Madeline settled on the bed and pressed her ear against the wall. Was that a man’s groan? Or the ship boards creaking? Damn. She couldn’t hear a blasted thing.
Scrambling off the mattress, she snatched a water glass from the table. She cupped one end of the glass to her ear and pressed the other to the wall. The funneled sound was stronger, but still incoherent. She sighed, slumping on the bed.
William had booted her from his room—again—vexed with her “distracting” behavior, but he’d also evinced the same haggard expression from the previous night. Was he ill? Did he need her help?
He would never ask his tars for assistance, whatever his mysterious ailment. He would never seek her support, either, she reckoned, no matter how many times she vowed to keep his secret.
“Stubborn ass,” she muttered.
Still, she couldn’t leave him in distress. She considered barging into his room, but worried he’d throw her overboard in frustration. She next considered a polite rap on the door and an innocent inquiry into his health, but she was sure he’d tell her to bugger off.
No, her last and best resort was to sneak into his room while he was sleeping and check on him. At least, then, she’d be assured of his wellbeing without an unpleasant confrontation.
Madeline had a few hours ahead of her before implementing her plan. The oil lamp on the table still burned, and she settled between the pillows, too tired to rouse and turn down the flame.
Instead, she faced the warm glow, closed her eyes and imagined the lush garden on her family estate in the summertime. Strange how childhood memories comforted her now . . .
Madeline fingered the velvety soft rose petals from her mother’s prized stock, inhaled their intoxicating perfume. Such sweetness always made her drowsy and she rested under an oak tree.
Suddenly an acorn tapped her on the head. She looked up to find a boy in the branches, grinning down at her. She turned as red as her mother’s roses before she scrambled up the tree after the jackanapes. He taunted her as she climbed. And she was good and ready to clobber him when she reached the canopy. But the boy lost his footing . . . and fell.
His descent was slow. She watched every moment in horror, unable to scream for help. He hit the ground, his body broken and bloody. Frantic, she clambered down the tree and rushed to his side.
The grass was stained with blood, so much blood. It pooled at her ankles. She covered her head to protect her eyes from the smoke and shrapnel, to protect her nose from the stench of sulphur, to protect her ears from the blasts of cannons and muskets. She kneeled beside the boy. But he was dead.
Madeline sobbed. Blood dissolved into fire. Fire turned into smoldering ash. At last she realized she was in bed, far away from the battlefield. She tossed aside the covers and breathed long and deep.
Blimey, what a nightmare. No, not a nightmare. A memory. Many memories mashed together, both wonderful and gruesome. It was not the first time she’d had such a patchwork dream. It would not be the last.
As her heart steadied, she eased off the feather tick. What time was it? she wondered and glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost midnight. William would be asleep at such an hour, she reasoned. What if sneaking into his room disturbed him? He needed rest. But if something else had happened to him? Something unfortunate?
She raked her teeth over her bottom lip. She looked at the clock again. A quarter after twelve. She let out a frustrated sigh and marched into the passageway.
After her frightening dream, she needed to see the captain more than ever. Still, her feet dragged as she approached the man’s door. And when she reached it, her belly tightened.
She tested the latch. Unlocked. Slowly she pushed the barrier and peeked inside the cabin.
It took her several moments to adjust to the faint light, but she soon spotted William on the bed, his legs arched in a twisted pose, his forearm draped over his brow.
Her heart cramped with compassion. Was he in pain? Or just asleep? Surely, he was asleep. And she turned away. But a relentless voice nagged: what if he’s hurt?
Yes, what if?
Madeline huffed again, gathered her wits and walked toward the bed.
As she neared the slumbering figure, she noted his teeth clenched together. His shirt, half unlaced, revealed a wall of muscle, covered in tufts of dark hair, and she watched his chest expand with every hard breath.
She kneeled at the bedside, so close to him, and rested her palm over his throbbing heart. She sensed his breath stirring the fine hairs on her wrist and gasped softly at the titillating feel of gooseflesh tightening across her arm, her whole body. But she didn’t pull her hand away. She left it splayed across the center of his breast, counting the powerful beats beneath his shirt.
Her own heart roared, and the longer she kept her hand in place, the more the organ boomed. Her touch lingered another tense moment before she slipped her hand away, and though it was an improper reaction, she was unsettled to lose his pulse.
Soon her fingertips traced his sternum, spread across his clavicle bone and down over his pectoral muscle. He flinched under her probing touch. His breathing hastened. So alive, she thought, much assured.
The heat radiating through his shirt very nearly scorched her palm, yet she didn’t take her hand off his body. She couldn’t. Mesmerized. Her own pulse thumped in her head, and disoriented, she almost missed the hoarse “Maddie” that scraped between his lips.
“What the hell are you doing?” he growled.
Madeline snapped upright, gasping for air. “Forgive me. I—I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Bloody hell, you’re incorrigible.”
“Thank you.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
And he rolled his arm away, revealing his smoky eyes and miserable expression. Flustered, she scurried toward the wash basin and moistened a towel. She felt wholly wanton. Her fingers flexed as she remembered the captain’s hammering heartbeat, the heat, the life teeming from him, his uneven breath on her skin, so arousing.
She turned away, cheeks burning. What the devil had possessed her to touch him in such a familiar manner?
The nightmare. The nightmare had unsettled her. Her nerves thrummed even now. It was the only logical explanation for her shameful behavior.
“You should have a doctor aboard ship,” she chastised, regaining her composure and crossing the room. She placed the cool compress over his fevered brow. “I wouldn’t have to look after you, then.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“But you need it.”
He grabbed the compress and dropped it on the floor. “Get out, Maddie.”
She was bloody tired of hearing him order her “out” of his room, “out” of his life and snatched the towel off the floor, plopping it back on his head. “If there was a doctor aboard ship, I’d leave.”
“There is a doctor,” he verily snarled. “My youngest brother, Quincy.”
“Well, where is he?”
Then grumbling, “He’s not joining us on this voyage.”
“I see.” She placed her arms akimbo. “And you’re not joining us on our return trip to England. Did you quarrel with your family? Is that why you’re spending time apart from them?”
“No,” he gritted. “Now get—”
“Out. I know.” She toted a chair to the side of the bed and dropped into the seat, arms folded under her breasts. “I shan’t leave unless you carry me out.”
“Fine.”
Madeline shrieked as he hoisted off the mattress.
~ * ~
William groaned. A merciless pressure squeezed both sides of his skull, borrowing into his temples and stomping his brain so hard, his eyeballs pulsed alongside his heartbeat. He was uneven on his feet and dropped back on the edge of the bed. In the moonlit murk, he waited, impotent, for the agony to pass.
As soon as he recovered from his headache, he’d strangle the impossible woman. Damn her. Damn her for being here. Damn her for seeing him like this. So weak.
Stonewalled, he released a relenting breath and crashed against the pillow. “Hide,” he warned her. “Hide from me when I’ve healed.”
“Don’t be such a grump.” After retrieving the towel again, she mopped his brow. “You would never hurt me. I’m family.”
“So?”
“So, you would never hurt your family. I know that about you.”
The same disagreeable, unwelcomed, protective instinct came over him at her decisive assertion.
“You’re just acting the part of a tyrant,” she went on, “to conceal the pain.”
Her precise recognition of his motives perturbed him even more. He prayed his crew wasn’t half as mindful as the tenacious Lady Madeline.
“How long have you suffered from vertigo?” she wondered in a quiet voice.
He shut his eyes, ignoring the storm in his breast. “It isn’t vertigo.”
“A headache, then?”
“Hmm.”
Headache. Blood loss. Frailty. Then death.
He grimaced at the inevitable procession of grisly symptoms: symptoms he couldn’t fight, much less destroy. And a rage billowed inside him. It crushed his ribs, took his breath away.
“Here.” She tipped a glass to his lips. “Drink.”
“A laudanum cocktail?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Damn,” he muttered as he downed the water.
He heard a faint chuckle, the same musical laughter. Such a beautiful sound had a reviving effect on him. But soon the discomfort returned, worsened. His thoughts twisted with an ugly truth: in a few months, he wouldn’t hear such lyrical laughter, the warmth of it, the joy . . .
His teeth clenched again. He sensed the blood pooling at his nose.
William seized the compress and soaked up the blood before she noticed it. As his heart gathered strength, he barked, “Out!”
She snorted. “I shan’t leave unless you carry me out.”
Her repetitive rebuff gnawed at his innards. He would not permit her—or anyone else—to watch him fall apart.
He tossed the compress aside. “I see you’re going to be a bloody nuisance.” And he cradled the back of her head, wrenching her toward his mouth. “Do not come back here again, Maddie.”
He kissed her—hard—for good measure.
Shit, that was a mistake. The woman didn’t screech or struggle. No, she opened her damnable lips and let him ravish her. And he ached. He ached for her. For more of her.
William took her deeper into his mouth and groaned, low in his throat. Her every thrust, so bold, chased away the nightmare in his soul. He had lived with death for so long. And for so long, he had denied himself the pleasure of life. Such sweet pleasure, like a woman’s intimate touch.
He threaded his hand through her mussed hair, holding her. The blood in his veins surged with want. His muscles throbbed for . . .
She gasped when he pushed her away.
No, he wouldn’t take her. He wouldn’t let the rough and wild moment spiral out of control. Was he mad? Inviting such danger into his life? What the hell would’ve happened if he’d bedded the woman?
He wouldn’t be so irresponsible. Not now. Not at the end of his life. And since she hadn’t any sense about the matter, he’d have to gather the strength to resist her . . . but as he stared into her bewitching eyes and listened to the sound of her hastened breathing, the sound of her unfulfilled longing, he wasn’t sure where in the hell he’d find the power to resist her—especially knowing she desired him in return.
Girding his muscles, he lifted from the bed and took hold of her arm, dragging her toward the door. “If you come back here again, I’ll throw you in the brig.” And he shoved her into the passageway.
William then leaned against the door, his head throbbing, spinning. Somehow, he could feel her standing on the other side of the barrier, her soul in just as much turmoil. And the danger he’d dreaded closed in on him. It uprooted his logic, his reason, his impenetrable control. It left a gaping void of chaotic emotions that threatened to destroy him.
Suddenly, an apprehension worse than death filled him . . . the thought of caring for Maddie.