Cachet (17 page)

"That suggestion has a certain merit." Morgan tilted her chin up with one hand. "A bad jest, Rachel," he informed her stiffly. "I wouldn't strike a woman. I can't give you the same assurance about the other men, however. That filthy ruffian looked capable of anything."

"I put him in his place," she countered.

"And left him no pride when you did it. The entire crew saw you shame him. His manhood's at stake now. Not two days out and we've made an enemy!" He began to pace and ran a hand through his loose hair. "You had no business placing yourself within his reach. You refuse to see the danger from the men is very real. What will it take to convince you, the crew doubling you over a water barrel and lining up for a go? That's precisely what could happen! Stay the hell away from them!"

She sank onto the bunk. "I was trying to be helpful. Serving was cook's idea, not mine."

Morgan took a brandy bottle from his trunk and dropped into the chair. He rubbed his forehead absently and Rachel silently watched him take a long swallow. He raised the bottle to his lips a second time when she spoke. "That won't help your headache."

"Won't hurt it, either. You sorely vex me. I've explained why you must be sensible. Flaunting yourself is courting disaster. I only let you do it to teach you a lesson."

"I wasn't flaunting anything."

"Don't test my patience!" he snapped. "Insolence was aggravating in a clerk. It's intolerable in a wife. You gave your word to adhere to my instructions about safety before we sailed. You swore before God yesterday to honor and obey me."

She was furious now. He dared speak of honor after what he'd done? He thought he could trick her, purposely mislead her, and still she'd blindly obey? She grabbed the bottle from his hand, jerked open the cabin window, and tossed the liquor overboard. "You drink too much."

He shook her by the shoulders. "Don't you ever do anything like that again! I paid dearly for that liquor. Almost as much as I paid for you. You'll be back in America soon enough. You can go back to churning butter and flopping the hogs without me, if that's what you truly want. Meantime, keep your hands off my goddamned brandy."

"
Slopping
the hogs," she corrected.

Morgan looked about to explode. "I'll be on deck until supper," he snapped. "Should you need me for some reason—though God only knows why you
would
, being so hearty and independent—holler to the deckhand outside to fetch me. You unbolt the cabin door for anyone save me, and I swear I'll have you chained to the bunk for the rest of the voyage."

He arrived hours later with a tray from the galley. Rachel saw a single serving. "Aren't you eating?"

"I'm not hungry." He pulled off his boots and undressed without another word. He crawled into the bunk and closed the bed curtains.

"Are you still upset with me?" Rachel asked softly. "I'm sorry, Morgan."

"Leave me be."

They'd quarreled often enough in the village for her to sense something was different now. He could be spiteful, but he seldom carried a grudge. In fact, a brief separation typically cured his sour moods. But not now, Rachel silently mused. Now they were married. And apparently he intended to punish her with silence.

She ate alone without saying another word. She glanced at the still curtains and decided she'd risk a minor disobedience by unlocking the door to set the empty tray outside. She'd just closed and rebolted the door when she heard the scrape of the chamber pot from behind her and violent retching. Rachel had never been seasick, but she'd seen other passengers suffer. Morgan's body needed to acclimate to the ship's movement. Until it did, he'd be miserably ill.

She undressed and put on her robe. She set the chair beside the stove and curled up to sleep herself, leaving the lamp burning low. She was awakened by more retching and a deep groan. She opened the curtains to find Morgan doubled over, both arms clutched across his abdomen. He'd broken out in a clammy sweat. Her mind was made up in a second. To hell with his orders, he needed help. She took the chamber pot to the rail and dumped the contents overboard before scurrying to the galley.

She found a basin and filled it with fresh water. She met the cook on her way out and quickly learned that most of the crew was sick, too. It wasn't seasickness. They'd eaten spoiled meat at midday. She returned to the cabin and forced water between Morgan's lips, holding the chamber pot as he vomited again. When at last his stomach was empty, she used one of her handkerchiefs to mop his bare chest and face. "Sorry, Rachel," he croaked.

"Never mind, Englishman. You and the men ate spoiled food this afternoon. Thank goodness you didn't let me eat or I'd be sick, too. Get some rest. I'll be in the chair by the stove if you need anything."

"No!" he winced. "Not safe alone. Sleep here with me." She removed her robe and gingerly climbed over him. She slid beneath the bedclothes, but Morgan moaned as another spasm racked his body, and she began massaging his abdomen with her fingers to ease the painful cramping. He groped with one hand and pulled her closer, then rested his head on her bare left breast. "I could die happy here," he rasped.

"You're not going to die," she chided softly. "You didn't sell your granary and trick me into marriage only to expire over a bit of spoiled beef! You'll be better soon."

His writhing and tortured cries awakened her some time later. "Annaliese, I would have done anything! I love you. How could you do this? Don't leave me, please!"

Rachel pressed his head against her breast again, whispering soothing words until he quieted. He began taking slow, even breaths. The warmth and nearness of his lips made her nipple pucker. His hand moved over her bare stomach and muscles deep inside her clenched. She marveled at her body craving him like this. She'd never lain beside Cletus burning for his touch, but she wanted Morgan. And the wanting made it a long while before she fell back to sleep.

She was seated at the table using her sewing kit to patch a sailor's torn shirt when the bed curtains parted. She glanced up. "Feeling better?"

"It appears I haven't left you widowed again, after all." He swung his legs to the floor and tried to stand, but he swayed with the effort. Rachel pushed him back onto the mattress. She scowled down at him and pulled the quilt up over his chest.

"You're still too weak. I'll get you some hot tea and have the cook heat water for a bath and a shave."

He caught her arm in fingers that had lost some of their iron. "Rachel, I didn't mean what I said about you going back to churning butter without me. I don't want that. You said you didn't regret marrying me...Do you now?"

She smiled kindly. "I know you didn't mean it. We both said things we didn't mean. Let's get you cleaned up."

His voice was hoarse but insistent. "I haven't been so sick in years. I'm sorry you had to see me like that and play nursemaid."

"Stop apologizing. You're still not yourself. The Morgan Tremayne I know doles out apologies once every six months or so. I'll be right back." She pressed a kiss on his forehead and swept out of the cabin before he could protest.

He was dozing when she returned. She closed the bed curtains and inched the metal tub from beneath the bunk as quietly as she could. She gathered clean clothes from his larger trunk and set his straight razor on the table. Fresh water was a precious commodity. She undressed, planning to bathe first herself, then awaken him.

A gruff voice at the door announced the hot water was ready. She pulled on her robe and threw back the bolt. The door swung open and she took an involuntary step back.

"Mistress High and Mighty! Heard yer man's got the stomach knots."

She blanched at Thompson's malicious glower. Another seaman followed him inside. Beyond them the open deck was deserted. Rachel knew most of the men were below in their quarters, prostrate as Morgan was. Thompson chuckled aloud. "Russell, lad! I've been admirin' her ladyship's robe, but wouldn't you like seein' her without it?"

Russell turned and bolted the door. The first wave of panic swept over Rachel.

Thompson was staring, his eyes slightly glazed. She recognized that look. Remembered too well what it presaged. Maybe their voices would awaken Morgan. He'd know men shouldn't be inside the cabin for more than a moment. Know there was trouble.

She'd drop something or make sounds to alert him. Then her spirits sank. What good would it do? Morgan was too weak to even stand, let alone fight off a pair of wiry men

Morgan was ailing. But the two intent on raping her looked robust indeed.

Chapter 14

"My husband's a very light sleeper. If he finds you here, Thompson," Rachel announced in a clear voice, "he'll kill you."

"What's he gonna do, spew his innards all over me?" Both men laughed. Thompson spotted Morgan's razor on the tabletop. Rachel took a step forward. Too late. Thompson mimicked her at their previous meeting, holding the blade aloft. "Lady wants a bath, Russ. I say we give her one."

Rachel's eyes swept the cabin. Morgan's liquor was locked away. Not a single bottle sat out in the open. She debated trying a dash to the bunk for the guncase. She'd never pull it out and get to a pistol before the men stopped her. Trying it risk giving their enemies arms to turn against her and Morgan.

Thompson held the only available weapon. The only thing she had left was reason. "Look Thompson, I know you want an apology—"

"Did. Now I want ya beggin' for mercy. Fill the tub, Russ, and don't be splashin' all over the place. Can't disturb his lordship," he snickered.

Russell concentrated on his pails. Thompson glared at Rachel. "Keep yer mouth shut and show me a good time, yer man lives. Open it, I'll give him a new smile. Nice big one from ear to ear. Take that off," he commanded, waving to indicate her robe. "Give me a look at what her fancy bastard's been hoardin'."

Rachel untied the sash and let her robe gap open. Russell swallowed hard and rose from his knees. "Don't be shy, Boy!" Thompson smirked. Russell reached out to clasp Rachel's breasts in callused palms. A fury built inside her, its tempest of rage sweeping all fear from her mind. No man but Morgan should touch her.

In that instant, her decision was made. Even if it cost her life, these men were not going to rape her.

Her face had gone bright red, but she refused to drop her gaze from Thompson's face. He gave the orders. He was the one she had to watch. All she needed was a second's distraction. A momentary shift in Thompson's attention. She tensed her muscles and got ready for action. She ignored the man kneading her flesh. Her concentration was on Thompson. She tried a minor diversion.

"Morgan keeps a loaded pistol inside the bunk," she warned low. She felt rather than saw Russell's frustration. His attentions to her nipples brought no reaction. The points didn't tighten any further than they had from the cool cabin air. He wasted his motions; her body wouldn't respond. Not like it did for Morgan. Her eyes darted to the closed bed curtains.

"Pistol, eh?" Thompson echoed. "Russ, take this." He passed the razor to his partner. "You watch the bitch, I'll see about yon pistol." He crossed to the bunk. Before his fingers could touch the curtains, a bronze forearm shot out to seize him by the throat. "Russell!" he choked. The curtains parted slightly, revealing the black muzzle of a gun pressed against Thompson's temple.

Russell turned, but seemed too confused to react. Rachel wasn't. She dashed to the door. Her fingers closed over the bolt and threw it back. A fingernail snapped back and tore. She paid no heed to her throbbing fingertip and the blood welling there, but stumbled onto the deck. Russell cursed close behind her. Something struck her on the shoulder. She screamed and sprawled face first on the decks. The world went black.

* * *

"Ow, that
hurts
!" Rachel surfaced to searing pain in her right shoulder. Strong arms tightened around her upper body.

"Stay still, Rachel." She knew that voice. The pain was white hot. She cracked her eyelids, but couldn't see for the tears blurring her vision. Too much pain to stop them.

"Morgan? You're all right?" The words were sobs of fear mingled with relief.

"Aye, love. We're both all right. Bastard cut you with my razor, though. Sailmaker's stitching your shoulder. May be painful, but the cut's not deep."

"God, I'm so sorry! I never thought it could be him at the door. Thompson swore he'd kill you if I said anything."

"Shh, stay here. I'll be right back." She discovered she was nude on her stomach in the bunk, the bedclothes pulled up to her waist. Morgan closed the curtains and bolted the door after the sailmaker finished. "Lucky your sewing kit was out, or he'd have used his sailmaking gut."

"God, the sewing kit! My scissors! I never noticed it. I was looking for a weapon of some kind. Thompson grabbed the razor before I could."

"Jesus, Rachel! You and your ill-conceived notions of wielding weapons against these curs. Smartest thing you could have done was get out and try to summon help." He sat down on the edge of the bunk and wrapped her in his arms, mindful of her sore shoulder.

"Captain's chained the pair in the holds. You should have shouted for me when you sensed danger, Rachel. Regardless of their threats to harm me. I'm along to assure your safety, not the other way 'round. Christ, a moment's weakness, and you're bleeding from a razor cut!"