Chapter Two
Tristan paced the narrow, short hallway outside the door to his quarters, two steps in one direction, then two in the other while he waited for his surgeon to provide him with an update on the mystery woman’s condition. They had already surmised that she must have been traveling with her family between the isles, mayhap to visit children who had moved away. Alternatively, she may have gained passage on a ferry boat, again to visit family or some such matter. Their ship may have struck a rock or was overturned by a storm.
The only real certitude—she was the lone survivor.
He could only imagine how dreadful her experience had been. When they had pulled her on board, she was conscious but only barely, and her skin had been like fire to touch, despite the chill of the sea.
Tristan jerked around when he heard the door open.
His surgeon, an older man with a ring of white, wispy hair around his bald head, joined him in the confined passage.
“How is she?” Tristan asked.
Robert Appleby wiped his hands on his waxed leather apron. “Her fever will not break. No sooner do I manage to get a drop of ale down her throat, than she spits it back up.” He shook his head. “Her condition is grave, I fear.”
Tristian racked his brain. “Surely, there must be more we can do.”
Robert lifted his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Captain, but who can say how long the poor thing was drifting upon the open water, exposed to the sun and the weather. All we can do is try to keep her calm and cool, and most importantly, she must drink something.” Robert swiped his sleeve across his forehead, soaking up beads of sweat that dotted his weary brow. “I need to stretch my legs and use the privy.”
Tristan nodded. “I will stay with her.”
“You will find a bowl with water and a rag on the floor near your bed. Keep her cheeks cool.” Robert took a step farther into the hall, but he teetered. Tristan reached out to steady him. “My foot fell asleep,” Robert explained. Then he gave Tristan a pointed look. “Build larger cabins in your next ship.”
“Agreed,” Tristan promised.
Most of the space in the hull was reserved for cargo, allowing for only four small rooms below the main deck, one for himself, a room for his quarter master, another for the ship’s surgeon, and the galley. The rest of his crew slept beneath the fore and stern castles on the main deck. Tristan’s own room was fitted with a narrow bed, which was nailed into the wall; a slim stand with a pitcher, the legs of which were nailed to the floor, and a small desk where he kept his charts and contracts, which was built right into the hull. The floor space remaining was significantly smaller than the hallway. Regrettably, pacing would not be an option. Taking a deep breath, Tristan opened the door to his cabin.
His eyes widened when he saw the woman. Her hair was still damp. Dark red curls splayed across his pillow. A bandage covered the gash on her brow. Her head thrashed from side to side, and her body trembled. His chest tightened at the sight of her suffering. Straightaway, he dropped to his knees and snatched the rag from the wooden bowl. Squeezing out the excess water, he dabbed her cheek.
The moment the cloth touched her skin, her eyelids flew open.
He gasped, surprised by her sudden awakening and struck by the vibrant blue color of her eyes, apparent even in the soft glow of candlelight. But more than that, it was the pain he glimpsed in their stormy depths that made his breath catch.
She grabbed his tunic, pulling her face close to his. “Where are my girls?” she rasped. She held his gaze. Her whole body shook. Her eyes were pleading, desperate.
“I…I do not know,” he stammered.
A breath later, her eyes rolled back as she collapsed on the bed. He pressed his ear to her chest and blew out a breath of relief when he heard her heartbeat. It was weak, but still, she lived.
Where are my girls?
Searing heartbreak coursed through him as he guessed she referred to other passengers lost in the wreck. Could her daughters have been on board?
He sat back on his heels and reached for the mug of ale on his desk. Then he eased his arm behind her head and lifted her so that she might swallow safely. When he tilted the cup, she sputtered, and just as Robert had described most of what he poured down her throat came right back up. Still, he administered the ale, every precious drop counted.
Trading the mug for the damp rag, he tried to cool her burning cheeks, but she began to thrash more violently, her head rocking from side to side, her brows drawn together in a constant expression of anguish. Her troubled sleep seemed riddled with demons willing her to surrender to whatever torture they inflicted. He leaned close to her ear. “Do not give up,” he whispered. “Fight on!”
After more than an hour passed, he stood and stretched. There was hardly space enough for his large frame on the floor near the bedside. He hadn’t noticed the cramping in his muscles until she had suddenly grown quiet. He took a deep breath as he stared down at her. At the very least, she appeared almost peaceful. Her head no longer thrashed from side to side, but her mutterings continued. Mostly, her words were incoherent, although every now and then he heard a word or name. Ian. Destiny.
“Let me take over, Captain.”
He turned around, surprised to find Robert standing in the doorway.
“I didn’t hear you come down the stairs,” Tristan said before returning his gaze to the woman’s face. He knelt again and smoothed back her red curls. Her pallor had not improved. Ruddy, sunburned patches contrasted with deathly white splotches. Still, her condition could not diminish her beauty. Long, thick dark lashes fanned across her cheeks. Her nose was small and pert, and full lips moved as she continued to whisper. The lines at her eyes and those framing her mouth revealed her advancing years. He guessed she was only a few years younger than him.
“Has she gained consciousness?” Robert asked.
He shook his head. “She opened her eyes but for only a moment.”
“You should know that the men are talking,” Robert warned. “They fear she is a bad omen. Some worry she’s a silky or a lost princess.”
Tristan arched a brow at him. “Would a princess wear homespun wool and have calloused palms?”
“These are not my fears,” Robert said. “She is clearly a commoner, although there is nothing common about her appearance. She’s beautiful.”
“Striking,” Tristan said absently. He could hardly tear his eyes away. He hung on her every breath, waiting, praying for her to take her next one. “I would like to stay with her.”
“I’m afraid you must step outside into the hall,” Robert replied, drawing his gaze. “I’ve made a fresh poultice for her chest that should aid her breathing. There is simply not room for two men in here.”
Tristan scanned his close quarters. Robert was right, of course. He hated to go, but he knew she needed the surgeon’s skills. Leaning over her, his lips grazed her ear as he whispered, “Fight on.” Then he pushed against the bed to stand. He squeezed past Robert but hesitated in the doorway. Looking back, he said, “Do everything you can to save her.”
Robert nodded. “I will do my best.”
Tristan stepped into the hallway and renewed his pacing, but several minutes later, he stopped, knowing he was going to drive himself mad. He peered into his room. “I’m going aloft,” he said. “Fetch me if her condition changes.”
His gaze settled once more on her lovely face. Praying it was not the last time he saw her alive, he forced himself to close the door before heading up to the main deck.