The Beauty of the Mist (5 page)

Only when she had arrived in Hungary did she realize how vulnerable—how inept—that made her. She had not been prepared to deal either with life or with the people she met there.

Standing silently in the dimly lit cabin, she cursed her own weakness, but kept her gaze riveted to the wide planking of the floorboards. She had learned to mask her fears, in the role of queen. But stripped of those comfortable trappings, the entourage, and the space that ceremony provides, there was nothing for her to hide behind.

John continued to gaze in silence at the young woman standing awkwardly in the shadows by the door. Something about her made him feel uneasy. No question, there was certainly an air of mystery about the two new arrivals. She had mentioned they’d been attacked by a French ship. She must be afraid, considering the fact that Scotland and France had been closest of allies for more than a hundred years. What did she think, that he would hand them over to the same people who had tried to murder them? Aye, that was a possibility, and she did look terrified. Certainly, there was no way she knew what lay in store for them. And aside from the political uncertainties these days of who is friend and who is foe, the fate of two women found adrift at sea could hardly be perceived as promising...under the best of circumstances.

But from his own perspective and in the minds of those who lived on the sea, the fact that these two had survived such an ordeal was considered purely miraculous. Using their best estimates, the Spaniard in their boat had been dead for quite a while. Hours. So the survival of the two women had rested solely in their own hands.

Their own soft hands.

Maria watched as the Scot turned his attention back on Isabel once again. With the lantern in his hand and his back to her, he leaned over the sleeping woman, seemingly looking for something. Maria summoned all of her courage, determined to move closer to Isabel’s side. From the steady breathing, she knew her aunt was still fast sleep. But before she could take the first step, he swung around.

Maria remained frozen where she stood.

He strode across the deck toward her.

She pressed her back against the cabin wall, her hand releasing the latch and clasping her other hand behind her back. She thought his visit finished, so she stared at the shadowy wooden planks, waiting for him to go.

There was a long pause as he came to a stop before her. Maria could feel the heat of the lantern on her face. She lifted her eyes to his face.

Even in this dim light, his eyes were clear and deep and blue. Like an ocean wave they pulled at her. Like some small empty shell on the shore, Maria felt herself being drawn down shifting sands, helplessly falling. Losing herself in the blue depths.

“Wait,” he growled.

“What?” She flushed, looking quickly away.

“Wait here.” The giant stepped through the door and gave the waiting sailor a quick order that sent him scurrying down the corridor.

Maria let out a breath and glanced nervously toward her aunt. She wished the older woman were awake. Maria peeked back at the door only to see the Scot reentering the cabin.

“I asked you before, when we were on deck, if you were hurt.”

As he stopped in front of her again, she dropped her gaze to the crisp white linen of his shirt. “You did.”

“And are you?”

“I am not.”

John brought the light closer to her face. He saw the dark bruise on her forehead; the short, clean cut on her chin; and the blush that was spreading rapidly on her cheeks. She had the smoothest and the palest of skins. And she still avoided his gaze.

“Why didn’t you let my surgeon see to your injuries?”

“They are mere scratches.”

John raised the light even closer. “The gash on your chin is oozing blood.”

Maria’s hand flew to her chin. He caught her wrist, and she grabbed at his fingers with her other hand. His grip was vise-like, though, and in a flash of panic, she quickly realized he was not about to release her.

“Let me go,” she whispered.

“Mere scratches?” John looked steadily into her startled face, and she abandoned her weak effort to resist. Her other hand fell limply to her side, and Maria looked away from him.

John turned her hand in his and pushed up the edges of the wide sleeve. He cast a critical eye on the bloody and loosely-tied dressing on her hand.

Anger and rebellion suddenly shot through Maria as he studied the bandages, and she tried to yank her hand out of his grasp, but he held her tightly. She shuddered in pain and gave up the struggle.

“Please let me go,” she pleaded softly.

“Not until you let me see the extent of it.”

“It’s nothing serious,” she whispered. “A bit of the skin rubbed off.”

“Let me see them,” he ordered. “Both of them.”

For a moment the two stood glaring at one another. What right did he have to march in, taking charge of her well being? Maria thought angrily. But the commander’s silent stare answered her unasked query. He was in charge. In charge of his ship and all aboard her.

John stood patiently. He had all the time in the world. If she had the strength to stand up to him, as close as they were, and hide her one injured hand behind her while the other remained in his grip, then he was game. He could wait. But he knew she wouldn’t prevail against his wishes. Not many could.

Maria hesitantly brought her other hand from behind her back. She was tired, and she was in pain. If seeing to her injured hands was what it would take to satisfy the man, then so be it, she thought.

“That’s better,” he grunted. Turning her a bit, he placed the small lamp in a wall sconce.

John looked down at the poorly bandaged hands and loosened his grip on them. From the drying bloodstains on the cloth covering the palms, it was obvious that she was raw beneath. If he didn’t rebandage them now, the cloths would adhere to the wound.

“What you did today took real courage.” Pretending to concentrate on her hands, he didn’t look up as she lifted her gaze. “I...”

The sailor knocked lightly and ducked into the cabin. Still holding her wrist, John gestured to the table. The man hurriedly placed the clay jar beside the pile of dressings. Then, with a nod at his commander, he left them alone, closing the door on his way out.

Turning to the young woman once again, John found her looking at him with questioning eyes.

He had to think hard to remember what he was about to say. Facing him fully, as she did now, she had the power of an enchantress. Her black hair, pulled tightly back, highlighted rather than subdued her perfect features. And her eyes. They flashed like polished jade. He felt the magic holding him captive.

“I am John Macpherson,” he said at last.

She nodded politely, dropping her hands to her sides.

“And you?” he asked.

She threw a panicky glance in Isabel’s direction. She was snoring.

“Your name?”

“Maria,” she whispered.

“Maria...” He waited.

She paused. “Maria. My family name is of no importance to you.”

In spite of the note of defiance in her answer, John could read the hesitation and fear in her visage and in her stance. He had to put her mind at ease. No doubt she thought he would try to ransom her back to her family. That was not an uncommon practice with shipwrecked survivors. But that was not his intention.

“Well...Maria. I assume you must be curious about this ship and our destination.”

She nodded slowly as she considered her best course of action. It definitely would not do to let him know what she and Isabel already had surmised. She raised her eyes expectantly to his face.

“You are on the Scottish ship, the
Great Michael
, heading for Antwerp. As soon as this fog lifts, we are only perhaps three days from port, depending on the wind. Once we arrive, you should have no trouble finding passage on another ship...to wherever you were originally going. Unless, of course, your original destination was Antwerp.” He paused deliberately, waiting for her reaction. “I want you to know you are safe on this boat, lass. You should harbor no fears concerning any treatment you’ll receive from me or from any of my men.”

“Thank you.” She turned her gaze back to him, nodding in acknowledgment.

“Now, if you’d allow me, I would like to see to your hands.”

Maria instinctively hid them in the folds of her skirt, her face reddening. “But they are fine.”

“They are not.” He came closer. “The dressing on them is already soaked with blood. If they are not tended to right now, the wounds will likely become inflamed. You could end up being in much graver danger than your sleeping companion.”

“There’s no need, I tell you,” she protested. “I can change the dressing.”

“Nay, lass, you can’t. But that’s not the only thing that needs to be done.” Seeing her retreat, he stopped. “Of course, if you don’t trust me, I could ask my surgeon to come back and see to them. He has a tried and true remedy that he uses on the sailors whenever they encounter such injuries. And it is quite effective. I’m surprised he didn’t use it on your companion.”

“I would like that, if you don’t mind,” Maria responded. Having the old surgeon look at her hands was the answer. After all, he’d done some good for Isabel. And honestly, though she would do her best to ignore the pain, the throbbing seemed to be getting worse. As tired as she was after the day long ordeal, somehow she couldn’t imagine getting much sleep with such discomfort. “Perhaps, if it isn’t too late to ask him—”

“Nay, that suits me, as well,” John lied. “But he cannot tend you here. Perhaps we could take you below to the galley. There is far less chance there of you waking up your friend with your screaming.”

“Screaming!”

John kept a straight face as he nodded in response. Her eyes were wide, her complexion paler than before.

“What does he use?” she asked at last. “Your surgeon, I mean.”

“To be truthful, lass, you’d be better off not knowing,” he said gravely. He took a half step toward the door. “I’ll just call and let him get started.”

“Wait!” she said, a note of command in her tone.

John turned and looked at her expectantly.

Her voice was softer when she spoke. “What is it that he’ll do?”

The Highlander hesitated...for effect. “He’ll seal the wound with boiling oil.”

Maria shuddered in disgust and backed up. “That is barbaric.”

“Aye. But it works. In fact,” he said, glancing over at Isabel, “It has been the standard treatment for gun wounds for…oh, thirty years. But perhaps he didn’t want to listen to your companion’s screams.”

She shook her head in disgust. “Never. I won’t let him touch me.”

John watched as she pressed her back solidly against the wall. “Then you’ll allow me to look after you?”

“Is your treatment any better?”

“Aye, some.”

“Let me guess.” She looked at him doubtfully. “You’ll cut off my hands to spare me the pain before pouring boiling oil on them.”

“Now, that’s barbaric.” He cringed, mocking her. Seeing her expression relax, the Highlander continued, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Nay, I won’t use boiling oil. The oil may be needed for other...more important uses on the ship.”

“I see.” Maria struggled to quell the sudden urge to laugh. The boyishness of his smile made a vast and surprising difference in the Scot’s fierce looks.

“Since your oil is so valuable,” she continued, “Then I suppose you’ll just cut my hands off.”

“Nay, that won’t do. Far too messy.”

“And you expect me to trust you.” She blurted out. “After telling me what you’ll not do, but hiding what you intend to do!”

“Aye. What else!” John took a step closer and stretched out his hand in invitation.

“Such an answer won’t do. Not at all.” She remained where she stood. “I need to know more of what you’re planning. Who knows? Your surgeon’s remedy might be a blessing relative to what you have in mind.”

“Trust me. It isn’t.” John smiled at last at her stubborn refusal. “I plan to apply a remedy to your hands,” he said gently. “And I promise, it won’t hurt...much.”

“Then you must plan on knocking me unconscious, since I can’t imagine anyone touching my hand without causing me extreme agony.”

John looked at her wide-eyed expression. “A moment ago, they were ‘mere scratches.’ Now we’re talking ‘agony’! Which is it, lass?”

“Well, I...”

“There are a number of folks on this ship that I’d like to knock unconscious.” He saw the confusion playing across her features. “But you aren’t among their number.”

Maria waited a moment, looking as he gestured once again for her to respond to his outstretched hands. The giant was not going to give up. Truthfully, he’d exhibited more patience than she’d expected. Finally, she yielded with a sigh and laid her hand, palm up, in his.

“Aye, that’s the spirit.” John turned and led her to the table. Pulling out a chair, he gestured to her to sit.

Maria sat down apprehensively, her back straight as a longsword.

The Highlander grabbed the lantern from the wall sconce and brought it back to the table. Then, after searching unsuccessfully for another lamp, John remembered the storage cabinets in the adjoining servant’s quarter, the one that the younger woman was now occupying. Striding wordlessly across the room, he opened the door and stepped into the darkness of the next cabin.

Aside from the linens and other luxuries supplied for the return voyage and the future queen, the storage compartments built into the walls contained a variety of necessities, as well. Searching in the darkness of the small space, John let his fingers travel over the smooth wooden surface of the cabinet doors to where, he knew from memory, a number of wick lamps and candles would be found.

As he lay one hand on the smooth wooden ledge beneath the cabinets, his fingers brushed against a metal object, causing it to slip off the edge before he had a chance to catch it. Whatever it was, the falling object made a clinking sound as it hit the plank decking at his feet.

Cursing under his breath, John crouched, feeling around for it. His hands ran along a length of the polished floor until his head banged against a door. Backing up, he cursed again as the sleeve of his shirt caught on a cabinet latch.