Madeline leaned against the starboard rail. The cloudland stretched on forever. The heavens billowed in the distance and pulsed with electric light, but the storm traveled in the opposite direction. Still, a heavy wind pressed against her back, disentangling her plaited hair. And much like her emotions, the wisps fluttered at wayward angles.
William had ignored her for several days—and he’d bolted his door every night, the cheek of the man. She wasn’t a seducer, chasing after the hapless captain. How dare he insinuate such a thing! He had kissed her. Aye, she’d returned the buss. Enjoyed it. Savored it, even. Yet . . .
Her fickle indignation turned into longing as she remembered the hot feel of his lips, the passion coursing through his blood, the unfettered desire he’d released, and she wondered what had ever made her think him an unfeeling brute.
She reached for her mouth, touched her lips, shuddering, the sensation of pleasure still there . . . the want still there. Perhaps the captain was wise to lock his door, she mused.
Madeline sighed. Apart from the unexpected kiss, their relationship was simple. A business deal, really. An exchange of services. William would rescue her grandfather. She would deliver a letter to his sister, the duchess. A straightforward, uncomplicated transaction. Was she breaching their bargain?
She considered steering clear of him as he’d requested—well, demanded—but the thought of leaving him alone, in pain, repulsed her, and she quickly rejected the idea. He deserved her support. She wouldn’t turn away from him. She wouldn’t abandon him in need, like her family had abandoned her. His pride was just an obstacle. And she’d defeated many obstacles in the past.
“Look out!”
Her daydream shattered—but the warning had come too late.
A large sack of flour being lowered into the galley by a pulley came crashing down, clipping her backside, knocking her off her feet . . . and sending her over the rail.
Madeline screamed as she plummeted toward the water, crashing into the icy surf with such force, her chest seized, taking her breath away. It was several disorienting moments in the dark and frigid water before she surfaced, struggling against the weight of her wet garment which threatened to drag her to the seabed.
She kicked and paddled, as her grandfather had taught her many years ago, arduously swimming back toward the Nemesis. She ignored the panicked cries aboard ship and bellowing curses distracted her, but then she heard a loud splash.
From the ring of roiling bubbles surfaced a sailor.
William.
He stroked toward her at breakneck speed and clinched her waist, dragged her back to the rig.
The rope ladder was lowered.
William thrust her against the wooden rings. “Climb,” he ordered.
Her fingers numb, she grasped the rings and scaled the ladder, every step slow and shaky, but with the captain right behind her, pushing her onward, she finally reached the top deck.
Several hands grabbed her and hoisted her over the rail. A wool blanket draped her shoulders. A mug of rum was pressed into her hands.
Shivering, Madeline gulped the rum, needing the fortifying drink, her mind in a tizzy, her heart slamming into her ribs like a battering ram.
As soon as the captain boarded the ship, the tars collectively separated from her, their expressions wary. And with good reason. A sidelong glance revealed the captain’s livid features. She’d be spooked, too, if confronted with such a glare. She had never seen the man more incensed—not even with her.
And though her tumbling overboard had been a happenstance, she sensed the crew would pay dearly for the accident. But before any vicious reprimands passed between his lips, William’s features changed, crippled.
Madeline sensed the moment vertigo gripped him, the moment a surge of pain wracked his head. She had seen that expression many times before and realized the man was about to collapse—in front of his crew—and not from a valiant bullet wound earned in the heat of battle, but from scooping a slight chit out of the calm sea.
There was no greater defeat, no greater humiliation for a captain than to fall apart in front of his men, and Madeline quickly stepped at William’s side, feigning distress.
Her arms went around his waist, her temple rested on his chest, and she coughed, then whispered, “Thank you for escorting me back to my cabin, Captain. I need rest.”
He remained taut, desperate to maintain his composure. She tugged at him, encouraging him to lean on her and move. As he hobbled, she stumbled, too, making it appear as though the captain was supporting her floundering steps.
The crew parted, creating a channel, their heads hung in dismay as she and the captain passed in complete silence. Fortunately, William’s reticence prompted guilty sentiments instead of suspicious ones. As far as she could observe, the tars believed their captain too enraged to speak, not ill, and that was all she wanted them to think for now.
As soon as she reached the captain’s cabin, she helped him toward the bed where he finally collapsed, his features contorted. He was shaking, his eyes shut tight, and blood was seeping from his nose.
She stifled an alarmed cry and kneeled beside the bed, taking his hand. “What can I do?”
“Nothing,” he gritted. “It’ll pass, as always.”
She fetched a towel and returned to his bedside, mopping the blood. “Oh, William.”
“You . . . all right?” he stuttered, floating in and out of consciousness.
“I’m fine,” she assured him, squeezing his hand again.
“Almost . . . lost . . . you.”
“No, I can swim. My grandfather taught me as a child.”
“Almost . . . drowned.”
“No,” she repeated more forcefully. “I can swim, William. I’m alive.” And she bussed his quivering lips as proof. “I’m alive.”
He blacked out then.
Madeline slumped on her heels, tears rolling down her cheeks. She listened to his haggard breathing for a few frustrating minutes before she pushed aside her grief. She had work to do. And though she wasn’t a trained nurse, she had enough knowledge about basic care to help him through his latest episode.
After she’d changed into dry clothes, Madeline returned to the captain’s cabin and bolted the door. She first divested his wet clothes using a knife she’d found wedged in his boot. He was too heavy for her to maneuver, so she’d simply sliced the garments, yanked off his boots, then covered him with a series of blankets.
He trembled still, from pain, not fever, and she couldn’t watch him writhe in discomfort without resorting to bloody tears.
After a thoughtful pause, she crawled across the bed, lifted the covers, and snuggled beside his naked body. She crooked one arm and nestled her hand under her chin, stretching her other arm across the breadth of his chest.
His warmth, his heartbeat comforted her, even if it didn’t offer him much solace . . . or perhaps her proximity soothed him after all, for he soon settled and breathed with greater strength, his rhythm even.
“Oh, William,” she whispered once more, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. “What ails you?”
But she suspected she might not want to learn the truth anymore.