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Sylvie had left the bedclothes turned up to keep them dry. Now, with his inert body on top of the quilt, there was no easy way to cover him.
Racing into the next room, she pulled the quilted coverlet off her own bed and returned to lay it over him. His eyes were closed. His dry lips moved as if he were trying to speak.
“Don’t try to talk,” she soothed him. “You’ll be warmer soon, and I’ll get you some tea for the fever.”
The tone of her voice gave Sylvie pause. She was speaking as she might speak to Daniel. But this stranger was no child. He was a powerful male who might take advantage of a woman he saw as meek and tender. She needed to let him know who was in charge here.
And since she needed to strip him of his wet trousers and drawers, there was no time like the present.
The task she faced was a daunting one. She’d cared for Daniel since he was a baby, but she knew little about the bodies of grown men. Her father, mindful of a young girl’s sensitivities, had taken care not to expose himself. The very thought of seeing a strange man’s nakedness was enough to make Sylvie blush. But she had a plan. Under the cover of the quilt, she could work his garments down and pull them off his legs, leaving him modestly covered.
Crouching at the edge of the mattress, she steeled her resolve, reached under the quilt and began fumbling with his belt buckle.
Through a red fog of fever, Ishmael sensed that somebody was unfastening his trousers. The light touch suggested a woman’s hand. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded. But if the lady was bent on a bit of fun, why was she being so stealthy about it? Why not just wake him up and give him a chance to cooperate?
Only one thing made sense. The little slut was trying to rob him.
His hand flashed out and seized her wrist. With a cry she reeled back, struggling to pull away. But even sick, he possessed an iron grip, and he wasn’t about to release his hold.
“Let go of me!” she sputtered. “Don’t you know I’m trying to help you?”
He forced his eyes open. His vision swam, but the blurred image of her face bending over him confirmed that she was pretty. “Looks to me like you’re helping yourself to my pockets…” The words came out slurred and garbled. What was wrong with his tongue?
“You’re sick.” She sounded like a schoolmarm scolding a backward child. “I’m just trying to get you out of your wet clothes and into bed.”
“Seems t’ me you’d have better luck if you got out of your own clothes first.”
“Stop it!” she hissed. “If you weren’t out of your mind, I’d slap your face.”
“A l’il rough stuff might be fun, if that’s what you enjoy. I aim to please…” He could feel himself sinking again. It was hard to breathe, even harder to think. His fingers loosened around her wrist. He felt her pull free as the fog closed around him.
“Stay awake!” Her hand seized his jaw and gave it a firm shake. “Once I get your clothes off, you’ll need to get under the covers. After that I’ll dress your head wound and give you something for the fever.”
“Fever…?” He mouthed the word. Strange he should have a fever when his skin had shrunk to shivering goose bumps. And now the woman’s hands were fooling with his trousers again, her fingers undoing the buttons and untying the tape that held up his drawers. Not that he was in a mood to argue—the sensation was not the least bit unpleasant. But he was still uncertain whether she was a nurse, a pickpocket or a whore.
“Now!” She yanked the waist of his pants and drawers, peeling them down his body and off his feet in one wrenching motion. By the time she’d left him naked beneath the quilt she was winded from the effort. Ishmael could hear her breathy gasps from the foot of the bed. His head had begun to fog again—a good thing, that. The words his mouth was too muzzy to speak would probably have gotten his face slapped.
He heard the splat of wet clothes dropping to the floor. “I’m going to turn down the bed,” she said. “You’ll need to get up for a few seconds.”
“Try…” He could barely lift his head. He was as weak as a newborn kitten.
“Here.” She bent down and slid a hand under his bare shoulders. “You can move onto the stool by the bed. Hang on to that quilt.”
Yes, the damn quilt. It mattered to her that he stay covered, Ishmael realized. Whoever she was, she was a female of tender sensibilities. A lady? She looked too poor for that. More like an innocent, church-bred girl. He’d do well to curb his tongue.
Wisps of corn-silk hair brushed his face as she bent over him. She smelled of sea air and homemade soap, fresh and clean. How could he have misjudged such a creature?
Or was he misjudging her now? His thoughts were wandering like half-witted sheep without a herder.
Her arm was beneath his shoulders now. She was straining to lift him, but his dead weight was too much for her. Gripping the quilt with one hand, he worked his free arm underneath his body and pushed himself up. Caught off guard, she stumbled backward against the wall. Fear flashed in her startled eyes, but only for an instant. As she righted herself, her pretty face took on a look of grim determination.
“It’s all right, girl,” he mumbled. “Do what you need to. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”
“And neither do you, as long as you behave yourself,” she snapped. “Now, get out of the way while I turn down the bed.”
Keeping a grip on the quilt, he hoisted himself onto the stool. Being upright made the dizziness worse. The ringing in his ears was like a howling gale. An impression flashed through his mind—crashing waves, the pitching deck, the blue-white glare of lightning on wave-slicked rocks, then blackness. Was it a memory or only a trick of the fever? Whatever it had been, it was gone.
Sylvie barely had time to throw back the covers before he slumped on the stool. She seized his shoulders, tipping him toward the bed as he fell. He crashed onto his left side, his legs trailing off the bed. The quilt slipped to the floor.
“Ishmael, can you hear me?” She leaned over him. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed. He gave no sign that he’d heard her. Averting her gaze, she boosted his legs onto the mattress and flung the blankets over his body. Then she picked up the quilt and laid it on top of him. Even that, she feared, wouldn’t be enough to keep him warm.
He’d begun to shake again. His teeth chattered as Sylvie tucked the blankets around his shoulders. From the kitchen she could hear the faint whistle as steam escaped from the boiling kettle. She raced for the stove to lift it off the heat. A few minutes of steeping and the willow bark tea would be ready. She could only pray it would help. It was the strongest thing she had.
While she waited, she would dress his head wound.
Daniel’s Mexican mother had taught her what little she knew about herbs and poultices. One of the most useful remedies was a salve made of pine tar. Sylvie kept a jar of it handy for the scrapes and bumps that befell her active little brother. But she’d never treated anything as serious as the gash on Ishmael’s head. She could only hope it wouldn’t need stitches.
After tearing strips from an old flannel nightgown, she filled a bowl with warm water and returned to the bedroom. Ishmael lay on his side with his eyes closed. His body shook with chills.
Bending over him, she sponged away the sand-encrusted blood. The wound wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, but the bruised swelling around it indicated a fearsome blow, certainly hard enough to cause memory loss.
She applied salve to the wound, then made a cold compress of raw potato slices to bring down the swelling. For the deeper damage, there was no cure but time.
She bound his head with flannel strips and took a moment to check on Daniel. By then the tea was ready. As she carried the first cupful into the bedroom she could only hope he’d be able to swallow, and that the willow bark would do its work.
She would do all she could. But in the end, Ishmael’s survival was in the hands of fate.
Breathing was torture. In spite of that, he slept, woke and slept again, drifting between fever and quaking chills. He was dimly aware of a hand supporting his head, a spoon forcing bitter-tasting liquid down his throat. At first he resisted, gagging and sputtering. But he soon discovered that his tormentor would not give up. It was less taxing to swallow than to fight.
Sometimes he dreamed—vague, murky images that floated through his mind, unconnected to any meaning. A woman took form, tall, with cerulean eyes and a glorious mane of dark curls. Draped in burgundy satin, she was laughing, singing, teasing an audience of fantastically dressed skeletons. She glanced toward him with a saucy smile, then turned away and walked offstage to melt into a swirl of darkness. Sensing some evil presence, he called to her—Catriona! But there was no answer. She was gone and he knew, somehow, that he would never see her again.
In rare, clear moments, he rose to the surface, like a swimmer coming up for air. At such times, he glimpsed the glow of candlelight and a pair of calm gray eyes gazing down at him. His mind reached toward those eyes in a way that his hands couldn’t. They were his link to awareness, beacons to steady him on his wayward course.
In other moments there were hands smoothing wetness on his face, hands spooning the hot, bitter liquid down his throat again and again, forcing him to submit. He had no idea how much time had passed. When he next resurfaced, the flickering candle and the surrounding darkness told him it was night. But was it the first night, or one night of many? He had lost all sense of time. The only things that felt real, that anchored him to reality, were those beautiful gray eyes… .
Three days later, toward dawn, the fever broke. Sylvie had sagged forward into a doze, her head resting lightly on his chest. So attuned had she become to his labored breathing that the change woke her. She sat up with a jerk. The candle had guttered out, but the fading sky, through the porthole window, cast its pewter light on Ishmael’s face. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, his jaw dark with stubble. His cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat.
He was snoring gently, his body relaxed in sleep, and when she reached out to touch him, his forehead felt cool and damp. She’d feared for his life as the fever peaked, but whether by dint of his physical strength, her own feeble nursing skills or the hand of Providence, it appeared he was going to live.
How much would he remember when he opened his eyes? Would he awaken with full recall of who he was and how he’d come here? Or would he still be Ishmael the castaway, the man with no memories?
She had little doubt the memories were there, locked away in the depths of his mind. Last night, while the fever raged, he’d called out Catriona again, not once but twice. Whoever this Catriona was, his attachment to her was strong enough to pierce the veil over his memory.
Exhausted, she rose from the stool and stretched her aching limbs. Now that he was sleeping peacefully, all she wanted was to stagger off to her own bed and fall between the sheets. But how could she leave him to wake with no recollection of where he was? In his confusion, he could wreck the house, stagger off the cliff or wander into the forest. Worse, he could harm her or Daniel.
There was no way she dared leave him to wake up alone. But after three long days and nights of nursing she was exhausted. She needed rest.
She took a moment to check on Daniel, who slept in the loft above her own room. At first he’d spent most of the time popping in and out of the sickroom, running small errands and asking endless questions. By now he was worn out. He sprawled on his pallet, eyes closed in slumber. With luck the boy would sleep on for hours.
Returning to the bedroom, Sylvie was struck by a daring idea. Ishmael was sleeping so soundly it would likely take an earthquake to rouse him. And the bed where he lay was the one her father had shared with Daniel’s mother. It was big enough for two people to lie side by side.
Her eyes measured the space between Ishmael’s body and the wall. There was just room enough for her to fit. She could lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, with the extra quilt pulled over her for warmth. Surely there could be no impropriety in that.
With the last of her strength, she crept into the narrow space and stretched out against the wall. The top quilt was just wide enough to tug over her body.
The wall side was chilly, but Ishmael’s body was warm. How would it be, she wondered, to be married to a man and sleep next to him almost every night of her life?
The question was no more than a flicker of thought. Lulled by Ishmael’s breathing, she drifted into sleep.
The first sound he heard was the crow of a rooster. Drowsy and disoriented, he blinked himself awake. Sunlight streamed through the open porthole window on the far wall.
A porthole? A rooster? Where in hell’s name was he?
He sank back onto the pillow, dredging his memory. Had he been sick? The dull ache in his head told him something was out of sorts. Seconds passed before his exploring hand discovered the wrapping and the soggy poultice beneath it. He wasn’t just sick. He’d evidently been hurt. And now he was lying naked in a strange bed.
Only when he tried to sit up did he realize he wasn’t alone. A slight body lay on top of the covers, anchoring them to the bed. Not just a body. A warm, breathing body.
Moving cautiously, he rolled onto his side and raised himself on one elbow.
His breath caught.
The girl was lying alongside him, stretched against the wall. Her eyes were closed, her sun-gold hair a mass of tangles on the pillow. In the morning light, her parted lips were a soft, dewy pink. Unlike him, she appeared to be fully clothed.
Scarcely daring to breathe, he allowed his gaze to linger. Sylvie—he remembered her name now. And he remembered her bending over him, weary-eyed, to force that god-awful concoction down his throat again and again. Whatever it was, it must have worked. He actually felt as if he was going to live.
What else could he remember? He had a vague impression of climbing a steep cliffside trail, and seeing a house made from an upside-down ship. He must be inside the house now. That would account for the porthole on the wall behind him. And before that, he remembered Sylvie helping him to his feet on the beach, telling him about the tides and christening him with the name Ishmael. But everything prior to that was blank. It was as if a dense fog had closed in, obscuring everything he’d ever known.
Lord help him, why couldn’t he remember?
Maybe the girl, Sylvie, knew more than she’d told him. In his impatience, he was tempted to wake her, seize her by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her. But she looked so innocent in her sleep. And it would be farcical to take matters into his own hands while he was as naked as a jaybird under the bedcovers.
What had the creature done with his clothes? If she was trying to keep him prisoner, she’d come up with a clever way. He couldn’t get very far stripped and barefoot, could he?
Restless, he straightened his bent legs and stretched them over the foot of the bed. He was rewarded with a hellish cramp in his left calf. Cursing under his breath, he yanked himself upright and seized the knotted muscle.
Sylvie’s eyes flew open. She sat up, clutching the quilt to her chest like a shield. “Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered.
“Hurting,” he growled.
“What’s the matter? Do you need help?”
“Blasted charley horse. Need to get up and stretch.”
“I’ll cover my eyes.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Go out and get my clothes, wherever you’ve stashed them.”
“I rinsed them, hung them to dry and put them away for you. But you don’t look strong enough to be up.”
“I’m damn well strong enough to get my clothes on. Now, go get them. Go!” With the last word, he swung his legs to the floor, turning the expanse of his bare back toward her.
“Oh!” With a gasp of indignation, she flung the quilt aside, sprang off the foot of the bed and fled the room, slamming the door behind her.
He stood and stretched the agony out of his leg. He’d been hard on the girl. Too hard, given that she’d probably saved his life. But if she thought she was going to keep him locked up and buck naked, she had a few things to learn. He was getting out of here even if he had to wrap up in the sheet like a damn Roman.
Now that he was up, the dizziness had come back. His head felt as if hammer-wielding gremlins were pounding on his skull. But he was on his feet to stay, he vowed. And he wouldn’t rest until he knew all there was to know about this place and what had happened to him.
Legs quivering, Sylvie sagged against the closed door. For someone who’d resolved to take charge, she was off to a pitiful start. All the wretched man had to do was snap at her and bare his splendid back, and she was out of the room like a scared rabbit.
But that was about to change. He wouldn’t be getting his clothes, or his breakfast, until he’d agreed to her rules.
Moving deliberately, she added kindling to the coals in the stove and put some coffee on to boil. Two nights ago she’d bundled his clean clothes and dry boots and tucked them under the bed in her own room. They were still there, hidden from sight. And she didn’t plan to give them back until she felt it was safe to do so.
After taking a moment to check on the sleeping Daniel, she returned to the closed door. From the room beyond, there was no sound. Sylvie hesitated, one hand on the latch. Was Ishmael waiting to ambush her, maybe lock her in and steal everything he could carry off? Even sick, he appeared strong enough to overpower her.
Walking to the front door, she lifted the loaded shotgun off the rack. Better safe than sorry, she told herself as she thumbed back the hammer, returned to the door and opened it.
Her breath caught in a gasp.
Ishmael lay across the bed, wrapped in the sheet and passed out cold.
Chapter Four
Fog and drizzle blended with the dank smell of the harbor. Behind him, lanterns flashed in the night. Crowds of theatergoers surged against the cordon of police officers that kept them from rushing into the narrow alley.
Recognizing him, the police had let him through at once. Now he was plunging through the murk toward a form sprawled on the grimy cobblestones. His eyes glimpsed a rumpled satin cloak trimmed in ermine, then the flutter of dark hair. A single silver kidskin slipper lay soaking up the rain…
No! Lord have mercy, no!
“Ishmael! Wake up!”
He was being shaken with a force that triggered sparks of pain. He opened his eyes to the glare of sunlight. Sylvie was bending over him. Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her gray eyes were storms of worry that cut through the remaining fog of sleep.
“What…?” He jerked himself awake.
“Thank goodness!” She drew back, releasing him. “The way you were thrashing and moaning, I was afraid you were having some sort of apoplexy.”
Sun dazzled, he raised his head. “Bad dream, that’s all. Must’ve blacked out.” His hand moved to his head. The wrapping had come loose, and the soggy poultice was threatening to slide down his face. “If you wouldn’t mind…”
She saw the problem. “Of course not. In any case, I’ll want to check that head wound. But I’ll need you sitting up.”
Pushing with his arms, he hoisted himself until the pillow was at his back. Before passing out, he’d used a bedsheet to wrap himself toga style from chest to knee. At least he was decently covered.
He sniffed the morning air. “Glory be, is that coffee I smell?”
“Hold still.” Bracing his head, she unwound the bandage and peeled off what remained of the poultice. “It’s looking better,” she said. “No festering, and the swelling’s down. But there’s no telling what’s happened underneath. Since you just fainted, I’d say you need to stay in bed for a day or two.”
“I asked you a question.”
