Chapter 30
When she was a girl, Linnie went through a peculiar period where she’d obsessively worried and wondered about dying.
As she grew older, she couldn’t recall what had sparked those fears and questions.
Only that she remembered sleepless nights spent dreading all the ways she might die and could die.
She’d settled on dying when she was a white-haired lady, abed, peacefully sliding from sleep to her eternal rest.
She’d not considered herself a bad person and envisioned she’d find a place in heaven.
As it turned out, Linnie hadn’t survived to be an old woman in her bed. The fear that’d followed her had been for naught.
She knew the very moment she’d drawn her last breath—for Jeremy was there to meet her, carrying her off in his arms to a bed so deep and soft and wide it was the only place she wished to be.
Surprisingly, she discovered in death that she’d spent too much time dreading a violent death. The end came so quick, there was no physical pain.
There was no weeping.
There was just an exquisite, beautiful, all-encompassing warmth, and pain.
Pain? The violent clang of metal striking metal rang out loudly upon the decks, though they’d since faded some in volume.
Life snatched her back from the fleeting serenity. Lord Culross’s body hit the deck, and Linnie found herself face-to-face with the man who’d cut him down. All over again, she found herself plunged back into a living hell of blood and gore and violence.
Screaming, Linnie exploded upright. His soulless, leering eyes cut through her. His forehead branded with a P and the letter F blazoned into his cheek.
Broad, muscle-hewn arms wrapped around her with such terrific raw strength she’d never shake free.
Still, Linnie sobbed and fought—to no avail.
Linnie screamed and screamed until her already threadbare voice went from ragged to hoarse, then a broken whimper.
The hold about her grew tighter, and then—with a twisted perversity, when she could fight no more—her captor became her protector. Gentling his hold, he whispered words she couldn’t make out against her temple.
“Jeremy,” she whispered.
Sometime later
Opening her eyes, Linnie stared overhead and tried to sort out what it was that’d disturbed her.
Her nostrils still burnt with the acrid smell of gunpowder and cannon fire.
But the screams—including hers—had died off, until the newfound silence strangely proved more deafening than the clash of steel, fired pistols and muskets, and splintering wood.
The fighting had stopped.
She’d survived.
She’d cheated death.
A bitter smile twisted at her lips.
How funny she’d spent too many years worrying about the day she died, only wishing she could climb into the moment just to be held by Jeremy.
A tall figure stepped from the shadows.
Linnie cried out and recoiled.
Another menacing shadow rushed to the strange bed she inhabited.
Scrambling onto her knees, she crawled into the corner. She darted her gaze about in search of escape—and then went absolutely motionless.
Linnie tried to make sense of what her eyes saw. Of it all.
He was here, and she knew the remembrance of his tenderly carrying her, cradling her, had only been a dream. His grim features were marred with soot, his stormy grey eyes haunted as she’d not seen them, even when he talked about his hate for Arran.
“Jeremy,” she whispered.
A muscle rippled along his taut jawline. “Linnie.”
Her heart sped up as she waited for him to say something. Anything.
“Your cousin is safe. His ship suffered minor damage.”
“We would have all perished at sea were it not for you, Jeremy. Thank you.”
His eyes narrowed.
She’d displeased him even further.
“Lord Culross sustained a sizable injury. My surgeon cleaned and stitched it. As long as the wound doesn’t putrefy, he should live.”
“Oh.”
Linnie was saved from having to drum up a suitable response . . . Was there such a thing?
The bearded stranger stepped into her line of vision.
“This is Dr. Fairbairn,” her husband said. He revealed nothing with his tone. “He is here to . . .” A shadow fell over Jeremy’s eyes. “Care for you.”
Her gaze briefly flitted to the kind-eyed, lightly bearded gentleman rolling his sleeves up and then back to her taciturn husband.
Jeremy seemed to be waiting for something from Linnie. With no idea of the etiquette for situations as a recently married wife who’d hied off to sea with her husband’s enemy, and the rival who’d fought for her, Linnie nodded.
“Hello, Lady Tremaine. Again, I am Dr. Fairbairn. I’ve assured your husband you haven’t suffered any grave injuries, but he’s adamant I more closely examine your wounds. You fainted during the battle, and the captain squired you off to the Lady Linnie.”
Her eyes flew to Jeremy’s. “The Lady Linnie . . . ?” she whispered. “I thought . . . I believed you named her Triton’s Mistress II.”
Somehow, her husband’s expression became even more turbid. “I renamed her prior to launch.”
Linnie’s throat moved spasmodically. While the doctor tended her, plucking splinters of wood from her skin, Jeremy watched on with a grim countenance, his arms folded before him.
At some point before he’d sailed, Jeremy had renamed his beloved ship after her.
The significance of what he’d done, and the ramifications of what she’d done, hit her like the weight of a carriage.
How she must have hurt him. To bestow the greatest honor a captain could upon Linnie and stand across from her in the knowledge she’d gallivanted off with those he loathed.
He hated her. She’d known he would.
Her heart spasmed.
Why shouldn’t he?
Linnie winced.
The doctor, in the midst of removing a piece of deeply embedded shrapnel, glanced up.
Jeremy took a swift step forward.
Linnie waved him off. “I am all right.” At least physically.
She indicated she was fine to go on.
While the surgeon continued the rest of his arduous process, drawing out the remnants embedded within Linnie’s skin, not another word passed between Linnie and Jeremy.
Upon finishing, Dr. Fairbairn stood and headed for one of the washbasins.
Just as the capable surgeon reached for a square of folded linen, Jeremy stopped him with a single command. “You are dismissed, Fairbairn.”
The gentleman bent at the waist. Linnie murmured her thanks. And then he was gone . . . and she and Jeremy were alone.
She bit the inside of her cheek. She’d rather have Dr. Fairbairn pluck out a million more bits of glass and wood from her body than face this particular moment with Jeremy.
Expressionless, her husband headed over to Linnie. He stopped at the bedside.
She bowed her head and braced for his deserved fury.
In silence, Jeremy dipped his hands into one of the three small pitchers set out and rinsed his palms in the same way of Dr. Fairbairn. Then her husband picked up a cake of soap and scrubbed the soot, ash, and blood from his fingers, withdrawing them only once they were free of the stains of war.
She studied him while he washed.
Look at me. Please. Just say something. Say anything.
No, don’t look at me.
How could she want both from him at the same time?
After he’d dried off, Jeremy fetched a clean cloth and dipped it in the fresh water. She stared at his beautiful hands as he twisted the fabric, wringing out the excess water.
Jeremy seated himself at the edge of the mattress. With an aching tenderness, he brushed the damp cloth over the cuts and scrapes on Linnie’s forearms.
He paused, his gaze lingering on her bruised cheek.
His expression darkened.
Jeremy went on that way, cleaning her wounds. Periodically he’d pause to exchange one cloth for a new one. After he’d finished, he threw the last rag down in the bowl and stood.
Linnie followed his movements as he made for the door.
Pressure built behind her eyes.
Please, don’t go.
“Jeremy,” she cried out.
He paused at his mahogany chart table and looked up with a question in his eyes.
Linnie struggled to speak past the well of emotion. “I . . .” Her voice, already rough from the smoke she’d inhaled and the screams she’d emitted, emerged almost unrecognizable. “I . . .”
Unable to meet his eyes, Linnie lifted her hands up and directed her gaze to her lap.
Mundane sounds—a lock turning, a drawer being opened and then closed, filled the room. The casualness of what Jeremy did was a strange juxtaposition to the mayhem of the past day and now night.
The planks creaked.
Jeremy rejoined her at the bed.
Curious, Linnie looked up to see him removing a stopper from a small crystal bottle. He set the top aside and then paused, looking at her.
“What are you doing?” she asked softly.
His eyes became strained.
“Linnie,” he said gruffly, “I’ve witnessed enough men die of infection.
Some injuries were no bigger than some of the marks on you now.
” He sounded strained by his own admission.
“Fairbairn developed a protocol for injured crew. It involves cleaning the areas where the skin’s been broken and then using a mixture of red wine and honey over the wounds.
This is going to hurt.” He expelled a breath. “But it is necessa—”
Linnie covered his hand with hers, and her touch alone stopped him. “It is fine, Jeremy.”
His throat wobbled.
Warmth filled her heart. Even after what she’d done, he wished to spare her suffering.
Jeremy waited for her nod.
He poured a small amount on the gash at the top of her wrist.
Linnie’s breath came hissing out. She bit her lower lip to stifle the rest, not wanting him to know something he did to help caused her pain.
Jeremy paled and looked up quickly.
Linnie forced a smile. “It just surprised me,” she managed to say on an even breath.
He gave her a strained smile of his own. “You are a terrible liar, Linnie.” As soon as he spoke, he blanched, and tension returned to the room, and to their exchange.
Linnie attempted to snatch back the all-too-short moment they’d shared. “I’ve been told that before.”
He glanced up. “Oh?”