Captive Angel

Author

Prologue

Boston, 2005

The fog flattened itself into a smudge of gray and homed in on another unsuspecting soul. It found Gabrielle Ross alone, sitting on a tightly rolled sand dune. As the splash of sea tickled its underbelly, it nudged closer, creeping across a night-darkened sky in its eagerness to reach her, to swallow her.

Some ran as it chased; others shivered with fear, but a sleeping Gabrielle felt nothing as it wrapped around her like a plush down comforter. It held tight as the breath of the past scrambled toward them and only when the centuries crumbled, did it release her into a pocket of time.

Chapter One

Boston, 1760

The fog rolling in worsened with each passing hour. The night winds agitated the dense gray mass and attempted to scatter the fog. It refused to give up, clawing over the cresting black waves as it single-mindedly continued to harass the British ship, impeding its journey. The ship’s captain thought to punch out of the fog-bound harbor and make the open seas. But no matter how clever or skilled the captain, the fog bit down and refused to let go.

The Seawraith, a sixth-rate frigate, sliced through the Atlantic Ocean. She dropped her nose into a wave and shouldered the water over her bow as her masts tried to shake loose the fog dripping from her yards. A violent wind rattled the air and sent the fog coiling around her masts. Leagues from Boston Harbor, the sudden change in wind nudged the Seawraith from east to south.

East-nor’east, Mr. Hansen!

East-nor’east, Cap’n.

The ship mounted a cresting wave and her bow leaped for the night sky. The crew snapped into action, plunging into clouds of fog as they crept along ratlines and gained toeholds on the foot ropes.

Let fall!

In a cascade of white, sails spilled from the yardarms and were jerked to life by a brisk wind. The ship shot up into the air and smacked into a thrusting wave with a jolt. The sea slammed into the weathered side of the ship and exploded into small wet, pellets.

Gabrielle Ross staggered to her feet, shaking her head and blinking salt water from her lashes. She swiped a hand down across her face and flung the water from her fingertips. Idiot! she scolded herself, flicking water off her black blazer and worn jeans. That’s what happens when you pass out drunk on the beach.

A series of creaks and groans, an odd flapping sound above her head, and snatches of male voices tangled with the fog surrounding Gabrielle. Without warning the ground dropped out from under her and before she could scream it returned, solid and sure beneath her feet. Gabrielle gasped, pitching forward as the ground took another roll and the palms of her hands smacked against a wooden keg the size of a large trash can. What the hell?

Ignoring the sting to her hands, Gabrielle’s head shot upward and her eyes skimmed the beach for houses. With bewilderment she inspected the tangles of mist and a thick crisscrossing of rope. Her vision filled with chunky white sails. Gabrielle stood quiet and still as she watched the spinning whirlpool of fog distorting everything within her vision, giving it a bent look similar to mirrors in a fun house.

Away aloft! The command jabbed through the fog-soaked air.

What the— Gabrielle whispered in horror, her heart snagging in mid beat as she glimpsed a steady stream of men pouring up roped ladders, appearing much like a human ant heap as they piled one after another. She watched as they climbed the rigging of an old sailing ship and swung at the end of ropes. They performed the tasks skillfully and quickly. These men, and this old sailing ship, did not belong to the twenty-first century.

Let fall! rumbled through the patchy air and Gabrielle ducked as a sail above her head unfolded, flapping once before it was plucked by wind and tamed by men. The ship bucked sharply before it dropped into a fathomless hole, going down, down, down. Ocean water crashed over the deck and curled under and around Gabrielle’s low-heeled black boots.

A sickening feeling came over her and she shook her head in bewilderment and confusion as she looked past the distorting fog climbing up a towering mast. Hope, she called out in a strained voice, praying for her friend to answer. No answer came. The party. She remembered the party at Hope’s beach house. She didn’t remember any plans to board an antique ship. But after the unexpected arrival of Eric, her ex-boyfriend, Gabrielle had choked down a few shots of tequila. She staggered out of the house to breathe fresh air and strolled down the beach, watching a strange fog stumbling toward shore.

She’d had a long week of dance rehearsals and college finals. Had she passed out on the beach? She remembered feeling peculiar, like coming from a deep sleep, like something or someone tugging at her. When she opened her eyes she landed here—wherever here was. The fog seemed to harden. Gabrielle stepped into it, plunged through it, and stumbled to a halt at the ship’s rail. Her eyes ached as she searched for lights on the horizon, for sounds of traffic . . . for land.

The ship’s bow bucked violently. Hurled forward by the push of the wind, Gabrielle tipped up and came close to toppling over. She hugged the rail as the ship shuddered and jumped. Water poured over the starboard side, ripping Gabrielle away from the railing and flattening her back against the kegs in a display of crucifixion.

Mr. Hansen! a voice thundered. Steady her!

Aye, aye, Cap’n. Steady it is.

Trickles of fog danced like slender white fairies, curling, twisting, whispering past Gabrielle’s ears. She rolled to her knees upon hearing the sound of the captain’s voice not more than ten yards from her. A tall man, unobscured for a second, appeared strong and commanding as he paced, his eyes fastened on the helm in hard concentration. A flicker of moonlight glanced off a sword spanking his side. A weapon hooked to the captain’s belt, appeared huge, heavy, and unlike any modern pistol she’d ever seen.

*

Hold her at a hard left, Mr. Hansen! Damion Sinclair, captain of the Seawraith commanded.

Aye, aye, Cap’n. Hard left.

The ship obeyed the helm. Her masts gave an answering groan as the sails sagged then smacked to life. The sea talked back, spitting beads of salt water across the deck.

Straighten her out, Mr. Hansen.

Straightening her out, sir!

Damion cursed the fog that attached to his ship shortly before leaving Boston Harbor. He tried to gauge its depth. Fog, not storms, destroyed more ships.

Appears to be staying with us, Jacob Gilbert, the first mate, announced.

Damion nodded as he strode toward the bow. The weather seemed odd. He stared blindly into the dense fog that hindered his every attempt to shake it loose.

It is getting worse by the minute. At best one can see no more than five oars’ length off the bow, Jacob added, lengthening his stride. I know you are anxious to gain the open sea, Cap’n, but—

It is weakening, Damion noted, coming to a swift halt at the starboard forecastle. Mr. Flynn? he shouted to the man he had sent to the tip of the bow. Report.

No mistake, Cap’n, ’pears t’be liftin’, yelled the forecastle lookout.

You knew, Jacob said, surprised.

Sensed, Damion corrected, dropping his hands flat on a barrel of salt beef yet to be stowed below. Thank you, Mr. Flynn, keep a sharp lookout, he commanded while observing the mist slithering past his shoulders. The ship bucked up into the wind, hung a moment, then settled.

Damion Sinclair knew every inch of the Seawraith. He dug deep into his pockets paying ample wages to ships’ craftsmen to rebuild this once French ship. He had assisted in the redesign of her keel and helped the plankers patch her skin. This captured ship had once come to life in a French shipyard beneath clouds of sawdust and the ring of mallets and hammers pounding against wood. Aye, this ship now belonged to him and his sailor’s instinct told him something was not right. He moved away from the barrel just as a snatch of wind wobbled past him. Damion lifted his nose, smelling the salt laden breeze, and something else, something—floral.

You appear to be rushing your own demise, Cap’n. A delay might be to your advantage. Jacob paused. We could stay.

Aye. But it will not be, Damion whispered. I have delayed too long.

You could settle here and take a colonial wife. There were several, Cap’n, eager for the chance.

As much as I detest it, Jacob, I have obligations, Damion stated tightly. Mr. Flynn? Damion tossed the words over his shoulder.

Still under our noses, Cap’n. Thinnin’ off the starboard.

Are you sure, Mr. Flynn?

Stake me life on it, Cap’n, came the cry from the bow.

Thank you. Damion strode away from the forecastle and shouted, Mr. Hansen?

Aye, Cap’n?

Starboard.

Starboard it is, sir.

With the command the Seawraith hugged the wind and her nose cut into the sea.

*

The instant the captain and the one named Jacob took a step in her direction Gabrielle fell back, drawing her knees to her chest. The captain stood inches away, just on the other side of the keg. The white shirt he wore flowed loose and full across broad shoulders and the fabric fluttered against the muscles of his arms. This man belonged to another era in history. He belonged on this ghost ship.

When he finally stepped away, Gabrielle unwrapped her arms from around her legs. She slowly rose to a squat and threw a look over the keg at the two men disappearing into a patch of fog. Suddenly the captain twisted around, his nose sniffing the air. Gabrielle ducked as his gaze slashed over her hiding spot.

The winds picked up and the ship began again the nauseating ride of plunging and pitching. A cloud-burst of salt spray rained down on Gabrielle. She sank to the deck and tucked her chin to her chest. Ocean spray rolled off the brim of her Nike ball cap.

Dad-blamed fog, muttered a gruff voice passing on the other side of the kegs. Poor as piss an’ twice as nasty. Hey, Flynn, give a mate a bit o’ privacy, will ye?

Gabrielle’s eyes glued themselves on a man weaving his way to the bow of the ship. He climbed to the side of the bowsprit, dropped his trousers, and—squatted. Gabrielle whipped her head around. For heaven’s sake, don’t these people have restrooms on board? she whispered, horrified. Hope, if this is some kind of practical joke, you’re dead. She waited for her friends to jump out and yell, Gotcha! But this didn’t feel like a joke. And nobody jumped out.

Wave after wave heaved itself under the ship’s belly. Gabrielle closed her eyes as a rush of light-headedness took her under. She only had a few shots—had she drunk too much? Could it be that simple? Tomorrow, she and Hope would have a good laugh over this hallucination. Tomorrow everything would return to normal and she would drag herself to dance class and sweat out whatever had poisoned her mind.

Chapter Two

Faint streaks of dawn stretched out across the horizon and breathed light into the new day. Aware of an uncomfortable hardness beneath her stiff muscles, Gabrielle stirred, unbent her legs and stretched them out to ease the cramping. Feeling a sudden painful jarring to her left thigh, her sleepy eyes snapped open in time to witness a sailor flying through the air. He landed with a sick thud on the deck. Swearing, he shot a glance over a bony shoulder to see what tripped him, and his ferret eyes narrowed as they fell on Gabrielle.

She forgot to breathe. The illusion, back on his feet, stormed toward her. He resembled a real, lifelike pirate. The ferret-eyed man, not much taller than her own five-foot-three-inch frame, shouted at her. His mouth moved, but Gabrielle was lost to the noise whirling madly inside her head.

She lifted her chin and gawked at the tall mast and the yards of white canvas stretching high up in the morning sky. All fog had disappeared and Gabrielle could clearly see men swarming the rigging of this extinct vessel.

God strike ye! Ye arse is mine, ye young whelp! yelled a scrawny man as he put his face close to hers. His dark eyes clamped onto her in anger. A knot of unfriendly men formed a semicircle around her. They were tan, wrinkled, and looked as if someone had dipped them in a mahogany stain. She remained seated, blinking in the unreality.

Mr. Sutton, what the devil! a deep voice rumbled. Men scattered, shoved aside by a burly sailor. Powerful arms crossed over a wide naked chest and the tattoo of a ship’s anchor dropped and rose in the sea of muscles swelling across his upper right arm. Well, well, what have we here?

Mr. Gilbert! a voice roared down from the quarterdeck, carried the distance by a sea-whipped breeze. Explain yourself.

Seems, Cap’n, Mr. Gilbert’s voice boomed over Gabrielle, we have us a young stowaway. A meaty hand clamped onto her shoulder and hauled Gabrielle to her feet. Your name, boy?

Panicked thoughts swarmed around her head. Mentally, Gabrielle tried to brush them aside. They scattered but didn’t leave. The ship pitched and hissing water washed over the deck. The grip of iron on her shoulder kept her steady.

So far, Cap’n, the lad is playing mute.

Gabrielle inspected the profile of the man. He tied his winter-white hair back with a leather strip and a bristly beard concealed the lower half of his face. He reminded her of a middle-aged rough and tough biker without the Harley.

Perhaps he will cooperate after we have him flogged, the captain growled from high on the quarterdeck.

Fright pierced Gabrielle’s gut and a tight panic filled her mind. She began to busily search for her backbone.

Hell and damnation! Mr. Gilbert, belay that order. Clap the lad in irons and see him below.

The sailor who tripped over Gabrielle stepped forward, waggling his cutlass as he spoke. Cap’n, nearly broke me neck. Let me ’ave some fun with him before ye heave him below. The crew gave a robust cheer. The captain dipped his head once in answer and Gabrielle was half-led, half-dragged by Mr. Gilbert to a clearing on the scrubbed deck.

Immersed in a quiet terror, Gabrielle knew if she opened her mouth she’d babble. Her head twisted around and she found the captain standing on the deck above her. He looked ruthless and formidable. The dark shadow of stubble to his chiseled jaw added to his fierce appearance. A sharp breeze ruffled his black hair. She noted the pistol tucked into the band of his pants, the scabbard fastened at his side, the booted feet braced on the rolling deck, and the hard stretch of thighs. She could see the bronzed chest through the deep front gash of his white shirt. Surely he wouldn’t allow . . .

Mr. Barrick? Call the hands to furl the t’gallants.

Aye, aye, Cap’n.

See the royals brought down as well.

Aye, sir.

With the captain’s orders, men swarmed the rigging and gathered sails. The ship slowed considerably. The captain leaned forward, bracing his hands on the ship’s upper rail. She stiffened as his eyes skimmed over her in a quick inspection.

The captain turned to a rack of swords and picked a weapon. With foil in hand, he leaned over the rail and heaved the sword, hilt first, to the deck below.

That backbone Gabrielle earlier searched for made a sudden appearance, as in blind reaction she caught the weapon the captain tossed to her. It felt shockingly real and solid in her grip. She spun around, scanning for a way out. The half circle of men now formed a complete one and surrounded Gabrielle. She pivoted, staring from man to man, noticing the swords at their sides and bright scarves wrapped around some of their heads. The incredulity of her situation slammed into her and terror slipped its clumsy fingers around her neck. Mentally, finger by finger, she pried them off and forced herself to concentrate.

The deck no longer bucked wildly but rose and fell like a sleeping creature. The grip on the foil felt a little large; Gabrielle adjusted her fingers around the slightly curved French handle with a figure eight guard. The weapon had superb balance, though slightly heavier than she would’ve liked. The foil, unlike the saber the captain could have tossed her, was regarded as a training weapon to practice fast and elegant thrusting. Compared with the light foil, the thicker and heavier saber would have tired her sword arm. He had studied her, noted her length of arm and her height, and tossed her a foil that matched her frame. Was he giving her a chance?

From the first moment, at the age of ten, when Gabrielle pulled on the snug white protective fencing jacket, zipped and snapped herself up, she was all in. There existed a quiet authority when picking up a foil or an épée. Her first coach called her a ninja on the strip for her swiftness but reprimanded her slowness to retreat.

With her lack of height, Gabrielle didn’t have the reach of most fencers. To win, she had to concentrate on strategy, mind games, and ways to outthink her opponent.

She knew emotion and a blade did not mix. Gabrielle quieted the rising panic climbing into her mind. Response depended more on the feel of an opponent’s weapon. The tempo with foils was quick. Like tic-tac, Max Campbell, her no-nonsense college fencing coach, always said.

But she’d never fenced on a rolling deck in the middle of an ocean and her experience was with buttoned blades. She’d never, ever, used a weapon with an exposed sharp tip.

Do the unexpected. Max’s voice entered her mind as it always did during a bout. Chin up, feet flat on the floor. And raise that left hand high. High! And remember, Gabrielle, the object is to hit and not be hit.

Her opponent stood with his feet apart, shoulders hunched, and a too-firm grip on the sharp-pointed foil he now held. His lack of a proper fencing stance didn’t make her feel easier. He might have no inkling of the sport as an art, but he had cold-blooded experience on his side, not to mention an entire crew cheering him on. Do the unexpected. Surprise your opponent. Max’s words planted themselves again in her head.

A feeble breeze teetered past her cheek. Without warning Gabrielle swept in low, stretched, and thrust her sword at her adversary’s groin. Mr. Sutton didn’t try to parry but fell back, his arms waving wildly, his shifty eyes nearly leaping out of his skull. The crew gasped and groaned. Gabrielle’s point fell short. She dropped back and lowered her sword.

Mr. Sutton came back for more. While grinning at his mates with confidence, the crewman lunged at her. Gabrielle sidestepped and his thrust missed completely. He fell to one knee, sprang to his feet, whirled around and grinned at her.

Gabrielle cringed upon seeing the grin expose teeth as dark as coffee grounds. He clumsily attacked again. She butted his blade aside and sparks flew as steel scraped steel.

Tic-tac, entered her head. She attempted to keep her riposte light, a tingle of touch shared between blade and arm. But her opponent had no inkling of how to use a foil. He gripped the weapon as a one arm man might grip a baseball bat, swinging the blade instead of tapping and lunging. Gabrielle had never been afraid of fighting a swordsman better than her. What always frightened her was facing someone with only a handful of lessons. She tried to put distance between them but Mr. Sutton pressed, beating her back, using the foil more like a saber. Men scattered to give them room.

Gabrielle attacked with several fast cuts and wrestled control back from her adversary. He jabbed twice, swishing only air. She lunged, gave quarter, then lunged again. A fury of intensity engulfed his face as he tried to answer each false lunge and catch Gabrielle’s weapon. Blades continued to rasp, scrape, and tap. As the captain and crew watched, Gabrielle’s blade slipped through a weak riposte and four inches of cold steel rammed into Mr. Sutton’s left shoulder.

The foil simply sailed into flesh, the tip disappearing from sight. Disbelief thundered through Gabrielle’s mind. She’d forgotten about the unprotected point on her sword. As blood oozed from the man’s shoulder, staining the grubby blue fabric of his shirt, a dumbfounded Gabrielle stepped back into guard position, taking her crimson-tipped sword with her.

Vaguely, the jeers and laughter of the crew penetrated her thoughts. They threw out remarks, teasing the crewman, George Sutton, about a child besting him. Her opponent stormed toward her, sword high. Gabrielle retreated. She wanted out.

By God, git him, boy. Ye had him, someone hollered.

Gabrielle kept retreating, holding the foil point low. Her shoulders bumped into a wall of sailors. Git back out there, boy, someone else encouraged. Go ahead an’ poke his tough hide, another growled. Dozens of hands pushed at her shoulders, at her back, shoving and jostling her forward. At that first swipe of the blade over her head all hands vanished as men scrambled to get out of the way. In reaction Gabrielle dropped to one knee, ducked, and sent her point right at the sailor’s belly. She missed, thank goodness, but grabbed her opponent’s attention. He retreated quickly. She did not press.

C’mon, he coaxed, palm up, wiggling his fingers. C’mon, me boyo, he said again, his face streaked with sweat, his dark eyes glowing with revenge. She had to fight. She had no choice. He came after her again, resembling a defensive tackle with a sword. He thrusted; she parried. Twice now her attacks were countered. It was not a question of her adversary getting better as it was Gabrielle doing worse. She made the nervous mistake of shifting up on the balls of her feet as lesson after lesson escaped her. Help me, Max!

Don’t expose your head. Max’s voice returned. Loosen your grip on the sword. Keep your blade threatening. Do not fall into his game, Gabrielle. You play your game, hold onto your advantage, you do what you have been trained to do.

Gabrielle catstepped and Mr. Sutton’s sword fell short by an inch. As her point aimed for his uninjured shoulder, a rogue wave butted against the ship. Gabrielle’s wickedly sharp tip missed its intended target and slashed her opponent’s right cheek from chin to ear. George Sutton yelped.

Her stomach heaved upon witnessing the six-inch flap of skin she laid open. Gabrielle’s left hand slapped over her mouth. The raw slice coughed up blood between George Sutton’s calloused fingers as he covered his cheek with his hand. His eyes turned wild. With a low guttural roar he charged. She barely evaded each sloppy thrust as she furiously parried the stiff steel.

In his attack George’s foot slipped in a pool of blood. He teetered, falling backward, his grip loosening on the sword. With a turn of her wrist, Gabrielle’s foil whirled the weapon from his hand and sent it pinwheeling through the air. The crimson-coated point of Gabrielle’s foil brushed the chest of the man lying flat on his back as she gawked in horror at the bleeding sailor.

She’d never drawn blood.

Fencing was a combative, intensive sport and fencers were required to wear protective clothing. They wore wire-mesh masks as well as jackets and knickers made out of closely woven material. For tournaments, she added an underarm protector and a hard plastic chest protector. There was no blood. Ever.

She withdrew the ruby tip of her blade, stepped back and pivoted. In a state of shock she shoved sailors aside. The ship swayed drunkenly as she crossed the deck and leaned against the rail. Gabrielle flicked her eyes over thousands of waves bobbing and swelling as far as she could see. She, Gabrielle Ross, just plunged a sword into another person’s body not once, but twice. That thought numbed her with horror.

A single cry arose from the crew. It was Gabrielle’s only warning. Something knocked into her—hard. After two, three heartbeats, she reacted, whirling around to see the white-haired Mr. Gilbert wrestling her opponent to the deck, one meaty hand yanking a blood coated dagger from George’s hand. With her back pressed against the rail, Gabrielle held on as the rise and fall of the ship mimicked a roller coaster.

She stood absolutely still as she witnessed the captain abruptly pushing past his men, quickening his stride and coming on strong straight for her.

Get him below! he ordered. Under lock and key if you will, Mr. Gilbert.

Lock and key it is, Cap’n.

This was the past passing before her eyes—a living museum. Lessons vaguely recalled from some long-forgotten history class began to replay in her head. This felt surreal. He could not be real.

The captain did not come to a full stop before he reached out and gripped her shoulders with a suddenness that made her cry out. W-who are you? she demanded a little wildly.

I ask the questions here, he snapped, his eyes glittering like green glass. What the devil are you doing aboard my ship?

Gabrielle opened her mouth to speak but clamped it shut when words flew out of her head. Something was wrong. She didn’t feel so good. She needed desperately to sit down, but the captain’s tight grip on her shoulders made it impossible. He shook her shoulders, rattling the ball cap off her head and her thick dark hair spilled out past her shoulders.

"Mother of God!" the captain exclaimed with a sharp intake of breath. The crew gasped. Gabrielle barely heard the uproar from the crew as she struggled to breathe. She felt slight before the captain’s towering form, and weak. He demanded something of her, his voice low and hot in her ear, but it seemed more a buzzing noise than actual words. Her hands began trembling so badly she could no longer hold onto the foil and it slipped from her fingers. A strange pain, not unlike a toothache, throbbed in her side. Gabrielle lowered her fingers to the ache and came away with something warm and sticky. The hard masculine face before her twisted into jumbles of shadow and a weird numbness crept into her legs.

Gabrielle’s legs buckled, and her slim fingers clawed at fine linen fabric to anchor a hold. Her forehead fell against a wall of muscle as a roaring blackness crashed down on her and tossed Gabrielle into a deep, bottomless pit that left no room for light or sound—or pirates.

Chapter Three

"By thunder!" Damion Sinclair cursed as the young woman collapsed in a faint against him. He swung an arm behind her knees and lifted her high against his chest. The girl’s head rolled back over his arm and the hand clutching his shirt fell limp, smearing the linen fabric crimson. The girl was injured. Despite Jacob’s attempt to halt George’s attack, the dagger had found its mark. Damion’s voice rang with authority as he issued orders to the men standing about with mouths agape.

He ducked down the companionway, taking a second to notice the girl’s smooth, long neck, the flawless skin and full lips. He maneuvered through the cramped passageway and kicked open the door to his cabin. Carefully he eased the unconscious bundle to his bunk and efficiently removed her coat. He cursed as he peeled back a blood-soaked corner of her thin sleeveless black shirt to reveal the gash in her side.

He left the bed, bellowed for his surgeon, and returned to finish disrobing the girl. He slipped off her ankle fitting boots, and paused, momentarily puzzled by the strange silvery fastener at the front of her breeches. At his touch, interlocking rows of silver teeth parted. His puzzlement magnified as with removing the odd breeches, his fingers glided down silken hairless legs and snagged at a tiny triangular scrap of fabric covering her loins.

Mr. Rigby, a wiry old man, materialized in the doorway with a bucket of water, clean rags, and a dark green bottle. Damion waved him in, snatched a folded rag from his surgeon’s grip and moved quickly to the bunk. He put pressure to where the dagger had sliced through the girl’s side from back to front.

Mr. Rigby scuffled over to the bunk. He staggered back when his eyes darted to the occupant. Never tended a woman before, sir. Mr. Rigby swallowed, continuing to peer under gray, mouse-colored eyebrows at the slender girl.

Well this is a day for firsts, Mr. Rigby. None have ever sailed aboard my ship.

It ain’t healthy, sir.

What is not healthy? Damion demanded, frowning.

A young miss sword fighting.

I did not realize she was a miss, Damion growled. Wait ’til you tend Mr. Sutton. He received the worst of it.

She is no bigger than a flea, sir, and should be no trouble. Tipping the bottle to one of the rags, he added, If you would like to take your leave and see to other matters—

At that first touch of the grog-soaked rag, the girl jackknifed off the pillows and came up swinging. Mr. Rigby ducked out of the way. It was Damion, bending over to observe, who took the swiping blow to his jaw.

Damion captured the girl’s fist in one hand and yanked her arm high over her head. Using his body he pushed her gently back down onto the bed, and his face hovered inches from her own. Pain turned her gray eyes the color of thunderclouds.

What happened? Where am I? W-why does my side hurt?

Upon witnessing the confusion flutter across her silver eyes, Damion clarified, You were stabbed.

Stabbed? she repeated. That can’t be true. Things like that don’t happen. Let me up. The girl attempted to sit up, but Damion pressed his weight down on her, making it impossible.

I—I need help. Get a d-doctor, she implored.

Mr. Rigby here is my ship’s surgeon.

I will be cleanin’ your wound, miss.

The girl’s head turned toward Mr. Rigby. G-good, she stammered through gritted teeth, some of her fear evaporating. Here. Her arm flopped out over the side of the bed toward the surgeon. If you can, make it quick. I hate needles.

Damion’s curious gaze never strayed from the odd woman lying injured in his bed with her arm extended toward Mr. Rigby, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and her features facing him.

Pain exploded across her face when Mr. Rigby dabbed at her wound. "N-no,