and held it for Dove to precede him. “Dr. Gowan,” he said without emphasis, “this is Major Doverton, who has a partially-healed injury he needs you to look at.”
Alban closed the door, leaving him alone with the doctor.
At first glance, Gowan looked like an academic. In his shirt sleeves with a pair of spectacles on his nose, he lacked both Dr. Morton’s bluff heartiness and Lampton’s dour kindness. On the other hand, there was nothing wrong with the muscles in his arms. In the past, however lawfully they behaved now, Captain Alban’s crew had almost certainly taken part in acts of piracy and smuggling. Dove expected the doctor had done his part.
He certainly had penetrating eyes as he scanned Dove from head to toe. Then he stood abruptly and offered his hand. “Sit, Major, and let’s have that shirt off… Hmm. Neat job. You’ve just loosened one of the stitches. I’ll put in another to replace it and you should do very well. No more fighting, though, Major, for another couple of weeks.”
“The fighting was Alban’s fault,” Dove said provokingly, curious to see what effect such criticism would have.
“I don’t doubt it,” Gowan replied.
Like Lampton, he was surprisingly gentle. The matter of cleaning, stitching, anointing—interestingly, with a muddy substance that looked and smelled very like Dr. Lampton’s—was quickly accomplished.
“I imagine Lampton scolded you for dueling,” Gowan remarked, bandaging the wound with swift efficiency. “He is averse to pointless risk.”
“I gather you are not.”
“That rather depends on what one considers pointless.”
Dove hesitated. “You appear to be acquainted with Lampton.”
“I have met him once or twice. Interesting man. As are you, Major.”
Dove searched his face. “You’re the one he wanted me to see.”
“That surprises you,” Gowan observed.
“A little,” Dove admitted. “I expected someone older, more…”
“Respectable?” Gowan guessed.
“There appears to be nothing unrespectable in your current position.”
“I gather knowledge, and I use it to heal if I can. There can be nothing more worthy of respect, in my view. Are you going to ask for my formal credentials?”
“No, I see them on the wall.”
Gowan smiled. In silence, he finished binding the wound and helped Dove back into his shirt. Then he sat down on the other side of the desk again.
Dove thought of the last three years, the seemingly endless suffering, the bitterness he had thrown off, and the peace he’d found with his fate. He thought of the beautiful, vital girl in the cabin along the passage, who had, for reasons he could not fathom, insisted on tying her fortunes to his. He thought of revived hopes coming to naught, of leaving her alone to grieve. He thought of living with her, of seeing her laugh every day, of learning every inch of her mind and body, of waking up next to her each morning and making love to her. Children. A future.
He didn’t know if it was possible, and neither did she. No one knew what their future held. He could have drowned at sea instead of rescuing her. He could have been killed by Luke Dawlish or knocked over by a carriage. Every day should be seized. What did yet another medical opinion matter?
It mattered if this opinion came with a solution to heal him. If it didn’t, he had lost nothing. And neither had Tillie.
“Dr. Gowan,” he said. “Would you mind taking a look at an older wound of mine?”
*
Alban left Tillie in a spacious cabin by herself, assuring her she would not be disturbed, before conducting Dove to his surgeon. Tillie hoped this individual would not undo all the good Dr. Lampton had done.
Considering the weather outside, and the wet snowflakes occasionally splattering on the sloping cabin window, it was surprisingly warm below deck. Tillie removed her cloak, then washed her hands and face in the bowl provided, and patted them dry on a soft towel. Apparently, Alban’s wife, Lady Arabella Lamont, often accompanied him on his voyages, which probably explained the odd, unexpected luxuries. There was another strange marriage.
Tillie brushed out her hair with the brush on the table and repined it, staring in the glass without really seeing herself. Her mind was on Dove, and her own foolishness in causing this fresh catastrophe.
But she was being silly again. Neither Dove nor Alban seemed to consider the blood stain in any way serious. And if she was going to marry Dove, she was going to have to learn not to overreact to every “scratch”. She would have to be strong for him. She would be.
She sat down on the seat under the window—or whatever one called it on a ship—gazing out at the gray, choppy sea. She rather liked the roll of the ship and the impression of being in another world, far from everything she was used to. Quite different from the last time she’d been at sea.
She shivered, veering away from the past to the future. There was a lot to think about.
When the knock sounded at the door, she called, “Enter” without thinking. Then, of course, she remembered where she was and jumped to her feet in alarm, just as Dove walked in and closed the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said in relief, falling back onto the window seat. “Come and tell me about your arm.”
He was wearing his coat again and showed no obvious signs of pain. “It’s fine. He’s replaced one of the stitches and put a fresh dressing on it.” He eased himself down beside Tillie without touching her. She searched his face, unable to read his expression, which seemed to be both shocked and baffled and yet not quite either.
“Then what is it?” she asked as mildly as she could.
He blinked, as though reminding himself of her presence, which was hardly flattering. But he took her hand is his warm clasp, and that was better.
“It’s a funny thing,” he said. “It turns out Alban’s physician—Gowan—is the doctor Lampton wanted me to see.”
“Truly?” she said, startled. “Are you going to let him examine you?”
“That’s a funny thing, too. It seems I have already done so.”
Her hand gripped harder before she could stop it. “What did he do?”
“Oh, some of the usual. He had a damned good prod around. Then he just asked me a huge number of questions, about the history of the wound and treatment and my convalescence, my eating and drinking habits, my strength, pain, what exercise I do. About my relations with women. And what I plan to do next. For the next fifty or so years.”
Her eyes widened. “For the next… Oh, Dove, what did he say?”
Slowly, his intense blue gaze lifted from their joined hands to her face. “He said that to all intents and purposes, I have healed. That even mortal wounds that appear untreatable and unrecoverable occasionally defy every learned opinion and simply get better. He says I am strong as an ox and if I would just refrain from dueling as Dr. Lampton bids me, he sees no reason why I should not enjoy a long and busy life.”
She gasped, sliding her arm up over his chest to his neck, and pressed her cheek to his. “Oh, my dear, my love…”
“What is this?” He touched her damp cheek, even as his arm came around her. “I thought you would be pleased.”
She choked out a laugh. “Of course I am pleased, you idiot. I’ve never been so happy in my life! Oh, Dove!” She kissed his lips and frowned with renewed anxiety. “But why aren’t you more pleased? Don’t you believe him?”
He considered that. “Yes, I think I do. I suppose I am…shocked. A bit like battle, when something explodes right beside you. You can’t quite believe you’ve escaped, but know somewhere that you’re pleased to be alive.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Alive. Alive with you.”
Pain twisted through her. But she hugged him tighter. “You don’t need me anymore,” she whispered.
Abruptly, he pushed her back, holding her by both shoulders as he stared into her face. “What? Tillie, where do you co
me up with those daft notions?”
“You will have children now, Dove. Aristocratic children if you wish!”
“I don’t wish,” he said, revolted. “I’ll have your children or none. Besides, you abducted me. You have to marry me.”
The sudden laughter was muffled in his mouth as he kissed her with fierce passion. She responded with every instinct and emotion she had. His hand at her nape, gently kneading, spread thrills all through her body. Her breasts heaved against his strong chest. He lifted her in his arms, spinning with her, almost dancing to the bed where he laid her down and loomed over her. Slowly, deliberately, his hand closed over her breast and she gasped with bliss as he kissed her, and kissed her again. She felt his weight upon her, his hardness pressing between her thighs, arousing urgent desires she hadn’t known she possessed.
She wriggled, aching to be closer, to feel his hands on her naked skin, to touch him.
With a groan, he tore himself from her, and for an instant, stared down at her, his breath coming in pants, his eyes excitingly hot and clouded with lust. “God help me, now is not the time. Alban will be looking for us, assuming we care about Smith and his information.”
She swallowed, trying to gather her thoughts. “Do we?” she asked doubtfully.
He let out a breath of laughter. “We had better try since it’s our only excuse for being here. And we need something to be rid of your family for good. Besides.” He stroked her hair, her cheek, his fingers lingering as they caressed her lips. She kissed them.
“Besides?” she prompted.
“I shan’t take you until you’re mine.”
“I am yours,” she whispered.
He gathered her into his arms. “And I will always look after you.”
*
“That,” Captain Smith said with one glance toward the shore, “is not Larne.”
It was dark, and Captain Alban had anchored off the Cumberland coast somewhere Tillie suspected he knew from his smuggling days. But it was not far from Whalen.
It was snowing, and the clouds obliterated the stars and just about anything else that Smith could have used to identify his true location. When he’d wakened, Alban had told him it was six o’clock the following evening. Smith had seemed shocked to have been asleep so long, but he still looked like death warmed up, like a man, in fact, who had severely overindulged and was paying the price.
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