Chapter 12

Jacob’s mood was grave. He stood in the door of Alex’s cabin watching Foxhall; Alex had lost a great deal of blood. Anger scored his mouth; it had taken far too long to get Alex back to the Angelica. By the time Jacob had summoned more men and arranged for Douglas’s and Patrick’s bodies to be collected, chained up Connor, and then carried a weeping Hestia with her sprained ankle to her cabin, a good hour had passed.

“Will he make it?” Jacob’s voice was ragged with emotion.

Foxhall looked up from where he was stitching Alex’s side. “The wound doesn’t appear to be too deep. The dagger has cut downward, not inward.” He paused before adding, “In this heat, infection is his biggest enemy. I’ve cleaned the wound as best I can, but the wound needs to be bathed with brandy and a fresh dressing applied every few hours. It’s a trick I’ve learned over the years through trial and error. The alcohol helps ward off infection.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

Foxhall shook his head. “You’ll need plenty of help to provide him care day and night. Please ensure the person seeing to his wound understands the importance of keeping it clean and dressed. He’ll also need something for the pain when he wakes. I gave him a strong dose of laudanum before stitching him.”

“Was that wise?” Jacob snapped to attention, pushing away from the cabin doorframe and entering the room. “That’s not a good idea. Lord Bedford won’t like it.”

Foxhall nodded. “A onetime large dose and a few smaller ones won’t hurt him. Anyway, he informed me that he can control his use. Besides, he needs to remain still if the stitches are to heal, and easing his pain will help stop him moving.”

Jacob ran a hand through his hair. How much did Foxhall know? “His lordship has a problem with opiates.”

“I know. I’ll watch him.”

“Not a lot I can do now because you’ve already given him the laudanum.” Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “Just limit the amount. A bit of pain never hurt any man.” Jacob’s tone indicated it was not a request.

Foxhall hesitated and inclined his head. “Of course. But he will only require a small amount for a short period. You’ll just have to manage him carefully. Don’t underestimate the need to keep those stitches intact—keep him still. It lowers the risk of infection as long as the wound is kept clean and fresh dressings are applied. I can’t stress that enough.”

“I’ve been around enough wounds to know that,” Jacob gruffly replied. Jacob understood Alex well, and there was no way Alex would want to be taking laudanum. Alex would rather endure the pain. Jacob inwardly grimaced. He’d rather tie Alex to the bed to keep him immobile.

Foxhall snapped his bag closed and took one long look at Alex. “He was lucky. A few inches deeper and he’d be a dead man.”

Jacob ignored the remark. He swallowed. If Alex died it would be his fault. He should have been covering Alex’s back and stopped Patrick before he could strike. He’d let Alex down. He swore on his mother’s grave that Alex would live.

“It’s going to be a long night. Have someone relieve me at dawn.”

“Sorry, Doc, you’ve one more patient to check on.” Jacob called for Ned through the open cabin door. “Can you watch His Grace while Foxhall checks on Lady Hestia’s ankle? He’ll likely sleep for the next hour, but if he wakes up, make sure he keeps still. We need those stitches to heal as soon as possible.”

If Murad got word of Alex’s injury, the Angelica would become a target.

Hestia lay on her bunk, furious with her throbbing ankle. She’d tried to walk on it several times in the last hour in the hope of hobbling to Alex’s cabin, but her ankle would not take her weight. She was desperate to have news of Alex. It was so unfair; she still had no idea how badly hurt he was. She knew it was serious; there was so much blood and he was unconscious when they carried him on board. Her anguish built with each wring of her hands, the throbbing in her ankle forgotten in her worry.

But she knew all she had to do to ascertain Alex’s condition was open the door and call for Jacob. Hestia didn’t want to disturb David and take him away from Alex. She was too scared; what if the news was bad?

She closed her eyes and moaned. What if he died? All of this would be her fault because she had come to him with her problems. A small tear escaped her closed eyes. Damn Fredrick.

Alex had risked his life to save her—again. She would never forget that.

Images of Alex flashed beneath her closed eyes. Alex laughing at something she’d said, his bravery when facing danger, his never-ending patience when teaching her chess on their long voyage back to England all those years ago, and his ability to take her breath away with one heartrending smile.

Hestia choked back a sob. While he might not ever be hers, she hated thinking of a world without him in it. She wished she’d never asked him to undertake this voyage. Her selfishness was going to cost Alex his life. She felt sick.

A knock on her cabin door made Hestia sit up so fast she swayed, black spots swimming before her eyes. Quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks, Hestia quietly said, “Come in,” dreading what she might be about to hear.

David’s stoic face gave nothing away. “I’ve come to assess your injuries.”

She could not tell from his face the status of Alex. On a whisper she asked, “How is Alex…His Grace?”

“I won’t lie; he has indeed been gravely injured. I have managed to stop the bleeding and stitch the wound together. He’s resting comfortably. I administered laudanum and he should sleep for the next few hours.”

“But will he live?” Her voice caught on the word live, and her expression clearly said, Don’t lie to me.

His eyes filled with pain. “It would not hurt to pray.”

Only her pride stopped her from crumpling in a heap on the bed.

Hestia’s nightly nursing duties were due to start in a few minutes. Her stomach was quivery and she felt sick—sick with guilt and worry. What state would she find Alex in and how could she face him? Because of Fredrick he was in his cabin hurt, perhaps mortally wounded. If he died…now she understood Alex’s drive for revenge, for she would surely make Fredrick pay if Alex did not live.

She’d go crazy with worry if she didn’t pull herself together. Alex needed her.

She’d been so relieved when David agreed to let her nurse Alex. He had a crew to take care of too, and he needed sleep. She thought he might say it wasn’t proper being with Alex without a chaperon, but understandably he had no real choice. He knew she would follow his instructions to the letter. Keep the wound clean and change the bandages regularly. She would take the night shift because she had no jobs that needed to be done during the day, so she could sleep then.

Jacob, as captain, had enough to worry about and needed Ned to help him while Alex was indisposed.

There was also Connor in the brig to keep an eye on. Jacob was worried that there might be others among the crew on Fredrick’s payroll.

Alex was also less likely to need personal help during the night. All she was instructed to do was to watch over him as he slept, ensure he drank a small amount of water, and make him keep still. She would be diligent, watching for signs of infection such as fever, and change his bandages every three hours. She chewed her bottom lip; how hard could that be?

At her appointed time, Hestia quietly hobbled into Alex’s dimly lit cabin. Her hands were shaking as she closed the door behind her. She wasn’t sure how she’d react at seeing him so badly injured. She gave herself a shake. This is not about you, young lady. This is about aiding the man you love.

Hestia’s scolding did the trick, and having given herself a stiff dose of Dutch courage, she lifted her eyes to inspect the cabin. She took in Foxhall sitting at one end of the cabin sorting through his medicine case. But what sent her nerves spinning out of control was the sight that greeted her when her gaze finally moved toward the bed. She expected to be distraught at seeing Alex so hurt, and she was, but also there was something primal in seeing him like this and heat rushed through her veins.

He was lying on his back, eyes closed, sleeping soundly. If she thought him angelic looking when he was awake, nothing prepared her for the vision of his Greek god–like features so still against the pillow. His fair hair framed his face in complete serenity. His dark brown eyelashes were long against his pale cheeks. The stubble covering the narrow planes of his face made him look so much younger, his features open, soft, and vulnerable. Her heart clenched. It hurt to look at him, and the driving need to caress and hold him in her arms until he was better was painful.

Her body grew even warmer as she took in his bronzed torso, covered with bandages. She barely kept a small gasp from slipping out, and a tender smile broke on her lips at the sight of her shell, hanging about his neck on a strip of leather.

The fact he still wore it gave her hope.

She followed a path of golden hair down the hard planes of chest and stomach as far as the sheet would allow. It had slipped down his body to halt just above his groin, and his legs were spread wide underneath. Hestia almost forgot to breathe; it was obvious he was completely naked under the thin sheet. Hestia fought the inappropriate urge to let her fingers glide over his silky skin and draw the sheet away from the rest of his glorious body.

She fanned her face with her hand. It was stuffy in the cabin, so she limped toward the door to the balcony, opening it to allow fresh air to flow. Concentrating on her task, she recalled that she’d dreamed of being alone in his bedchamber, with him naked, for so long, but her lip quivered when she realized she’d never pictured Alex being hurt in order to achieve it. And she’d never forget this was her fault. For the hundredth time she wished she could swap places with him.

Mr. Foxhall looked up as she finished opening the door to the tiny balcony.

“Oh good, you’ve arrived. I have to see to the men and also place an order for more supplies. How is your ankle?”

“The pain is easing, thank you. You look exhausted, David. Try and get some sleep tonight. I’m perfectly capable of looking after him, and you are but a call away should I need you.” With a small smile Hestia added, “I’ll manage the night shift perfectly well.”

“Right, then. I’ve just inspected his wound and I have applied a clean dressing. It’s unlikely he’ll wake for the next few hours. Please try to keep him still.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” With worry in her voice she continued. “I’m not that strong.”

He snorted. “You won’t need strength. I’m giving him a small amount of laudanum to ensure he stays drowsy and immobile. I have left a bottle here for you in case he stirs. Make sure he has one drop, and I mean one drop only, in some brandy just before you change his dressing. That’s when he’ll be in the most pain.”

Hestia’s face paled. She almost dropped her head in her hands, the thought she might hurt him when she cleansed the wound too much to bear. God was punishing her for her wicked deed. He was making her suffer by seeing his pain.

Mr. Foxhall eyed her dubiously. “Have you tended the sick and injured before, Lady Hestia?”

Hestia hung her head. “Other than helping you on this voyage, no.”

“I see.” David briefly explained how to change Alex’s dressing. He demonstrated how to clean the wound and reapply the bandage. He also described the signs of infection—fever, redness around the wound, weeping.

And then he was gone. She was alone with Alex.

Her ankle still throbbed, but with the strapping David had applied to it earlier and the intimacy of Alex’s cabin, she all but forgot about it. The men had moved one of the leather armchairs from the stateroom into Alex’s cabin so she would be more comfortable. They had placed it across from the end of the bunk bed so she could prop her ankle on Alex’s clothes chest. She’d brought one of her small tapestries with her to keep her occupied so she wouldn’t fall asleep.

How ironic that on their previous sea adventure he’d nursed her; now she was looking after him. She could finally repay him for the kindness he’d shown her as a young girl.

She gazed adoringly at her patient. Her heart fluttered at his beauty, yet she paused in her contemplation. The trip home from Greece seemed so long ago, a different age. She’d grown up, and Alex, well, she arched an eyebrow. He’d turned out to be something of a conundrum.

Four years ago, once they’d arrived back on English soil, he’d been so different from the man he’d been on board.

Lord Pembroke had greeted Alex with a hero’s welcome. Alex stayed with the family for several weeks, and it was clear to Hestia that her father and Alex had formed a strong bond. The earl came to think of Alex as the son he’d never had.

Even though she was an only child, and rarely had her father’s attentions, she wasn’t at all jealous of the interest her father showered on Alex.

She encouraged it.

She’d hoped her father would come to love Alex as much as she did. Alex was, after all, a marquess and would become a duke; how could her father not approve of a match with him? Of course she was sixteen and too young to marry, but within two years she’d be eighteen and there’d be no impediment to their nuptials if her father agreed to the match.

Yes, she’d had it all planned out—the happily ever after. She’d fulfill her promise to her mother and marry for love.

Her whole body tightened from a shot of pain to her ankle as she remembered that back then, naïve as she was, not for one moment had she considered Alex did not feel the same way or that her father would object.

Her tapestry all but forgotten, her heart clenched in her bosom at how it had all gone horribly wrong.

The rawness of her ordeal at Murad’s hands meant her father, her Aunt Eliza, and all the household staff had hovered over her, treating her as if she were made of glass, trying to swathe her in bales of wool. The overprotectiveness was stifling, especially for a young woman on the cusp of her first romantic foray. She’d romped about freely on Alex’s schooner, no one to keep her in check, but now that she was home, she was consigned back to drawing room etiquette. Her aunt, concerned at the scandal her abduction had created, ensured she followed every society rule to the letter.

Alex, sensing her frustration and taking pity on her, had helped her escape the endless fussing. Perhaps having had a similar experience, been released from enforced captivity, he could empathize with her reluctance to be penned in. Each morning, accompanied by a groom, he would take her riding along the cliff tops on the estate.

Her heart had soared as she rode across the rolling acres, the sky wide and clear above her, the wind whipping the tendrils of her hair about her face, and the most gorgeous man alive by her side. She always challenged Alex to race her to the cove. In her innocence, Hestia had not recognized Alex’s gallantry: he always let her win, and she’d thought, at the time, it was her superior horsemanship.

As they’d ridden, he’d entertained her with stories of his family’s estate in Bedfordshire.

To a young girl in the throes of her first budding romance, was it any wonder she’d fallen hopelessly in love with him? The idea of living at Bracken Park, enveloped in the bosom of his large family…She had been so lonely growing up that his tales of how he filled his sister’s shoes with frogs, or how he’d been fox hunting with his brothers and fallen in the stinging nettle, made her yearn to become part of his family.

At the end of what was to be their last ride together before Alex departed, she’d been so fixated on his strong, warm hands as they lifted her from her saddle that she’d not noticed her father riding up behind them. She’d gazed in rapture into Alex’s mesmerizing fresh-as-a-summer-meadow green eyes and couldn’t hide how she felt; she let her love pour out.

Hestia hadn’t missed how his hands lingered on her waist, even though her feet were firmly on the ground. She’d held her breath, certain he was going to kiss her. Then her father had called his name and the spell had been broken.

Alex left Cresselly House that afternoon, without saying goodbye. It had broken her heart.

She wrote to him but he never returned her correspondence.

Alex never at any time appeared at Cresselly House over the following eighteen months, although she knew he’d written to her father, and her father wrote back. She recognized the handwriting.

Finally, a year later on her first outing of her first season, she’d sought him out at Lord Warrington’s ball. He was polite but very formal, as if they’d never had an adventure together. He did not even request a dance. Where was the Alex she’d known on the voyage home? Where was the man she’d fallen in love with?

She’d followed him about the ballroom shamelessly all night, heedless of everyone’s smirks. She was too angry and hurt to care about society’s niceties. Hestia seethed as the women fawned all over him, in particular a busty young widow named Lady Chester. She’d had a chest all right, and had displayed far too much of it.

Alex had charmed, flattered, and flirted with all the women at the ball except her. He’d avoided her as if she would give him the plague by just being in her presence.

During one of the few times she allowed herself to be swept onto the dance floor, she’d lost sight of him. As the young man, her dance partner, whirled her around the floor for a minuet, Hestia realized with a frown that Lady Chester was also missing.

Determined not to give up on her man and let the witchy woman sink her claws into Alex, she’d slipped away from the ballroom in search of them. It had been raining so she knew they were unlikely to be in the garden. She’d stopped on the landing and concentrated on where they might be. Her eyebrow had arched. The library.

Hurrying up the carved wooden stairs, her pulse rising with each step, she didn’t stop to think of the audacity of her actions. All she could think of was saving Alex, who was about to be taken advantage of. She had to help him. She’d gone after him driven by her painful, adolescent ardor.

Arriving before the library door, she’d stopped, taken a deep breath, and listened for any sounds. She’d heard one muffled groan and immediately flung open the door, hands on hips ready to do battle for her man.

She’d never forget the sight that greeted her.

Alex had Lady Chester pinned against the far wall, his cravat, jacket, and waistcoat discarded. His white shirt hung loose from his shoulders, revealing his golden chest. His black breeches clung to his lean hips as Lady Chester with her skirts hitched up fumbled to undo the buttons of his falls.

At Hestia’s dramatic entry, he’d looked over and held her shocked gaze for a second.

“Damn, I should have locked the door.”

She still remembered the mocking smile that followed those words, but before she’d slammed the door and fled, she caught the smoldering look in his eyes as he drank her in while she stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide.

Now, as she sat in Alex’s cabin looking back with more experienced eyes, deep in her heart she understood—he wanted her, not Lady Chester.

Hestia shook her head, unable to understand why he’d not fought for her. His desire was visible whenever he looked at her. Yet he made no move to pursue her. In fact, he played the infamous rake to the hilt over that period, his reputation for pleasures of the flesh becoming notorious.

Hestia bit her bottom lip. Knowing all this, why did her heart still yearn for him so?

Because every now and then he teased her with glimpses of the man she’d come to know on that voyage home.

During her first season, while shopping on Bond Street one day, she’d spied Alex speaking angrily to a hackney driver for whipping an underfed, overworked horse. When the scoundrel told him to mind his own business Alex demanded to buy the horse and replace it with a fresher one. Then there was the time she’d caught Alex playing with his cousin’s three young children in the park. Once he’d left she’d quizzed their nanny. Apparently he made time at least once a week when he was in London to visit with the children. Not many men of his standing would bother.

He liked children. It made her long to provide him with sons, beautiful replicas of their father. They could become such a happy family.

Her tapestry dropped from her lap, jerking her out of her wistful remembrance. Bending to pick it up, she scolded herself; she was supposed to be caring for him, not daydreaming. However, as ashamed as she was, Hestia couldn’t miss an opportunity to study the man before her.

What went on in that head of his? What secrets did he hold tight in his heart?

She rose from the chair and hobbled to his bedside.

Dim candlelight from the washstand sculpted his high cheekbones in shadow. She stroked his cheek, raspy from a day’s growth. His lips looked soft and plump, and the dramatic angles of his face had softened in his sleep.

She swept her eyes down his body. His chest was like polished marble, except for the sparse sprinkling of hair, rough like the bit of marble surface exposed to the elements. But his skin was warm under her touch, not cold and unmoving like a statue.

His muscled torso was chiseled and defined, not bulky, but rather superbly athletic. His arms looked powerful and she shivered with a longing to know the feeling of them wrapped around her. His waist was flat, but defined. The muscles of his abdomen were like ripples on a pond, racing away beneath the sheet covering the area she was most interested in.

She’d never seen a naked man before. Was she bold enough to take a peek? Would she be disappointed? Looking toward heaven as if asking God to forgive her, she turned her attention back to Alex’s covered groin and gingerly took the sheet between her fingers, then lifted it far enough to satisfy her curiosity.

The ladies of the ton were right, she decided with a private smile. Every inch of him was quite perfect, although not as big as they’d made out. She recalled some gossip doing the rounds that indicated he was tremendously well endowed. That part of his anatomy didn’t look that intimidating from here.

Hestia froze. Her cheeks turned crimson. As if hearing her insolent thoughts, his member began to thicken. It engorged to an incredible size, both in length and in girth, and stood to attention underneath the upheld sheet.

She dropped the sheet as if it were on fire. It tented over his groin. She slowly raised her eyes back up his body to meet compelling green eyes smoldering under his heavy-lidded gaze.

A raspy voice, seductively sending shivers down her spine, said, “So, my angel, you’ve come to torment my dreams once more. Even when injured I can’t seem to rid you from my thoughts. You can see the effect you have on me. My desire for you is very strong.”

Sweet heaven. She had seen that look before in men’s eyes. Want, need, primitive male lust. She should be ecstatic to see the desire burning in his eyes, but with a deep sigh she understood he could be dreaming of someone else. Besides, he was in no condition to act on it. Even worse, it was probably his insensibilities talking. Actually, more like screaming.

She would try to ignore his aroused state. Wryly she admitted that would be difficult, given the sheet’s height over his groin.

With pure will she turned her gaze to his upper body, and her heart melted. He looked so lost, dazed, and confused. She tenderly cupped his cheek and whispered, “Would you like something to drink, Alex?”

“Even in my dreams you aren’t mine. If a drink is all I’ll get from you, so be it.” He tried to sit up and let out a low groan.

“Are you in dreadful pain?”

“Not from my injury, my darling. Seeing you, smelling you, hearing you, but not being able to touch you, are far worse agonies.” He raised his hand and ran his thumb seductively over her lips. “This dream is more real than anything I’ve previously experienced. Would you taste real?” He dropped his hand and sighed. “But you’re not real, just a figment of my imagination. A dream of you is not what I want. I crave the real thing, to feel your soft curves beneath me, to plunge into your hot sheath and make you sob with ecstasy. And that I can never do, you’ll never be mine.”

Hestia smiled. He had no idea she was real, alive, just a hairbreadth away from him and also ablaze with longing. Perhaps it was better this way. Perchance, in his drug-induced state, she’d find out the truth. Did he have feelings for her? What would those feelings be? If he did, why did he hesitate to claim her?

She raised a glass of brandy with a drop of laudanum in it to his parched lips and let him drink.

Once he finished, Alex slumped back against the pillows, his body half sitting up, leaning on his uninjured side. Hestia couldn’t resist tenderly pushing his soft locks off his gorgeous face.

She’d wait a few minutes for the laudanum to work before she attempted to change his bandages. Anything to delay the inevitable, the coward that she was; she couldn’t face hurting him while he was still so awake.

Soon the drug took effect and his words turned to mumbles and then quiet.

Then she set about changing his dressings as quickly and carefully as she could.