Castaway Dreams (37 page)

"You're keeping this man's blood inside his body, where it belongs. Thank you, I have it now."

She looked back at him, his hands moving with such surety.

"Am I useful?"

He paused, and then the most incredible thing happened. In that room reeking of blood, and spilled guts, and emptied bowels, and who knew what noxious fluids, he smiled at her, that secret look. No one else would know the surgeon smiled, because they did not know him as she did. They did not see him in his various moods, they did not understand how a raised eyebrow could be a most effective form of communication, how a change in the look of his eyes or at the corners of that lovely firm mouth was as much of an expression of something wonderful as a full shout of laughter in other men. It was only she, Daphne Farnham, who saw Alexander Murray's amazingly expressive physiognomy, here, with the screams of the men and the shouts of battle and the boom of the guns.

The experience dazzled her so much that she nearly lost her footing when the ship lurched. Fortunately, she did not grab onto--who was this poor sailor?--to steady herself, but grabbed the table instead.

"Steady, Daphne, we are almost done here."

"Then what?"

"Then you will help me move him to the deck until his mates come in to carry him to his bunk. Give me that rum."

Daphne saw the bottle he gestured at and passed it to him. As the sailor stirred and moaned, then opened his eyes, Dr. Murray put his arm behind his head and allowed him to drink as much rum as he could swallow. Soon he was unconscious again, and Daphne grabbed his feet and helped move him, which was not easy! People were a lot heavier than small dogs.

She leaned against the bulkhead, her legs shaky. When the door opened and the sailors came in with another wounded man, they looked startled to see her but didn't speak of it, following Dr. Murray's instructions for the unconscious man, whose name, it turned out, was Arnold. She didn't know if that was his Christian name or his surname. Then there was no time to think about it, because another wounded man needed care, and Dr. Murray needed her assistance.

The next hours--was it hours? was it days?--would remain a blur to Daphne afterward. There was Dr. Murray's steady voice, patient with her and showing her what to do, there was cleaning burns and bandaging bleeding scrapes and mopping brows, including her own. She saw the crowbill used for something other than cooking food, and she tried to stay cheerful and smiling for the men who were conscious. They seemed to appreciate that. If she was not petrified of something going wrong, then they would put a brave face on it. The men apologized when they saw her there in the sick bay, as if it was their fault she had to see their half-naked bodies and oozing wounds and have their blood splatter her.

Maybe in a way it was their fault, but she knew who was truly responsible. Captain St. Armand may be a pretty fellow, but she did not like the way he treated his crew, sailing them into danger in this fashion just so he could be a pirate. Though if they were all pirates, then they wanted to be in danger, didn't they? It was all too confusing.

"Daphne, you look ready to drop."

She jerked her attention back to her surgeon--then paused. It was quieter.

"No explosions," she said.

He cocked his head, then nodded.

"The guns are silent now. It's over, and given the cheerful demeanor of these men, I assume Captain St. Armand carried the day."

"That is good, isn't it?"

He paused in wiping his hands and looked at her.

"Since the alternative would be our death, capture, drowning, or being hanged ourselves as pirates, yes, I would say that's good."

Daphne almost smiled at the idea of anyone considering her a pirate, but then the door opened and a real pirate walked in.

Captain St. Armand looked more rumpled than usual, but Daphne had to acknowledge on him it looked good. His raven locks were all disheveled and his shirt was soaked with sweat and streaked with blood. He clutched his arm where some blood leaked through his fingers.

"Who did we lose, Mr. Murray?"

The surgeon raised his eyebrow at the presumptuous question.

"No one yet, but Arnold might not make it. Time will tell. The others should survive."

Captain St. Armand glanced around, and noticed Daphne for the first time.

"Bloody hell! What are you doing here?"

"I am being useful, Captain St. Armand! And I would appreciate your not swearing in my presence," Daphne snapped.

Both men looked at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted two heads, then Alexander glanced down at his instruments, hiding his expression. Captain St. Armand looked at the surgeon, then back at Daphne.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Murray," he said, giving her a small bow. "I was rude."

Daphne frowned at him.

"Dr. Murray should look at your arm, Captain. You're bleeding."

"I can see that," the captain said dryly. "I know from experience though that it is just a scratch. But what about my face? I feel a cut, but I cannot tell how deep it is without a mirror. Will it scar, Mr. Murray?"

Alexander looked up then. There was blood on Captain St. Armand's forehead, but it wasn't pouring down.

"I'll tend to the captain, and since his wounds do not look severe, you can return to the cabin, Daphne."

"Wait," St. Armand said. "Turnbull is preparing a bath in my cabin. Go there and wash up. Your usefulness today is appreciated, by me and my crew, Miss Farn--Mrs. Murray. This is one small way I can show our appreciation."

Daphne smiled at him, and he blinked in that confused way men sometimes did when she smiled at them, then started to step toward her, but Alexander said, "Your arm, Captain?"

"Um, yes," St. Armand said, turning back to the surgeon.

Daphne exited the cabin at that point, and leaned against the door to regain her bearings. There was bloody sand on the deck, tracked out from the sick bay. Footprints in the blood went in all directions, but above her she heard the men singing and felt the ship moving as it ought to move, not tilting around and weaving back and forth as it seemed to during the battle. When she entered the captain's cabin Turnbull was pouring hot water into the tub. He paused and gulped when he saw her.

"Do I look that bad, Mr. Turnbull? Captain St. Armand said I could bathe in here."

"Don't look in the mirror, ma'am," he said seriously, his own face still blackened with powder and grime. "Wait, don't climb in the tub yet."

He brought more water and rags from outside the door, and an empty bucket.

"Wipe yourself down first with this seawater before you climb in the tub so you're not sitting in that mess."

After he closed the door behind him--and she made sure it was latched--she followed his advice. She didn't know what to do with her clothes, or if they could even be salvaged, so she left them in a pile near the door. Of course, that left the problem of what to wear out of the cabin. There was plenty of toweling for her to wrap herself in but she did not want to parade that way around the ship.

Whatever happened, Daphne knew she'd think more clearly if she was cleaned up, so she wiped herself down, staining the seawater red, and tried to remove as much of the gore as possible before climbing in the tub. She was scrubbing herself vigorously with the captain's lemon scented soap when there was a rap at the door.

"Daphne, are you in there?"

"Yes, Dr. Murray. I am bathing."

"I have some fresh clothing for you. If you're almost done, I will wait here and pass it to you."

She hurriedly finished and toweled herself off, then opened the door a crack.

"Quick, come in, Alexander. You can use the bathwater before the captain returns."

He didn't argue with her but entered the cabin, shucking off his own clothing while Daphne climbed into the sailor's outfit he'd brought her.

"How was Pompom?"

"Shaking, but the animal appeared well."

"Poor baby! I need to give him extra cuddles tonight after his scary day."

"Pass me the towel, Daphne."

Daphne turned, and paused. Alexander was standing in the tub, and she did not often have the opportunity to admire him as nature intended him to be showcased. She put a hand on her hip and studied him.

"Do you know, Dr. Murray, the more time I spend with you the more attractive I believe you are?"

To her delight he blushed, and her blatant perusal of his physiognomy--and the rest of him--cause that reaction in his body that made her want to clap her hands in delight. Really, it was an even better trick than Pompom dancing on his hind legs!

Then he shook his head.

"I must follow up on my treatment of the men, and make sure they're being cared for properly. Do not pout; duty before pleasure."

The door rattled.

"Miss Farn--Daphne? Are you still in there?"

Before Daphne could answer the captain Alexander spoke up.

"Mrs. Murray is almost finished, Captain."

There was a silence from the other side of the door, then St. Armand spoke again.

"That answers the question of your whereabouts, Mr. Murray."

Alexander wrapped the toweling around him, and Daphne figured he would not be worried about the men seeing him nearly undressed. When he was decently covered, she opened the door.

Captain St. Armand stood there, a bandage on his arm where his shirt had been ripped away, and a scowl on his handsome face. There was a plaster on his forehead, but it did not detract from his looks. He studied the nearly-naked surgeon for a moment, smiled dismissively and turned to Daphne.

"Join me for supper later--" He flicked a glance in Alexander's direction. "Both of you. We will celebrate our victory today."

"I do not know if I should, Captain St. Armand. Who was it you robbed?"

"Robbed? I robbed no one, madam!" the captain said indignantly. "That ship attacked us first. They are pirates and we were only defending ourselves."

"Truly?"

"Were you up on deck to swear otherwise, Mrs. Murray?"

This was said in a soft voice that nonetheless sent a chill down Daphne's spine. She glanced at Alexander. He was poised as if he was ready to leap at the captain bare-handed, and Daphne knew she had better be the Daphne that Captain St. Armand expected.

"Of course, if you say they were pirates then they must be pirates, Captain St. Armand! It was silly of them to think that they could take on a ship full of brave, strong men like you and your crew!"

Captain St. Armand relaxed, but he wasn't the one Daphne was worried about.

"Oh, Dr. Murray, I am so upset over everything that has happened today. Please, take me back to our cabin before I have nervous palpitations!"

"Of course, my dear."

Looking as dignified as the toga-clad statue of some dead Roman that Daphne had seen in a museum, Alexander gave the captain a nod before taking Daphne's elbow to usher her out. He used his foot to nudge their disgusting garments outside the door, telling her they'd be picked up and cleaned for them later.

"Captain St. Armand is pretty, but he's a dangerous pirate, isn't he, Alexander?"

"Yes, he is. We must act so he doesn't believe we're a threat to him."

"I'm not very good at pretending," Daphne said in a small voice.

"Just be yourself, Daphne. Be sunny, and smile, hum, and Captain St. Armand will be friendly to you."

She looked at him intently.

"In other words, act like a ninny, is that what you're saying?"

Alexander opened his mouth, then shut it. There were no safe responses he could make to that question, not and be honest.

"If the captain does not feel threatened by you, he will not harm you," he said lamely.

"What about you, Alexander? He knows you are not a ninny."

"I am useful to him. It's sufficient to keep me from harm's way."

"I hope so."

She pulled Alexander's coat closer over her sailor shirt as they prepared for supper. They were in colder waters now and, barring catastrophe, would soon be back in England.

The day had been exhausting, and Daphne had been amazing. Out of all of the women in the world he might expect to be helpful and useful in his surgery, Daphne Farnham would have been at the bottom of the list. Hell, she would not have been on the list at all! Today she'd shown pluck and mettle worthy of the most stalwart of helpmates, soothing the wounded men, assisting him without dramatics, doing the filthy work of putting men back together when they'd been blown apart.

He turned his head and looked at her. Truly looked at her.

"Is there a smut on my nose?"

"Let us join the captain. The sooner we finish supper, the sooner we can return here."

The look she gave him made his own pulse race in response.

The captain's cabin was crowded with crates and boxes, some open and spilling out a collection of odds and ends--china dishes, wine bottles, silver.

"Pardon the mess," St. Armand said. "We're still rearranging the hold to store everything."

Tonight St. Armand was dressed casually, wearing a knit sailor shirt much as his men wore. St. Armand's shirt was of a much finer weave and outlined his limber frame as if had been designed just for him. For all Alexander knew, it had been. The pirate's trousers were tight and cut high on the leg, revealing muscular calves and bare feet.

"Is that French writing on those boxes, Captain? Were they French pirates?"

"That is it exactly. French pirates. Fearsome creatures, but we routed them, Miss Murray."

Mr. Fuller joined them then, and the crew brought in supper as they crowded around the table. Captain St. Armand apologized for it not being up to their usual standards, but the cook was pressed into service during the battle, the galley cold during the fight. They dined on slices of ham, served with hastily prepared rice flavored with island spices, and the last of their tropical fruit.

"Your help today was of great value to me, Mrs. Murray," the captain said as he passed her the rice.

"I learned so much, Captain St. Armand! Dr. Murray even took the time to teach me new words, like ligature and trephine!"