More Than You Know (22 page)

He knew he slept for a time. It wasn't until he heard Claire's faint whisper that he knew what woke him.

"No tapu, Tiare. No tapu. I don't ... I don't believe this. There is no tapu."

Rand watched her lips move around the words and wondered at their meaning. He raised his hand from her waist and touched her cheek. Her skin was warmer now—not fevered, just warm. He gave a small start, blinking once when Claire's eyes opened suddenly. There was such intensity, such focus in her gaze, that for a moment Rand believed she could actually see him.

"Tiare!"

Rand heard both horror and pleading in her tone. Claire's breathing took on a labored quality, as if she had paused in the midst of a hard run; then she was quiet. A shutter was drawn over her eyes, then her expression. Almost instantly she was asleep again, this time peacefully.

He had occasion to wonder what it all meant as
Cerberus
moved without incident toward the South Pacific islands. Three more days passed before he could ask Claire.

She was sitting up, propped against the wall and the headboard, surrounded by pillows and a tangle of blankets, when he strode into her room.

"I suppose I shall have to use the new lock after all,” she said. “No one knocks any more."

Rand's smile was faint. He stood at the foot of her bed, his eyes moving over her face, her hair, the open neckline of her nightshift. A hint of color had returned to her cheeks. Her collarbones looked fragile beneath skin that was stretched tautly over them. He swallowed hard. There was a slight catch in his voice. “It's Rand,” he said.

"I know. I heard you coming down the companionway."

"Mr. Dodd reported that you've finally deigned to join us."

Claire made light of it. “If you mean the living, yes, I'm finally among you. It seems
Cerberus
weathered the Horn better than I did."

Rand found he did not want to look away from her. Somehow his feet had become rooted to the floor. “Claire."

Pushing at the blankets impatiently, Claire rose to her knees. She thrust a hand forward, palm up, fingers outstretched. It seemed an eternity before her hand was filled with his.

Rand stepped around the corner of the bed and hauled Claire flush against him. She seemed impossibly delicate in his rough embrace, but she didn't shy from it or murmur anything that could be mistaken as protest. He kissed her hair, her brow, her closed lids. He laid his mouth across hers. And when he drew back, it seemed that no words were necessary to say what he felt, or what he had felt for interminable days and nights. Claire was holding him now, her fingers stroking the coppery hair at his nape, and whispering against his neck, “I know. I know."

His fingers loosened on her waist. She drew him onto the bed. He kissed her again, lightly this time.

"Careful,” she said. “The door's not locked."

"Hmmm.” He held her face between his hands, his thumbs touching the corner of her lips. “I remember."

"I suppose everyone became accustomed to barging in here while I was ill."

"Not everyone. Stuart, Cutch, and Dodd. They did the lion's share."

"And you. I know you were here."

He wondered that she had sensed his presence. He couldn't recall a moment when she had seemed to be aware of him. “Did you?” he asked.

Claire nodded.

"You never once said my name."

She turned her head a fraction and kissed the pad of his thumb. “Rand,” she said quietly.

A shiver went through him. He lifted Claire and placed her back among the pillows and blankets. He drew them around her, tucking her in. Her vaguely disappointed look drew a deep chuckle from him, just as he suspected she knew it would. “You're only just recovered,” Rand told her, though he doubted Claire had forgotten. “Stay there. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please."

A tray had been set out earlier on the desk. Rand felt the pot and found it still warm. He poured Claire a cup, added a little sugar, and gave it to her. She sipped it gratefully.

"You called me Tiare,” he said. The tightening of Claire's fingers on her cup would have been imperceptible if Rand hadn't been looking for it.

"You must be mistaken,” Claire said with credible calm.

"No, I don't think so. Stuart heard you use the name. Perhaps you called him that as well. I didn't ask.” He continued to watch her closely. “Who is he?” he asked. “Who's Tiare?"

"It's a flower,” she said.
"Tiare apetahi."

"I know the flower,” Rand said. “It's native to Tahiti ... a sacred white flower that can be grown nowhere else. There's a legend to it. Something about a young girl dying of a broken heart."

Claire's smile was wry. She chided him gently. “For someone whose life has been caught up in a legend, you speak rather dismissingly of this one. The petals are her five fingers. The flower unfolds at dawn and dies at nightfall. And the beautiful girl of the legend fell in love with the son of a royal chief. It was because she couldn't hope to marry him that her heart was broken."

"I like the Hamilton-Waterstone tale better. Privateers ... cutlasses ... treasure."

"And treachery. Don't forget the treachery."

"The best part."

Claire smirked. “You
would
think so."

Rand wondered if she thought she had put him off his original question. He repeated it now. “What about Tiare?"

Lifting the cup to her lips, Claire did not respond directly. “Did I talk a lot during my illness?"

"A lot? I don't know if I would say that. Mostly it was about your father and brother. Occasionally about Stickle."

"Oh, dear. Then I suppose Mr. Stuart knows about my pet name for him."

"He does but I doubt he'll ever have occasion to use it. You mentioned Trenton."

"I did?"

Rand saw that Claire seemed genuinely surprised by that. “Only once that I'm aware of."

"I must have been having a nightmare,” she said. “It's the only context in which I can imagine bringing Trenton to mind."

"What about Tiare?"

Claire frowned. “Why is it so important to you? I'm sure I don't remember saying anything like that."

"You mentioned him in the same breath as tapu."

Her mouth flattened, and this time Claire was almost mutinously silent. The tips of her fingers were white on her teacup.

Rand eyed the cup, wondering if she could break it. Thinking she might just throw it in his face, he didn't try to take it from her. “You must know your prevarication and silence has me intrigued, Claire. You would have been better served to tell me at the first."

She was realizing that now. If anything, it made disclosure more difficult.

"Is he someone to you?” asked Rand. “A suitor, perhaps? The son of a royal chief?"

Claire's flush deepened. “No. That's ridiculous."

"Is it? Are you saying that no man among the islanders ever tried to court you?"

"Yes ... no ... I mean it's ridiculous that you think his name would be Tiare. It's a woman's name."

Rand's brows raised a fraction. “A woman?"

Claire nodded. “Tiare is Tipu's mother. My father's mistress."

He considered that a moment, wondering what lay behind Claire's reluctance to tell him at the outset. “What was her tapu?” he asked at last.

"Her tapu?"

"Her spell,” he explained. “Was she the one who cursed your eyes?"

Claire thrust her teacup in Rand's direction.
Was she the one who cursed your eyes?
“Take this,” she said, urgency in her tone. “Please."

Rand realized that Claire's hands were shaking too badly to hold the cup any longer. He grabbed it in time to keep it from falling out of her hands. “Claire? What is it? Are you all right?"

She shook her head. “I think I'm going to be sick.” She drew her knees toward her chest and hugged them. Her stomach churned. The nausea was only marginally relieved by the change in her position, and bile began to rise in her throat. She choked it back. Her heart seemed to be tripping over itself in a race to escape her chest, and a deep flush colored her skin from her breasts to her scalp. Claire was trapped into stillness by an overwhelming sense of fear. It was made worse by her inability to name the thing that frightened her.

Rand pulled Claire closer to the edge of the bed. He reached for the basin on her commode and placed her hand along the rim so she could sense its position. Her shoulders heaved once and she retched dryly. Rand held her steady.

"Go away,” she said miserably. There was no comfort in having him hold her now, only a keen sense of embarrassment. His presence did not lessen Claire's fear; it merely reinforced the irrationality of it. She should feel safe, she thought, yet there was no sense of well-being. “Please,” she whispered. “Go away."

Rand did not doubt the sincerity of her request, but its reasonableness made him hesitate. “I'll get Dr. Stuart,” he said. It was a compromise he could live with.

Claire shook her head. The motion made her heave again. “I don't want—"

Her wishes were of little concern to Rand now. He wished he had not been so quick to dismiss the man posted at her door. Pressing the basin more fully into Claire's grip, he told her he would only be a moment. He strode to the door, threw it open, then went in search of Macauley Stuart.

When he returned to Claire's cabin it was to discover that she had locked the door. “Claire! Open up!” The door rattled under his hard knock but it didn't give. “I have Stuart here. I think you should see him."

Inside, Claire was standing at the commode, pressing a cool cloth to her face. She shook her head in response to Rand's orders but she said nothing.

Rand gave her a few moments to come to the door. When she didn't, he repeated his demand for her to open it. This time he and Stuart heard her faint reply that they should leave her alone. Rand looked sideways at the doctor, one of his brows arched in question.

"Let's give her some more time,” Macauley suggested. “She doesn't sound as though she needs me this very minute."

"You didn't see her. The illness could be starting again."

The doctor rubbed his chin. “Well, if it's a relapse, there's little I'll be able to do in the way of helping her. The sickness has to run its course. The medicine's to ease her way. It's not a cure.” He saw that Rand didn't like his answer, but he didn't apologize for it. “I left the tonic with her. She can take a dose herself as well as I can give it to her."

Rand gave him a sour look. “Some days I wonder why the hell I agreed to bring you, Stuart. You're about as useful as udders on a bull."

Macauley shrugged. “I do what I can, Captain Hamilton. And sometimes I can't even do that.” He rapped lightly on Claire's door. “Claire, it's Macauley. The captain believes I need to examine you. Will you let me in?"

There was a long silence, then: “You? Alone?"

"Yes,” Stuart said before Rand could respond otherwise. “If that's what you wish.” Cocking his head, he glanced at Rand. “You'll have to leave. I don't think she'll let me in otherwise."

Reinforcing his words, Claire's voice came from just on the other side of the door. “Captain Hamilton?"

"Yes, Claire?"

"Go away."

Rand did not look at the doctor, and he took himself off without looking back.

Claire opened the door as soon as Rand's footsteps had receded into the companionway. “Come in, Macauley.” She turned away and went back to the commode. She dipped her cloth into the pitcher again, wrung it out, and laid it against her forehead, then her throat.

"Sit down,” Stuart told her. “Over here, on the bed. I can see for myself that you're flushed. What happened?"

Sighing, Claire put the cloth down and did as she was told. “I don't know. I've never experienced anything like it before."

Macauley reached under the bed and retrieved his medical bag. He took out his stethoscope. “You'll have to unbutton your nightdress. I want to listen to your chest."

She nodded and unfastened the first three buttons. She remained very still as Macauley pressed the instrument between her breasts, then at the underside of her left one, against her ribs. His hand on her shoulder steadied her.

"You can breathe,” he chided her.

Claire's smile betrayed her unease. When Macauley tugged on her shift to move it over her shoulder, she tensed.

"I thought you were over your shyness."

She shrugged. The movement caused her nightdress to fall as Macauley wanted it. She felt him slip the stethoscope under the material and press it against her back. The coolness of it made her shiver. It was not modesty that made her reluctant to submit to the examination, but a certain mistrust that it made any difference. Since leaving Raiatea she had permitted dozens of doctors a hundred opportunities to poke and prod her. Little was different in her life as a result. She was still blind, and they all admitted they didn't understand the nature of her tropical illness. Claire held no belief that Macauley Stuart was better or worse than any of his colleagues before him. She didn't welcome his attentions, merely suffered them.

Macauley removed the stethoscope. Before he could help Claire with her nightgown, she was already pulling it in place and fastening the buttons. “There's nothing wrong with your heart or lungs,” he told her. “Captain Hamilton said you were nauseated."

She nodded. “For a while. It passed."

"Did you vomit?"

"A little."

"Nothing much in your stomach to get rid of, I suspect.” He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. Her skin was cool, but he remembered that she had had a cloth pressed to her face. Macauley replaced the stethoscope, then looked through his bag for laudanum. “Tell me about your other symptoms. Does your head ache?"

"No. And there was never any pain behind my eyes.” She hesitated, not knowing how to explain it. “I was afraid,” Claire said at last. “Deeply afraid."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. I was afraid. My stomach turned over and my hands shook. I couldn't calm myself. It was as if my heart were in my throat. The only time I've ever experienced anything like that was when I was afraid.” Her voice lowered as she tried to sort it out in her own mind. “This time there was nothing to run from or fight."

Macauley frowned. “You're saying you were frightened of nothing?"

"No. Of something. But I don't know what."

"Captain Hamilton was with you when it happened."

"Yes."

"Were you afraid of him? You wouldn't let him back in here."

"No, it was nothing like that.” Agitated, Claire moved away from the doctor. She lifted the blankets and slid under them. “You may as well go,” she told him. “There's nothing more I can tell you that will help explain what happened."

"Very well. I have some laudanum for you to take."

Claire didn't want it, but if Stuart insisted she knew there was an entire crew who would make certain she took it. She sat up just enough for him to spoon the opiate in her mouth. If it served no purpose but to help her sleep, Claire thought it would be enough.

The doctor waited in Claire's cabin until he saw the medication starting to take effect; then he went to make his report to Rand. He found the captain topside, talking to Cutch while the second oversaw the work going on in the rigging.

Rand stopped talking as soon as he saw Stuart approaching. “Well?” he asked without preamble.

"She's fine now. Resting comfortably. I gave her some laudanum.” Macauley glanced overhead at the men working in the yardarms. He grimaced, thinking it was only a matter of time before he was called on deck to set another broken bone. “There's no indication that she's taken a turn in her recovery. What she described to me has nothing to do with the illness as I understand it."

"What did she say to you?” asked Rand. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Cutch's attention had strayed from the men to the doctor.

"That she was afraid,” Macauley said simply.

Rand's brows rose. “Of me?"

The doctor shook his head. “I didn't get that impression. She certainly couldn't explain it. Her symptoms, though, were consistent with someone who has been frightened."

"That doesn't make any sense. Nothing happened. We were talking."

Cutch caught Rand's eyes squarely. “About what?"

Rand actually had to struggle to remember. It seemed so unimportant now. “I was asking her about Tiare. It was one of the names she called out when she was sick."

Both Cutch and Macauley nodded.

"As it happens, Tiare is the name of her brother's mother. Since she said Tiare's name in the same breath she mentioned tapu, I thought there might be a connection."

Cutch's eyes narrowed intently, while Macauley was clearly lost. “You told her that?” asked Cutch.

"Asked her,” Rand replied. “I asked her if Tiare cursed her with blindness."

Cutch shook his head slowly, his disappointment palpable. “Do you really think, if that's true, Claire could have said so? It's powerful magic. I thought you had more respect for it. Mammy Komati raised you to.” He stalked away almost angrily and took to the rigging to help the men in the yards himself.

Macauley stared after him, astonished as much by Cutch's tone in addressing Rand as in the content of his short speech. “What did he mean?” he asked. “And who is Mammy Komati?"

"Cutch meant that I've been a fool,” Rand said succinctly. He let those words sink in, then gave the doctor a frank look. “But don't think I'd let just anyone point that out.” He raked back his hair and crossed to the rail. He was aware of Macauley following him. “Mammy Komati was a nursemaid, mother, friend ... tyrant. She called herself a Christian and sang spirituals with feeling enough to support that claim, but she never turned her back on the gods of her ancestors."

"She was a slave in your home,” Macauley said, beginning to understand.

"That's right. She was my mother's wet nurse, later her confidant and companion. When my father married my mother, he had to take Mammy Komati, too. She was not leaving her baby. I think my father was a little afraid of her.” Rand's grin was a bit self-mocking. “I know I was."

He turned his back on the rail and leaned against it, crossing his arms in front of him. The last person he thought he'd be talking about Mammy to was Macauley Stuart. “She said she knew the magical arts, but always cautioned that she used them in the aid of goodness. If anyone became sick, she'd retire to her quarters to mix potions and burn feathers. Sometimes an animal was sacrificed. The crucifix she wore around her neck was nestled among half-a-dozen pagan charms and amulets."

"She knew about tapu?” asked Macauley.

"Not by that name,” Rand said. “Mammy's magic was African. Tapu belongs to the South Seas.” He shrugged. “But it's not dissimilar."

"Is Mr. Cutch right about it being powerful?"

"You're a man of science, Dr. Stuart. What do you think?"

Macauley chuckled softly, amused. “You're talking to a man who was raised in the Highlands, who grew up believing there was magic in the mists. Scratch the surface, I'm afraid, and beneath this doctor you'll find someone willing to burn a few feathers if it will cure a cold.” He studied Rand a moment. “But you put the question to Miss Bancroft. You must hold some opinion about the power of tapu."

Rand did not answer immediately. “I believe it exists,” he said at last. “As for its power, I think it rests in the culture. Mammy believed in its power, so it was powerful. Cutch believes, too. I've seen the work of tapu on islanders. A man can be struck dumb by a spell or lose the will to live and die at the very hour predicted by the priestess. In the same way, a child might walk again or be delivered from some unknown source of pain."

"Miss Bancroft is English,” Macauley reminded him. “It's difficult to imagine a race of people with less interest or respect for the mystical. Witness what they've done in India."

Rand had no desire to hear the doctor's discourse on British imperialism again. “Miss Bancroft's spent a good portion of her life in and around the Sun Islands. It may be that she holds to the scientific principles of her father with less conviction than she would have others believe."

"So my French colleague, Dr. Messier, may be right after all,” Macauley said thoughtfully.

Rand looked at him in surprise. He hadn't considered it from that perspective. “In a manner of speaking, yes, he would be right. Miss Bancroft's blindness might have no physical cause."

"And no catastrophic event for her to recreate. It's the work of a tapu."