Forgotten Fragrance (11 page)

As Charlotte pushed back on her heels Christian emitted a strangled cough. A jet of water spurted from his mouth staining the deck.

‘He's alive!' Charlotte sank back down and tried to roll him over.

‘Nah! Not like that.' Cookie pushed her to one side and turned Christian on his back, pulling his arms above his head. ‘Like this.' He lowered Christian's arms then raised them back above his head in a frantic pumping action.

‘Remarkable! Remarkable.' Marcus bent close to Charlotte. ‘I do believe he has some life in him. The only knowledge I have is of the South Seas divers. Now I believe they can train themselves to hold their breath for…'

‘Marcus. Shut up.' Charlotte's heart raced, she crossed her fingers on both hands and prayed, actually prayed. Meanwhile Christian's body heaved and spluttered for breath.

Charlotte ran her eyes over his wet skin. It glistened in the sunlight and livid bruises blossomed all over his legs and arms. His clothes hung in tatters, ripped to shreds by the keel. When his chest began to rise and fall in an almost rhythmic pattern she leant over him, her hand flat on the deck to support her weight.

Cookie grunted in satisfaction and lowered Christian's arms, placing them gently alongside his body. ‘He's breathing. He's still with us.'

‘Bloody miracle. Twice.' Henk's globule of spit sailed over the rail in a perfect arc. ‘Looked like that when we dragged him aboard last time. Though why the old man bothered I'm not sure. Bloody murderer — even God won't take him.'

‘Our Lord welcomes sinners no matter what their crime. With Him there is plentiful redemption.' Marcus gazed heavenward.

Henk shot him a look of disdain and then emitted a guttural bark of laughter. ‘Come on, boys. The show's over. Time to get this ship into the wind.' He strode off to the wheel. ‘Jinks — lookout, Bristol, watch, Windy and Catz…' He threw his final words over his shoulder. ‘Let me know when he's carked it and sewn into the canvas.'

‘There's life in the man yet,' Cookie said.

‘Let me know if there's enough life in the bugger for me to flog him. Snap to it. Show's over!'

Charlotte glared up at Marcus, unable to believe his callous attitude. Easing herself to her feet her hand slipped on the wet deck. She lurched across Christian's chest. His body gave a shudder. His eyelids quivered then closed again and he mumbled something unintelligible.

‘Charlotte, come away.' Marcus' irritation laced his words. ‘Now! Stand up.'

Charlotte pushed up, relief flooding through her. Alive! Bristol pushed her aside, covering Christian's body with a length of canvas, tucking it mummy-like around his prostrate form until only his pale face remained visible.

She pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Isn't it wonderful? He survived. I know he will recover.' Her words dried on her lips as she took in Marcus' gaping mouth. ‘Is there something wrong, Marcus?'

He turned his face away, glancing furtively at the crew.

‘Marcus?'

‘Your face,' he whispered.

‘My face?'

‘Yes,' he hissed. ‘Your face is covered in blood.'

Charlotte ran her hand over her cheek then looked at the palm of her hand and gave a start. Marcus was right! Blood covered her palm yet she had no injury. ‘Have I cut my face?'

With a deal of distaste Marcus produced a white handkerchief from his pocket and made a random dab at her cheek. ‘I don't believe you are bleeding. It appears to have come from your hand.' Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘There's blood in your hair.'

Charlotte turned her palms upwards and gazed down at them. Her left hand was clean but her right was coated in a pale watery red. She let out a cry of anguish. ‘It's Christian. He must be bleeding.'

‘Rubbish. Look at the man, he's lying on his back covered in canvas and looks for all the world as though he's sleeping.'

Ignoring Marcus' platitude Charlotte sank once more onto her knees next to Christian. Cookie sat at his head watching the barely discernible rise and fall of his chest.

‘Cookie, he's bleeding.'

‘What makes you say that?'

She turned her hand over and showed him the remnants of blood on her palm and then ran her fingers under the canvas. They came away stained a deeper red. She held them up for Cookie to inspect.

‘You're right. Must have been caught on the keel and we didn't notice because the seawater washed ‘im clean.' He peeled back the canvas. Christian's bare chest showed evidence of bruising and scratching but little else.

‘Support his ‘ead. I'm going to roll him over to you.'

Charlotte tucked her skirt around her legs and sank back. Cookie rolled Christian's body until his chest rested against her knees.

‘He's bleeding all right. His bloody back's cut to ribbons.' He ran his index finger across Christian's back, his eyes wide as he studied the gruesome mess of flesh and blood dripping down to his wrist. ‘Must've been the molluscs and barnacles on the hull. Boys can't have done a very good job careening her.'

Charlotte peered over Christian's inert body. She could see nothing but a pool of sticky blood on the deck and Cookie's fingers looking as though he'd dabbled at Smithfield Meat Market.

‘Holy hell! He's got a splinter the size of the mainmast stuck in his back.' Cookie's fingers disappeared from sight.

Christian's body gave an almighty jerk and his eyes flashed open. ‘Fuck off, Cookie!'

Tears of relief poured down Charlotte's cheeks as Christian's icy fingers tightened around hers. She bent closer.

‘This is extremely unseemly, Charlotte. Pray stand and let the man do what has to be done. We are paying passengers not members of the crew.' Marcus took two paces back, disdain written on his face. ‘The chances of him surviving those wounds are minimal. They'll become infected.'

Charlotte ignored his words, instead she cupped Christian's cheek in the palm of her hand and crooned quietly. His face resembled a skull, bleached skin stretched tight across his cheekbones.

‘Charlotte. Come away, now.'

‘Nah. She's busy,' Cookie said. ‘I'm going to need some help. Are you goin' to lift him?' Cookie's bloody hands splayed in question as he looked at Marcus.

‘I think not.' Marcus pulled himself up to his full height. ‘As I said, we are paying passengers, nothing more.' He smoothed his waistcoat and patted his watch. ‘Come away. Now, Charlotte!'

Used to acquiescing to Marcus' every demand Charlotte made to rise then paused. If Marcus was correct, even if Christian survived the drowning he could well die from infection. This was no time for niceties.

She sank back down to the deck and turned her head. ‘No, Marcus. You might not see it as
your
role but I see it as mine. He needs help.' Charlotte cringed as her sentence ended in a high-pitched squeak. How could a man who professed to be a man of God have so little compassion? ‘We have to get him somewhere more comfortable, where we can treat his wounds.'

Marcus clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘Charlotte, I insist you come away now.'

With a toss of her head she said, ‘Cookie, can you get one of the crew to help you? Carry him down and put him in the Captain's cabin.'

‘Charlotte! Are you forgetting yourself? It is
my
cabin. Your suggestion is entirely inappropriate.'

‘There's nowhere else, Marcus.' Courage blossomed as she defied him. A driving need to ensure Christian had the best possible care spurred her on. ‘You will simply have to take my cabin while I help Cookie administer to Christian's needs.'

‘This is ludicrous! There must be somewhere else.' Marcus turned to Cookie, his face a pale shade of beetroot. ‘Don't you have a hospital cabin aboard the ship, Cookie? Call Henk. He can organise something. He thinks he is the captain of this sorry excuse for a ship.'

‘Nowhere else, mate.' Cookie interrupted Marcus' tirade. ‘We can't put him in a hammock with those wounds and the captain's cabin is the only place with a bunk.' He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Henk!' Bellowing at the top of his voice Marcus spun on his heel and stomped off across the deck.

‘Cookie, I can't lift him.' Charlotte sat back on her heels. ‘You do need to call one of the crew or maybe two.'

Cookie levered himself to his feet leaving Christian resting against Charlotte's skirts. With her hand she cradled his forehead to stop his head lolling forward and gazed up and down the deck. Jinks perched in his usual place atop the mainmast and the remainder of the crew hung around on the deck making futile attempts to look busy.

‘Jinks, get down here, and bring Windy with you.' Decisive Cookie sprang into action. ‘You go and sort out the cabin, Miss, and take this, you'll need it to cut his shirt away.' He held out Mina's knife.

She slipped it into the pocket of her skirt.

‘We'll bring the Captain down there. We'll need plenty of hot water too and some clean cloths…' He drummed his foot on the deck. ‘Jinks! Get a bloody move on!'

Charlotte ran her hand through Christian's thick hair, searching for any lacerations or bumps. His eyes fluttered open once more.

‘Angel,' he murmured before his eyes closed.

Rolling Christian gently onto his back she struggled to her feet. Engaged in some vociferous hand-waving Marcus paid no attention. Henk stood in his usual stance with his hands akimbo, shaking his head. Ignoring them she lifted her skirts and ran to the cabin. Pushing the door open she scoured the room then scooped up the bedclothes from the bunk and smoothed the mattress covering before returning to the door to peer out into the darkened passageway. The sight of Cookie edging backwards supporting Christian's shoulders greeted her. The two boys carried a leg apiece. They eased their way through the door. ‘Put him down there and roll him onto his stomach.' She pointed to the bunk. ‘Be careful you don't hurt him.'

‘He ain't going to feel nothing.' Cookie lowered Christian's upper body onto the bed, his gentle touch belying the nonchalance of his words. ‘Dead to the world as soon as we lifted him.'

Christian forced one eyelid open and fixed his gaze on the shaft of sunlight streaming across the undulating water. Air bubbles, or maybe dust motes, danced in the distorted rays. He floated in the haze and tentatively drew in a breath through his open mouth, accepting he could no longer fight the inevitable. The foul taste of whale oil clung to his mouth, thick and putrid. He ran his tongue over his swollen lips and gasped again. Hot pokers of pain slashed his lungs and his throat burnt like the furnaces of hell, until cooling water damped his lips. Exhausted by the effort he surrendered knowing the ocean would claim him.

A swell higher than St Paul's hit and tore the curl of canvas free from the mainmast. The screaming timber strained against the sodden ropes. A deep groan followed by an ear-splitting crack signalled the end of the tattered sails and timber.

Mesmerised by the inky writhing blackness below he failed to brace himself as he plummeted into the freezing water. It snatched him down into a whirlpool of fear. The cold numbed his brain and snaked to his guts. Claws gripped his chest, tightening their hold as he fought the seawater. Down, down into the all-encompassing hell, its sinuous grasp sucking the life from him, hauling him into its icy embrace.

Dragged into its cavernous depths he fought blindly until the ocean chucked him back to the surface. With his lungs bursting he snatched a single gasp of salty air. Glimpsed the glittering spray hanging against the night sky before another breaker, whipped and blown by the torrential storm, cascaded over his head and the writhing water claimed him once more.

The ocean twisted and sucked him down, swallowing him in its ravenous mouth. Burning firebrands stabbed at his chest. He lashed out, clawing at the silky darkness. As the last whisper of breath warmed his frozen lips her face floated before him. He closed his eyes and surrendered. She had kept her promise and waited.

Her face hovered beyond his grasp, a teasing smile lighting her rosebud lips, her storm-cloud eyes sparkling with promise. She reached around her neck and grasped the fine gold chain and held it out to him. Sunlight reflected from the tiny bottle sending dancing prisms into the sun-drenched air. She pulled the golden stopper free and the sweet scent of woodlands filled his nostrils, thrusting his memory back to the past: to a time locked away.

‘Lottie.' His parched lips formed the word like a blessing, filling the crevices of his mind with warmth and comfort.

Her damp fingers reached out and traced the contours of his mouth bringing with them the cool touch of water. He sucked like a baby searching for more. Drip by drip the water soothed his parched throat. Breath by breath her warm scent enveloped him.

He lacked the strength to move. His numb limbs refused to respond to his commands yet he wanted for nothing. Misty fingers reached out and seized him in their tendril clasp. He had found his angel and he rested at peace.

Charlotte slid her fingers under Christian's waistband; the bronze hair on his belly caught against her fingertips as she unbuttoned the placket of his sodden trousers and tugged the tattered shreds down over his lean hips and long legs. He groaned but didn't move. She slipped them over his ankles and tossed them aside.

Where the sun hadn't reached his pale flesh shone like alabaster, holding her spellbound. She traced the contours of his body with trembling fingers. The smooth, taut skin of his belly rippled at her touch. So different from the soft curves of her own. A man's body. Wide muscled shoulders, a slim tapered waist and…
oh goodness
…she slammed her eyes closed as a delicious tremor shook her body.

Her pulse thundered and she flicked her eyes open and cast a surreptitious glance at the door and then back. Unable to resist her gaze travelled down, marvelling at the perfect symmetry of his body. He ought to look shattered, broken, injured; instead he resembled one of Elgin's statues, alabaster, marble. With shaking fingers she pulled the cotton cover up over his legs and hips, fighting the desire to run her fingers over every inch of his glorious flesh.