Devil of the High Seas, page 3
They moved out of her bedchamber and through the corridor. Gavin pointed to something ahead of them.
“There . . . behind the tapestry, there’s a door in the paneling.” Gavin told her where to press against the wood, and a hidden door swung open. They ducked under the tapestry and walked through a tunnel until they reached a darkened room. A distant light came from somewhere on the opposite side from the way they’d entered. It looked like the entrance to another tunnel that led downward.
“Here. The bed should be . . . here.” Gavin sank down, dragging her with him as he collapsed onto something she couldn’t see in the dark. A cloud of dust billowed up, sending Josephine into a coughing fit. She fought to stifle the sound, lest anyone outside this room hear her.
She felt her way around the room. She thought she glimpsed a table with an oil lamp in the dim light. Stumbling over the rocky floor in her bare feet, she stubbed her toe and cursed up a storm at the flash of unexpected pain.
Gavin’s rusty chuckle came from behind her in the dark. “Where did a lady like you learn such words?”
“My brothers,” she replied. “Now where exactly are we?”
“In a secret chamber at the top of the cave entrance.”
“Cave? That must be why I can smell the sea. Is that where the light is coming from? I assume it leads to the beach?” One could always smell the sea when one lived on the coast, but it was more powerful here, as if she stood just inches from the water.
“Yes, there is a cave at the base of the cliffs below that leads up here.”
“Is your ship outside in the storm?” She bumped into the table and felt around for the lamp and match, along with a flint and steel striker. She lit the brimstone-coated match with the striker and set the lamp.
“No . . . my ship is gone.” Gavin’s tone warned her not to inquire further.
When she turned to face him with the lamp in her hand, she saw that he now sat on an old bed that was low to the floor and covered with dusty sheets.
“You can’t sleep on that!”
“Why not? It’s a bed like any other.” He seemed completely unbothered by the condition of the bed and the old sheets.
“Stay here.” She left the lamp on the table and exited the secret chamber. The house was so quiet, despite the distant rumbling of the passing storm. It felt as though everyone else in the grand estate had vanished and only she and Gavin were here. It was . . . intimate, but in a way she’d never felt before, and it sent a shiver of excitement through her. But she tamped down her excitement quickly and focused on the task at hand. She had a wounded man to help and couldn’t let her foolish fancies take control.
She retrieved a spare set of bed linens from the wardrobe in her bedchamber and quickly returned. She ordered him off the bed and then stripped it down before putting the clean sheets on.
“We need to get you out of these clothes,” she said, eyeing the wet cloth seriously.
“I’m flattered, lass, and under other circumstances I’d be quite happy to topple you back on the bed and pleasure you until you screamed, but I fear I’m not quite up to it just now.”
The effect of his arrogant teasing was lessened when she saw how weary he was. It was all male bravado to hide how much he was hurting. Something about that curled around her heart, smothering it with an unexpected heat and tenderness. She came toward him, forgetting she was still only in her nightrobe. She reached for his shirt, ripping it down the side.
He shrugged out of the torn shirt. “Easy, lass! You’re a strong one, aren’t you?”
Josephine shrugged. She wasn’t petite, nor was she particularly tall, but if she was one thing, she was strong. Her father had taught her years of swordplay alongside her brother, and her mother had encouraged her to take long walks, where she’d ended up running more often than not because of her boundless energy. It left her stronger than most women her age. She knelt at his feet and pulled his boots off while he steadied himself against the table. Then she reached for his trousers.
“Best if I do this . . .” He pushed her away and with one hand unfastened his trousers and slid them down, until he was standing there only in his smallclothes. Despite his wound, the man was gloriously built, like a wall of muscles.
Josephine swallowed hard as her mouth was suddenly dry. She cleared her throat and gestured to the bed.
“Now you may sit,” she ordered.
He sat, a soft and weary sound escaping him. She leaned in to examine his wound again. While she did, he seemed to examine her back.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Josephine,” she said.
She did her best not to look at his face. It was eerie how much he looked like Griffin. But where Griffin had a polished and powerful gentleness to him, Gavin had the same power but it seemed harsher. She had felt safe in Griffin’s arms. But when this man touched her or looked at her the way he was doing now . . . it was like she was at the mercy of a raging storm. To touch this man was to risk the burn of lightning.
“Lie back. I’ll fetch some hot water and some clean cloths. We’ll need to clean your wound.”
He obeyed and lay back, closing his eyes. But it didn’t erase the sense of danger in him that filled the small room. But it wasn’t a danger that made her fear for her safety . . . it was something else.
“Thank you, Josephine,” he said.
“Josie—you may call me Josie,” she found herself saying, even though it was scandalous to give him the use of her family’s nickname for her.
“Josie,” he breathed.
“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, and left to find something for his wounds.
Gavin closed his eyes, drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, but even as he half slept, Josephine’s bright gray eyes filled his mind. Who was she? Why had she been sleeping in his brother’s bedchamber? He seemed to drift in a sea of unconsciousness for a long time before the pain in his shoulder pulled him back to the surface. He blinked against the flickering lamp that was too close to his face after so much darkness. He shifted, wrestling with the discomfort and pain.
“Hold still, blast you,” a feminine voice uttered in frustration.
He realized Josephine was there, cleaning his wound. “It bloody hurts.”
“I imagine it does.” She held up a bottle of scotch for him to see. “I found this in a cabinet in the billiard room.” She resumed dabbing the scotch-doused cloth against the wound in his shoulder.
Gavin stared at her while she worked. He was relieved to have such a beautiful creature to look at while in pain. Josephine was an enchanting woman, with slightly olive skin and luscious dark-brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders in waves. She had classically elegant features that held a hint of mischief about them. She intrigued him more than he wished to admit. He reached up with his good arm and coiled a lock of her hair around his finger, marveling at its silkiness.
“I cleaned it as best I can, but I think I’ll need to stitch it up.” She lifted a small sewing needle up so that he could see it and produced a spool of sturdy-looking silk thread.
“Do you know how to stitch a wound?” he asked suspiciously.
She met his gaze evenly. “I do needlepoint quite well—I can’t imagine this is much different.”
“Needlepoint?” He barked out a laugh that hurt his shoulder. “Christ, lass, this is my skin, not a cushion.” He didn’t like the idea of her poking away at him with a needle and thread. Perhaps he should slip out of the house and head for town. If he could find Ronnie and a doctor, he might be better off.
“If I don’t do this, the bleeding won’t stop. Do you trust me?” she asked.
Gavin met her gaze in the candlelight and saw the serious focus in her gray eyes. A tiny wrinkle formed between her dark brows as if she was already envisioning the task of sewing his wound closed, and something about that, her focus and intensity, made him actually trust her. He nearly smiled at the stubborn tilt of her chin as she waited for his answer.
“I suppose I have to,” he admitted.
It was that or let her find a doctor, and he could not risk that. No one in Cornwall knew he was alive. If that changed and someone realized he wasn’t dead, it would raise questions. He was wanted in the Caribbean and off the coast of the American colonies for piracy. If inquiries were made with the authorities here, the Royal Navy would know he was a pirate very soon. That meant anyone in this house who knew of his presence could be found guilty of harboring and aiding a pirate. He had only been back to this house and this room once in the past seven years when he’d thought he was ready to face the past. But he’d been wrong, so he’d stayed unseen by anyone who would have recognized him and left on the following tide, but he didn’t want to take that risk now.
“Get on with it, then,” he said. But when she reached toward him, he halted her hands. “A moment.” He retrieved the scotch bottle from beside her and downed the contents in several deep gulps. Then he set the bottle back on the floor and gave Josephine a stiff nod for her to continue.
She set to work, stitching up the cut made by Beauchamp’s blade. It hurt far worse to have it stitched than when Beauchamp had stabbed him.
The pain was sharp then dull, the thread moving through his skin, aching. He reached for that same coil of hair he’d played with earlier, and he rubbed it between his fingers, focusing on the silkiness of it, the softness, the way the dark color caught the lamplight. It soothed him while she worked and distracted him from the pain.
When Josephine was done, she once more dabbed at the wound with a clean cloth and cleared away any remaining blood.
“It appears to be clotting. I believe that’s a good thing.”
Gavin marveled at this woman’s ability to handle the sight of blood and stitch up his wound without distress.
“How old are you, lass?” he asked.
She helped him back to the bed and he lay down, then she drew a warm woolen blanket up to his neck as though he were a child. Something about that made his heart twinge. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taken care of him like that.
“I am eighteen,” she said, her voice softening a little.
“Ah. So young,” he sighed. She was young, but she had handled herself well in a crisis, better than most women twice her age.
“And you must be positively ancient, at what, twenty-six?” she asked archly.
“How did you know I was twenty-six?” His eyes drifted closed as his body finally began to surrender to the ordeal of the last few hours.
“Gavin . . .” She murmured his name. His eyes flew open at the single utterance.
“How did you know my name?” He stared at her, his eyes boring into her as he tried to figure out if her knowledge of his name was a danger he needed to prepare for.
She leaned away from him a little, as if fearing he’d grasp at her. The shadows played across her face as she swallowed hard. For an instant he regretted the sharp tone he’d used, but when she replied her tone was strong.
“I recognized you from the portrait I saw in the corridor. It wasn’t hard to guess who you are.”
Ah . . . the portrait his father had commissioned right before the ball. He and Griffin had both had portraits made that year. He ought to rip it from the wall and burn it. But perhaps the danger wasn’t too great. She was one woman, alone on a stormy night. If she began to tell tales later . . . it was possible no one would believe her. Cornwall storms had a way of playing tricks upon one’s mind.
“Josephine, you must tell no one I’m here,” he insisted as he reached for one of her hands and closed his fingers around hers. “Swear it.”
He had meant to speak to his brother, but now . . . now he wasn’t sure he was ready to. Because once he did, if he was still alive, he’d have to leave shortly after, and he didn’t want to give up these brief moments with Josephine. He was fast becoming attached to her kindness and her bravery and the peace her presence gave him as he endured the pain in his shoulder.
“I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good . . .” He surrendered to exhaustion. As he fell into sleep, he dreamt of a pair of lovely gray eyes that saw clear through his very soul.
Josephine held on to Gavin’s hand until she was sure he was asleep. Then she went to her own bedchamber to collect another blanket and pillow and returned. After stitching up his wound, she was too afraid to leave him alone. It was a silly thought, but she somehow believed that if she stayed with him tonight, he would be all right. She briefly imagined telling Dominic about Gavin’s presence, but if she did, her older brother would then keep her from seeing him again. The last thing Dominic would do would be to let her sleep beside a dangerous pirate and Josephine craved this time with Gavin. She craved the adventure and excitement that this secret rescue had given her.
She piled her blankets on the floor and shut her eyes, trying to catch some sleep. Sometime during the night after a violent crash of thunder, Gavin reached down over the edge of his bed, seeking her. His palm gently quested down her arm until he discovered her hand and then clasped it in his own, and she clung to it as though she was the one who needed soothing through the stormy night.
The wind was a distant, eerie howl from the tunnel that led to the beach. It made her dream of wolves howling in forbidden forests. Then she dreamt of a beautiful ship battling the elements toward smoother seas.
Later, she fell into dreams of a far different kind. Dreams of warm lips, hard, rough hands on her skin, and the heated passion of things she didn’t fully understand but still yearned for. She whispered Gavin’s name in the dark like a fervent prayer. The wounded pirate stole into her dreams and claimed her imagination.
There were no thoughts or dreams of the man she was supposed to marry or the quiet life she was supposed to surrender to. There were only dreams of pirates, heated kisses, open seas, and freedom.
CHAPTER 3
A light mist cloaked the rain-soaked graveyard. A recent storm had drifted in from the sea and now traveled away landward, leaving the grass damp and giving the air a chilly bite. From the edge of the woods, Gavin emerged, slowly treading to the stone markers contained within the hallowed grounds. His soul was set adrift as those stones beckoned him, stretching shadows within his heart, blocking out the light that used to burn so fiercely within him.
Dread draped over him like a shroud as he counted the stones that marked the plot belonging to the Castleton family. Three new stones rested among the group. He swallowed hard as he drew closer, afraid to see the names carved upon them. The first name he glimpsed was a blow to Gavin’s heart . . . his father. Gavin had been gone from Cornwall for six years, and in that time he had unknowingly lost his beloved father.
But it was with a primal fear that he finally turned to the other two grave markers. The larger of the two had an angel carved into a bent position over the stone, her wings curved protectively as she wept for the lost soul of the stone she clutched. He whispered the words carved on that stone aloud.
“Charity Castleton—All life is a wondrous but too brief dream.” Gavin fell to his knees, his head bowed. She was gone, the light that he’d clung to in the darkest of nights. She had no longer been his to love when she had married his brother, but love was love, and it knew no boundaries. He had learned that long ago—when a person loved deeply and truly, it was as limitless as the sea.
“What would you have me do now, my love?” he asked the lifeless stone before him. “You have left me to grieve in my unwelcome solitude.”
He summoned the last of his courage to see the smaller stone beside Charity’s. A child. She lost a child. He noted the dates of death for Charity and the child were the same. She must have died bringing Griffin’s child into the world, and the babe had perished with her.
Waxen green vines had grown over the child’s tombstone, and Gavin cautiously pulled them away until he saw the name of the baby.
“Gavin Castleton—Named for his uncle, a grand adventurer who was lost at sea.”
The culmination of that moment, of being with Charity and her child, along with the unbearable longing to have met this nephew who had been given his name, tore out Gavin’s heart. Both Charity and Griffin had wanted him here, and knowing he could not stay, they had named their babe in his memory.
Gavin sucked in a breath as his chest tightened so harshly that his lungs were crushed just as if he’d dived too deep beneath the surface of the sea. The crushing darkness and the pressure of the water . . . He suddenly couldn’t bear it and shouted, letting out all of his pain and rage until his face was streaked with tears and he had nothing left in him except the grief that had burrowed into his heart.
He pressed his forehead to Charity’s headstone for a long moment in remembrance, then slowly stood and wiped his eyes.
“You were my dream,” he whispered to her. “But I understand that Griffin was yours.”
That was the way with twins—they shared everything most of their lives, but Charity could not be shared. She’d given her heart away to Griffin, and he knew why she had loved his brother, even if it had broken his heart.
He’d accepted her choice to marry Griffin, understood it as only a twin could. “I love him too, and I’m so very sorry I left you both. Forgive me.”
What would it have been like if he’d stayed? He couldn’t imagine it, but there was a huge part of him that wished he’d tried to stay. Perhaps then Charity might not have died . . .
It was vain and foolish to think he could have changed her fate. Love was never lost . . . it simply changed into grief for the person who was no longer there. And Gavin’s grief ran deep, as deep as the sea that called to him.
The mist began to clear as a cool breeze brought whispers of the sea’s endless secrets, made him turn toward the distant shore. The sea had always called to him, that desire to sail just a little farther, to see what lay beyond the horizon. He closed his eyes, swearing he could almost hear Charity whisper to him.
