The Beauty of the Mist (6 page)

Grinning sardonically at himself in the darkness, he sat back on his heels. What a picture I must make, he thought. The Lord of the King’s Navy, crawling around like some bungling half-wit in the pitch black bedroom of a young woman I’ve just somehow managed to fish from the sea.

Pushing himself to his feet, John pulled open the door into the corridor. Immediately, light from a lantern that had been hung there flooded into the cabin. Turning, he let his eyes scan the tiny space, pausing on the pile of wet clothing sitting at the far end. There, on top of what appeared to be the dress and the cloak that Maria had worn, lay her wet undergarments. He smiled wickedly as he thought how shocked her expression would be to know he had laid eyes on something so private. Taking a step back to the cabinets, he looked once more for the object that he’d knocked from the ledge.

Directly in front of him John spotted a glimmer of light in a crack between the decking and the base of the cabin’s solitary bunk. Leaning down and carefully taking hold of it, he extracted the item from its hiding place. It was a ring at the end of a gold chain.

Straightening himself to his full height, he held the chain up and gazed at the exquisitely fashioned gold ring. The dim light in the room would not let him see more of the design, but of one thing he was certain.

What he held in his hand was a wedding ring.

Maria turned and looked again in the direction of the partially open door. She wondered what he could be doing. She sensed that he had gone for another wick lamp, but she had seen nothing of the sort when she’d changed into the dry clothes.

She wished she could smooth back the loose strands of her thick, black hair. But as time passed, she was finding her throbbing hands more and more useless. She could feel the loose knot of hair was still held in place with the combs, but she wondered for how long. Glancing down at the square neckline of the borrowed dress, she gingerly smoothed the backs of her hands over the tight, embroidered bodice. She didn’t want to dawdle over silly fancies, but somehow, suddenly, it mattered to her how she looked.

Maria saw the flicker of the candle before she saw the man. Feeling an unexpected flutter in her stomach, she twisted quickly back in her seat, staring ahead and pretending disinterest.

John placed the candles on the table beside a large bowl of fresh water and began to unroll the dressings. He opened the corked jar, keeping his eyes on her.

It was not unlikely, he decided. The ring. It had to be hers. Thinking about it more rationally, it only made sense. A young woman, as beautiful as she would quite naturally be married. Even at her age. But where was her husband? John thought. More than likely he was not on the sunken ship, for she showed no sign of mourning. Perhaps the man was waiting for them at their destination. Of course, that was it, he decided, fighting off the irritation that was creeping into corners of his consciousness. Some young caballero newly returned from the New World, probably. Pockets filled with silver and gems for his young bride.

Maria pulled back her face in surprise as the odor from the jar reached her nose. “It’s...it’s rather foul!”

He sat down before her and started unwrapping the soiled dressings on her hands. “I can see you have not spent much time at sea.”

“What makes you say that?”

Above the line of the dress, the skin of her bosom, her neck, her face glowed in the lamp and candle light. John could see the flutter of her pulse at her throat. Her eyes, wide and dark, shone questioningly. Damn.

“This smell is hardly foul. If you were more experienced in sea travel, you’d probably consider it pleasant.”

“I like the salt smell of the sea.”

“Do you, lass?”

She leaned forward and smelled again. “What is that...sharp smell!”

“Turpentine,” he responded. “Egg yolk, rose oil, and turpentine.”

“I’ve never heard of this...turpentine before,” she whispered. “But it sounds like a strange mix.”

“Aye, but it works. It’s more effective than sea water, and infinitely less painful than hot oil.” John pulled away the last of the loose dressing and frowned at the sight of her palms and fingers.

Maria followed his gaze and stared with an odd sense of detachment at her hands. They were no more than exposed pieces of flesh, as raw as newly butchered meat, oozing with blood and pus. To her dismay, and with a feeling of mild revulsion, she noted that some of the linen had already begun to stick to the inflamed wounds.

He looked up, expecting her to faint. Truthfully, he thought, it would be better if she did.

She continued to stare.

“This will hurt.”

“You gave me your word that it wouldn’t,” Maria protested quietly.

“This is worse than I thought it to be,” he growled. John stood up, happy to have something he could be angry with, and stalked to a cabinet. She saw him take down a decanter and pour a liquid in a cup. He came back to her and laid them both on the table. “Mere scratches!”

The Highlander sat down and pushed the cup across the table-board. “You’ll need to drink this.”

“Boiling oil?” she asked, smiling weakly.

“Drink!” he ordered. The young woman began to reach for the cup, but as she did, John saw the trembling fingers. His voice was softer as he continued. “It will not hurt you, lass.”

Gently, he lifted the cup to her lips, and she leaned forward, taking a sip. It burned her lips.

“It’s strong. Is this turpentine, too?”

John chuckled. “It’s whisky. A good Scots drink. But it’s probably not strong enough.” He held the drink again to her lips, and she reached up, tipping the cup until it was gone. Lowering it, he noticed the amber droplets glittering like jewels on her full lips. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed his finger over them.

His touch was so intimate. Maria knew that codes of behavior dictated that she pull back from his caress, but she didn’t. Somehow, here in this cabin, inside the darkened walls, she felt separated from her past. Her eyes captured his gaze.

John stared at her for a moment, then withdrew his hand as if he’d been the one injured. She was married.

Maria lowered her gaze in confusion and dismay. She didn’t know what was coming over her. Her senses were on fire, and she could feel her face burn. She watched him lift her hands and carefully lower them both in the water.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she tried to pull back, but he held on. The pain coursed up her arms, but she realized in a moment that she had the strength to bear it.

Gently, the Highlander pressed on the torn flesh with the wet linen, and Maria’s mind focused on other things. Her eyes continued to stare, but not at the act of the cleansing itself, but rather at the hands that held hers so expertly. At the difference in size, in color, in the very strength of the fingers that cradled and gentled her injured flesh with the utmost care.

“It must have come unexpectedly.”

She snapped out of her reverie and glanced at him questioningly. A searing pain shot into her wrist, causing her to wince.

“The attack on your ship,” he continued. “Why else would you be left with only one man to protect you in a battle?”

The sharp pains were increasing dramatically in her hands. She shuddered and went back to staring at them. Each time the water moved, the flesh of her palms sent shafts of hot metal into her wrist and arm.

“Where were you headed?”

Maria didn’t look up.

“What port did you sail from, at least?” Receiving only silence as an answer, he continued, struggling to retain a reasonable tone of voice. “They will be looking for you when your ship doesn’t arrive.”

She pressed her lips tightly together.

John turned back to his task. From the decanter, he poured some of the whisky into the bowl of water, causing her to flinch once again. He’d hoped to take her mind off her hands by involving her in conversation, but she wasn’t cooperating.

“You know, lass, there is a possibility we might come across other survivors. Did the vessel have many longboats?”

“A few.” She nodded slowly, her eyes never lifting from her hands.

John pulled gently at a section of linen that would not separate from her raw flesh. She gasped.

He felt the flesh tear in his own chest. He’d not thought it possible for Maria to become any paler, but as he looked up into her ghostly complexion, he was certain that she had. Her eyes glistened with pooling tears, but they refused to overflow onto her bloodless cheeks. She continued to look stubbornly at her hands. He’d seen many wounded in battle. He’d tended to many injured on his ship. But none of them had been a woman, and none had been as beautiful or valiant than this one. He watched as another wave of pain shook her frame, but she bore it well.

“Talk about something,” he ordered. “Tell me anything, but talk.”

“It hurts!”

“I know it does,” he growled. “But if you hadn’t tried to hide your injury earlier, it wouldn’t be quite this painful now.”

She said nothing but, tearing her eyes away from her hands, she stared off into the darkness.

“Talk to me, Maria. Trust me, it will help. You must take your mind off your hands. Separate yourself from the pain.”

“I can’t!”

“Aye! You can, damn it!” he responded sharply, his tone commanding.

She lifted her face, and John saw the tears now rolling down her face. He reached over for the cup, poured some more drink, and raised it to her lips.

“Drink,” he ordered quietly, and this time she complied with no argument, draining the cup.

With another gentle tug, the piece of linen came away. A flush of relief swept through him. He was nearly finished.

“But I don’t know what to say,” she hiccupped softly. “It hurts so much.”

There was one large flap of skin that needed to be cut away, and the Highlander pulled his razor-sharp dirk from the sheath at his belt and laid it on the table. He suddenly wished she were not as strong-willed as she obviously was when it came to enduring pain.

“A story,” he suggested. “Tell me a story.”

“I don’t know any stories. What are you going to do with your dagger?”

He put her hands back on the table. “Think of some happy moment in your life. Perhaps some time to come. Or one from your past. I need to cut away that piece of skin. You won’t feel it.”

She felt light headed. “There have been no happy moments in my life.” She watched in horror as he carefully wiped the blade with the linen and then quickly sliced the skin. He was right; she felt nothing.

“Think of your husband,” he said, gazing steadily at her. “Think of your marriage.”

John took a handful of the ointment from the jar and gently smoothed it onto the palm and fingers of the hand that appeared less injured. She didn’t deny being married.

“Imagine his face, when he finds out you are alive. That you survived the sinking of the ship.”

She shook her head.

“Try!” he ordered.

“But I can’t,” she said weakly, her eyes rolling up in their sockets.

“You have to. He’ll be waiting.” John smeared the ointment as lightly as he could on her other hand. “He’ll be waiting when you arrive, his arms open to you. His heart full of affection. He’ll be waiting at the docks to whisk you away. And you’ll run to him. Glad to have found him again...”

John paused. She was staring at him, her expression suddenly blank. Even her breathing seemed to have stopped. “Maria?” He reached out and touched her above the elbow, giving her a gentle shake.

Maria’s eyes tried to focus for the briefest of moments. “But...he is dead!”

John was too late to catch her head as it banged to the table with a thud.

She wasn’t married.

John Macpherson’s attention was wandering.

He could still feel the thick black hair uncoiling, tumbling, caressing his arm with a slippery softness of the silk. She had been as light as feather, as beautiful as an angel, and as trusting as the dead.

After all, she had passed out.

Vaguely, the Highlander could hear his navigator speaking, but John’s mind was not with him. The two men leaned over the maps spread out on the high work table in his cabin and John’s gaze followed as David pointed out where he figured they were and what their best course might be for the completion of the voyage. But his mind’s eye lingered over another vision.

Once Maria had lost consciousness, John had thought he’d have a much easier time finishing up the dressing of her hands, but he’d been wrong.

After carrying her into the other cabin, the Highlander had remained beside her, sitting on the edge of the small bunk. John had gazed on the young beauty, her ivory skin glowing in the flickering lamplight. He’d sat there for longest time, unable to tear himself away, even to retrieve the fresh dressings from the other cabin.

So she had no husband. But for how long had the man been dead? Where they any bairns? Why was she not mourning him? And where was she headed? What relationship existed between Maria and her companion? But he had no way of knowing any of the answers. Not until she confided in him.

Sitting beside her, John forced himself to look once again at the torn flesh of her fingers and palms. The ointment would do its work. But there were more questions that needed to be answered.

From her steady breathing, he could see that sleep had replaced the fainting spell. A wry smile crossed his face, for John knew the reason for her losing consciousness. It was more likely due to her exhaustion and the strong drink he’d given her than any pain from the application of the ointment. She was remarkably tough. But still, he found himself unable to leave her unattended.

Looking carefully at the bruises and the cut on her chin, he decided that they required no dressing. Even those marks did nothing to mar the beauty, nor to dispel the aura of enchantment that surrounded her.

With her hair spread in cascading, ebony waves over the white coverlet, he’d gazed appreciatively at the steady rise and fall of the softly rounded breasts, the pale skin of her throat aglow in the golden light, the full and sensuous lips. His eyes had lingered over those lips, wondering if the taste of them could be as sweet as he imagined it to be.