Chapter 7
Afortnight later
Clunk…thunk…clunk…thunk—clonk!
With a hard thump, Heather was tossed to the floor of her small cabin. Pain lanced through her head as it connected with the edge of her chest of drawers, and she pressed a hand to the spot, just above the hairline near her temple. She hissed, her head swimming and nausea churning in her belly.
Hot, sticky liquid oozed between her fingers, and she blinked numbly into obscurity, her stomach in upheaval.
Blinking, she attempted to dispel the foggy puzzlement clouding her mind. It had to be the middle of the night, for nary a sliver of light came from beyond her door. The air was heavy with salty humidity, and Heather groaned at the dampness between and under her breasts.
Clunk…thunk. The hanging bed rocked between the wall and the chest of drawers as the ship tilted. With a squeak, Heather pressed her free hand to the wall and extended her legs so that she might avoid rolling into the door.
Her pulse sped, and her stomach heaved as the ship rocked in the opposite direction. She blinked again, struggling to comprehend the sudden movements in the pitch darkness.
A storm.
While her cabin hadn’t any windows, it was impossible to know not only the hour, but also the weather. A storm, however, was decidedly obvious.
Clunk…thunk.
For the past fortnight, she’d been imprisoned in her cabin with a guard stationed at her door. Berta came by thrice daily to offer a pitiable meal, refill her pitcher, and empty both her chamberpot and washbasin, but said nary a word. At least Heather had been able to sodding clean herself.
Early in her imprisonment, she’d pleaded with her guard to send word to the captain, but the men were staffed by the earl and wouldn’t risk punishment.
Clunk…thunk.
A warm, tickling sensation crept down her cheek and jaw, and she groaned.
“Bugger it all,” she cursed, pressing her palm firmly to her temple.
The Sapphire pitched sideways, and her stomach lurched once more.
Hell. She must stand and dress if she was to slip past her guard and see the ship’s surgeon.
Ropes creaked and voices sounded above as Percy attempted to sleep in his hammock. The steep waves of the storm rocked him in time with the other men around him, their hammocks occasionally bumping into each other.
Christ, but it had been an age since he’d slept aboard a ship.
And while he truly hated to admit it to himself, he’d bloody well missed the satisfyingly deep sleep that he achieved while being rocked by the ocean.
The sailor beside him, however, was a man to whom Percy had to grow accustomed, for the volume of his snoring alone was enough to wake the dead.
It wasn’t just the volume that bothered Percy but the way in which the man snored, wheezing, hissing, gurgling, and making all manner of other strange noises.
In time, he knew, the sleep would come—as it had every night for the past fortnight—but until then, he would remain half-awake, listening to the cacophony of aggressive snoring from his neighbour.
Muffled rhythmic thumping came from the officers’ cabins as their beds knocked against their cabin walls—though Christ knew he’d heard countless men fucking the boredom away behind those walls over the years—and Percy attempted to focus on the sound.
Something else, however, captured his attention: grumbled cursing.
Percy’s eyes snapped open. There. Another curse and a soft thump. It sounded very like Heather.
Despite himself, his pulse skipped.
A sodding fortnight had passed since they’d spoken, but he’d been so badly reprimanded for continuously attempting to speak with the captain that he’d lost not only his credibility but also his sway.
No matter how he made the attempt, Heather’s bloody guards refused to permit him a moment to speak with her, or to return her book.
Meanwhile Hanley, the shit sack, swaggered about the frigate, boldly demanding servitude and compliance from the crew.
Clunk.
Shifting in his hammock, Percy peered through the obscurity toward the officers’ cabins. Heather’s guard appeared to have left, either to join the day shift in sleep or to aid the men abovedecks during the storm.
Snick. A door latch opened, and a softly uttered “shite” floated toward him.
He huffed a quiet laugh. What was she doing?
With swift movements, he leapt out of his hammock and padded toward her on bared feet.
There was a soft click as Heather closed her door. The ship heaved once more, and she gripped the door’s handle.
“Ballocks,” she muttered with feeling.
He grinned. “What are you doing?”
In a sudden rush of movement, she connected her fist to Percy’s jaw, and pain flared hot as he cursed and groaned.
“Jesus, Heather, your training has done you well,” Percy said, his voice muffled.
Heather snorted. “You startled me!”
“Clearly,” he returned with a smirk. “I came to see if you required aid.”
The ship pitched sideways, slamming her against her cabin’s door.
“Damnation, are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Yes—no. Drat. How are you able to keep upright?”
“I keep a wider stance, and I’m accustomed to the Sapphire’s movement.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, then leaned closer to whisper, “I take it you were unable to speak privately with the captain?”
Guilt twisted in his chest. “He refused an audience with me—on numerous occasions.”
Heather nodded. “I daresay it shall be a challenge to secure his support under these circumstances, but we must at least try.”
She staggered sideways with a curse as the frigate rocked in a deep swell. Percy darted a hand out to steady her, and a zip of heat raced up his arm.
He cleared his throat. “While I’m pleased to see you, Heather, I must ask. Why are you about?”
She sighed. “I must see the surgeon, I’m afraid.”
Thunder cracked overhead.
“The surgeon?” Percy asked, his voice tight.
“Yes. Might you show me the way?”
“Come.”
He clasped her hand and wrapped it about his arm, pressing her firmly against his side as the Sapphire tilted once more.
Percy leaned in the opposite direction as the swell, holding her up with him as he walked.
His pulse raced at her touch, and he thought once more about telling her the truth about the masque.
But so much time had elapsed that he worried she would be downright furious.
“Are you well, Heather?” Percy asked again.
“Well enough, I suppose.” She paused, tightening her grip on his arm as the ship tilted. “Actually,” she amended, “I’m not well, Percy. I feel so—”
Boom! Thunder cracked overhead.
They reached the companionway, and Percy released Heather to let her descend first. Faint light emanated from the one opened door at the end of the short corridor, and for a moment, Heather hesitated.
What had she been about to say?
Worry gnawed at Percy’s stomach. She’d evidently been injured in some way.
The frigate pitched perilously sideways, and he clapped a hand to the wall to steady them both, drawing them nearer to the glowing lantern light.
“The surgeon’s room is just there,” Percy murmured. He gestured toward the doorway, his fingers trembling with nerves.
Heather gripped Percy’s arm again, in an effort to maintain her footing, and they took the few steps into the surgeon’s room.
Inside, a lantern swung wildly with the Sapphire’s motion, and the surgeon stood over a short box of corked bottles. The man was lean and bespectacled, with a full red beard, and he smiled at them upon their entrance.
“Ah! Ye’ve need o’ me, aye?” The man’s thick Scottish brogue rumbled in the small space, and Heather returned his smile.
Fucking hell. The side of her face was entirely covered in blood. It coated her hair and streaked her pale face.
“Good god, Heather! What happened?” he burst out.
She gave Percy a sidelong glance, but spoke to the surgeon. “Yes, sir. I have. I fell from bed and hit my head on the chest of drawers.”
“Ach, aye. Come ’ere, then, lass.” He gestured to a low cushioned bench along one side of the room, and she sat. “Tha’ is a mighty bump.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Name’s Duncan.” He smiled again.
“I’m Heather Morgan.”
Her gaze drifted past the surgeon toward where Percy hovered in the doorway. She looked as though she’d been through a battle, for Christ’s sake. Her face, neck, and hands were entirely covered in crimson. But beneath it, she was pale.
“I didn’t realize how much blood she’d lost,” Percy said. “Will she be well, Duncan?”
“Ach, aye; ’ead wounds always bleed more ’n they should.”
He wet a cloth from a pitcher and carefully removed the blood that covered her. With soft words of comfort, the man cleaned the area, prepared his needle, and stitched the small wound on her head.
The frigate continued to rock and tilt, the storm tossing them about like a twig among rapids, the lantern swinging and the bottles on the surrounding shelves clinking as they hit the shelf rail. And yet Percy’s attention was narrowed entirely on her.
“Have you anything for seasickness?” she asked softly.
“If I ’ad th’ right herbs, I’d be able t’ treat yer seasickness, but I’m nae an apothecary any longer, an’ these men donnae get seasick, so I havenae wha’s required.” He clucked his tongue. “But I’ll see ye patched up.”
Interest brightened her gaze. “You were an apothecary?” she asked.
“I confess, I’ve always been interested in the practice.
Back home, I’d begun to collect plants based on their uses in apothecary, with the hopes of taking on the role in—” She shook her head slightly, cutting herself off.
“What herbs do you require? I wasn’t able to bring all of my plants aboard with me, but I do have several that might help. ”
“’Tis a noble endeavour, indeed.” The man grinned at Heather, his red beard bunching. “I ’ave a small ’mount o’ olive oil an’ beeswax fer a salve, but I havenae any fennel seed or catnip.”