My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1) (25 page)

“Oh, I’m going to touch you, wench. No doubt about it.” A hard slap landed across her cheek.

She moaned, her head cracking against the wood. He landed on her, knocking the breath from her, his chest against hers, his hips pressed against her legs.

She tried to kick him, but he merely laughed as his full weight settled upon her, one leg forcing hers apart. His fingers groped her calf, her skirts began to rise above her knees, and she let her mind drift blissfully away.

Her head spun.

Black fog drifted before her eyes, and she was unsure if it was smoke or purely imagined. The weight of him upon her body lifted. She knew Dobison was about to perform what he’d promised.

Just as the blackness swirled and claimed her, she imagined Addison’s deep, voice crying her name.

Chapter 27

The pallor of Anne’s skin as he cradled her to his chest concerned him, more so the shallow breathing and slight movement of her chest. He’d immediately divested himself of his shirt, placed it over her open wound, and tied the sleeves as tight as possible around her shoulder. Lifeless, she’d lain there like a sack of feed, so heavy in his arms, as if every bone in her body were filled with lead.

As if she died.

“We’ve no time to waste, Blackhurst. We must take her to the
Royal Fortune
and giver her over to Patchey.” Bartholomew touched his shoulder, compassion making his voice barely audible over the chaos of Roberts’ crew overtaking the
Swallow
.

Clenching his teeth, he pulled Anne into his arms and followed Roberts back across the deck, both of them nearly running with urgency. Bartholomew motioned to one of his crew waiting in a long boat on the port side of the ship. A rope ladder had been thrown over the side, having been used already to allow the crew of the
Royal Fortune
to overtake the smaller vessel.

Roberts deftly jumped over and made his way down the ladder. Addison positioned Anne’s limp form tightly to his chest with one arm, while he carefully lowered himself, rung by precarious rung, down to the awaiting boat.

Near the last rung, Roberts’ hands steadied him while he landed in the long boat. The short trip to the other ship went without hitch. Climbing up the ladder of the pirate vessel took a little more careful maneuvering. Roberts took Anne from his grip when Addison neared the top of the ladder. Once his feet landed upon the wooden surface, Addison cradled her back against his chest.

Roberts eyed him thoughtfully, but turned and led the way to the cabin Addison and Raphael had shared upon the voyage.

“Jones, get Patchey, straight away. Send him to the first mate’s cabin. Now!”

Jones sprinted down into the lower level before Addison reached it himself. Roberts threw open the door to the cabin, and he surged forward and placed Anne tenderly onto the bed.

“Jesu, she’s a fright.” Bartholomew’s astonished eyes glanced down where Anne lay in the large bed.

Addison’s heart lurched as he stared, in shock, at the swelling on her cheek, the dark purple stain of bruises marring her skin; blood crusted her lip and her nostril. The dark shirt he’d tied around her had become ever darker as the blood oozed from her wound. He pressed his fist firmly on the area above her breast to staunch the flow of blood. Had she been coherent, he knew she’d have come off the bed in pain. But, she barely breathed.

“If that bastard had not already ceased to breathe, I would kill him again.” His teeth would be filed down in no time if he continued to grind on them.

“We’d best remove her gown, Blackhurst. Patchey will know what to do.” His voice was gruff with emotion.

He met Bartholomew’s eyes, sympathy in the pirate’s gaze. Addison gave the famous pirate a glare. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be the only one undressing her.”

Acknowledging that with a short forward tip of his head, Bartholomew turned and walked from the cabin.

Pursing his lips together, he removed the bloodstained shirt first. “This is not the way I wished to remove your gown, love.” Hands shaking, he fisted them at the top of her gown, above her breasts, and ripped the neckline down to her waist, taking care not to injure her skin. It gave without fuss. The chemise beneath no longer white, but a bright red. He shredded the top of it as well, then gently maneuvered both pieces down over her arms and below her waist.

There were bruises on the back of her neck, and deep, long scratches upon her shoulders and forearms. Terrified of what he might find further, and knowing he must, he lifted her bottom and pulled the gown and chemise down over her legs, throwing them upon the cabin floor. Biting back a cry of fury, he discovered more bruises marred her thighs; more scratches trailed along her calves and shins.

Swiftly, he grabbed clean linen from the washstand and came to sit next to her on the bed, pressing it firmly to the wound to keep the blood from trickling out as much as possible.

“I’m so sorry, my love.” He whispered.

Dark lashes fanned her pale cheeks. She lay there, still as death. He closed his eyes, praying for her to live.

A man burst into the cabin just then, diverting Addison from the tears that welled up behind his lashes.

Through slightly blurred eyes, he saw Patchey might be good at sewing up the crew when in need, but he’d done a horrid job at mending himself. The pirate stood a good two feet shorter than Addison, a wooden leg thumped against the floor; burn scars adorned both hands and half of his face. He wore a short, tight cap over his head. Intelligent blue eyes assessed Anne as she lay there.

“Will she live?” Addison could not suppress the catch in his voice.

“That remains to be seen, milord. But, I will try my damnedest. I will try.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Right.” He ushered Addison away with a wave of his hand. “You stand over there. If I need you, I’ll holler. I must work quickly and without interruption.”

Addison backed away, turning to see two lads rushing into the room; one with a pail of steaming water, the other carrying a red-hot piece of iron, and a bottle of liquor. The iron would be used to cauterize the area to stifle the flow of blood and seal the wound. The alcohol had been used as a means of sterilization for centuries.

Patchey gave quick, precise orders to the two young men, who seemed used to being ordered about in that fashion. They worked diligently, and Addison gave thanks to the sea gods Anne had lost consciousness. There was no need of strong spirits or pieces of wood to bite down upon. And, no need of worrying over propriety or embarrassment at her state of nakedness.

He wrung his hands in the corner and paced the floor for the next half-hour during the flurry of activity. He doubted he’d recall any of it if he’d had to even an hour later. His thoughts focused on the prospect of life without Anne. Inconceivable. His heart lurched at the loathsome concept.

He’d known her for only a short time, and yet she had become every thought in his brain, every rush of fire in his blood; the very tempo of his heartbeat.

Biting on his knuckles, despair filled him like he’d been dipped in a kiln of lead. Her last thought of him had been that of a man who’d used her to acquire property and wealth. The hurt marring her face before she’d stormed from his office would be implanted in his mind forever . . . should she never awaken.

The entire episode could be laid squarely upon his shoulders. He should have admitted the agreement with her father right away, that first day in the study. There would have been no need for her to become angry over his conversation with her father; no need to flee in a pique. And, to find out she’d been abducted,
stolen
from under his very roof because she had fled to Cranford Hall without the protection he should have provided her. He was convinced
he
could have stopped the entire turn of events.

“—keep any fever at bay.” Patchey’s voice floated through the haze, his thoughts drifted away.

“I’m sorry, what was that? Will she live?” His gaze flew to where she lay on the bed, a white sheet pulled up to her chin; the fiery hair flying all about the pillow decidedly brighter due to the pallor of her face and the white sheet.

“Not out of the woods yet, milord. Now, you must keep her cool. Watch for any sign of fever, or infection around the wound. I’ve cauterized it, and plied it with plenty of alcohol, but sometimes the infection grows anyway.”

Addison searched Patchey’s knowledgeable eyes, ignoring the burns marring his skin.

“If she even feels slightly warmed, you must keep any fever at bay. Once she’s out of the woods for the fever, she might pull through. But, she’s lost quite a bit of blood.”

The man held out a wet cloth, which he took willingly. “I’ll make sure she lives, then.”

“Yes, I believe you will.” A knowing gleam entered the man’s eyes as he stared at him, then turned, whistled at the lads, and they exited the cabin.

Addison strode over to Anne, air catching in his throat.

So fragile.

If not for the mottled purple and black bruises, and the swelling in her cheek, she’d have resembled a fire-headed porcelain statue. The color of her skin had not changed, and the movement of her chest as she breathed remained shallow.

No matter. She
would
live.

He pulled the bucket of tepid water near the bed at his feet, and sat next to her on the bed.

“I hope you do not mind I stay here with you.” Speaking to her helped to calm the terror in his heart.

He remained bare-chested, and kicked off his boots. Bending down, he sopped the cloth in the water, allowing it to rest for later use, and pulled his legs up to rest beside her thigh. With a trembling hand, he smoothed her hair back from her forehead, placing a kiss there.

“You are commanded to live, Anne. I won’t have you leaving me.” The coolness in her skin lingered, thankfully, but she remained in oblivious slumber.

Addison removed her sheet, a sad smile pulling his lips up. “Still breathtaking and beautiful.” Even with the bruises and scratches.

To assure he could detect any sign of fever, he moved his body down to lie flush with her, wrapping an arm about her waist. Perhaps she could draw energy from him.

He snuggled in close, skin-to-skin, and stared at the side of her face that remained unchanged and delicate. Her freckles reminded him of the mischief she could not contain.

“If you stay with me, we’ll make love in every inappropriate place you can dream up, my love.” His finger twirled against the smooth skin near her navel, and he imagined the seductive smile she’d given him in the stable.

Closing his eyes, he fell into a dream. He dreamt of his brothers, Holt, Eliza Teach, and sailing the high seas with the successful pirate, Black Bart. They fought off pirates, and Addison found himself diving into the ocean, thrashing about in the deep water. He dove deeper and deeper, chasing a mess of deep, red hair that continued to sink further into the abyss.

Struggling to breathe, he gulped in air and bolted upright in the cabin. The sheet no longer settled on his body, it bunched around Anne’s hip. And then, dreadful heat penetrated his body. No, not his body. The fire-like heat radiating from Anne, where her leg rested along his. She was burning with fever.

Patchey said to keep the fever at bay, or she would die if the fever lingered.

He tore the sheet from her and reached for the pale of tepid water. “Please, don’t leave me.”

Chapter 28

“Get out there and fight, you coward!” She shoved against Jack’s shoulder as he leaned his back against a crate in the hold, a drunken smile lifting his lips. “Jack, please!”

One of his arms extended and pushed her away from him. “Get out of here, wench. The
men
are busy celebrating here. We’ve no need of your theatrics down here. Not today.”

Hurt and angry, she turned back to her companion. “It appears that it’s up to us, Mary.
Again
.” Turning to give Jack one last look of contempt, and hoping her disapproval poured from her eyes, she shrugged. Let the drunkard be skewered. She cared not any longer.

“Let’s go, Anne. Someone’s got to protect the ship.” Mary pulled upon her sleeve, her brown as thatch curls escaping the tuck of her hat. Dirt smudged upon one cheek, and her doe brown eyes gleamed with the adrenaline-filled excitement they both felt at times such as this.

Mary, beautiful, dressed as a man, gave a sad smile . . . and then her cheeks began to droop, the flesh melting and dissolving to drip upon her neck. Her beautiful smile transformed into a jagged, bloody line. The sockets of her eyes were black, as if crows had eaten them. Anne screamed as long, bony fingers gripped her sleeve.

The face transformed into Jericho Dobison, and he laughed in her face, his fetid breath making her gag. A fire burned behind her, and all she could think to do was jump into it to escape the man before her. Turning, she leapt into a wide, gaping hole.

Blackness enveloped her, as if all the lights in the world had gone out. A lit candle beckoned to her in the distance, and she heard a deep, throaty voice say her name.

The voice grew faint as she was yanked backward, a hand pulling her further and further from the light the candle threw into the blackness. The strength of her body and limbs were nonexistent, but she fought the pull of that hand, its long bony fingers curled around her. She screamed at it, and found it had no body or face.

Something awaited her beyond the flicker of the flame in the candle at the end of the black tunnel. Her struggle with the hand with no body continued for so long, the only thing she heard in her head was that of her constant scream. “No!”

Deeper into the darkness, she could see the gaping mouth of Dobison, Jack Rackham, and several other men she’d known throughout her past, stood or leaned, glaring at her.

Menace and despair lay that direction.

“Anne, you must go.” Mary’s voice thrummed in her mind. The long fingers that gripped her hand evaporated and she saw Mary lying in the dirt of the cell they once shared. Tormented eyes stared up at her. “You must promise, Anne.” Her mouth had not moved, but Anne heard the words nonetheless.

Anne bit her lip, fighting tears. “I promise.”

“Promise me you’ll live.” Mary closed her eyes, a smile forming upon her once-beautiful features. When she opened them again, they were silvery-gray.

Crying in earnest now, Mary’s body melted away, and she cried out again at the loss of her friend. But, the candle flame moved closer. The image of those eyes burned into her mind. She had to reach the flame. The light.

She ran and jumped headlong into the flames.

Anne awoke to sunlight pouring into her eyes. The first sensation that registered was she no longer suffered inside the blackness of her past. Slowly, she moved her eyes to take in her surroundings. The gentle sway of a ship with the ocean alerted her she still remained at sea. The sun pouring through the windows showed her a clean, well-organized cabin.

So, she’d made it off Dobison’s ship. Relief poured through her. Bartholomew was triumphant then. And, she lived. Remembering the fight on the deck, she tried to move her body.

Wincing, every muscle in her body ached, and the excruciating pain above her breast nearly sent her back into a blackness she dare not travel into again. A moan escaped her.

“Yer awake, then. We thought you would not make it.” A pair of deep blue, intelligent eyes set in a face disfigured by scars stared at her as she turned her head to the voice.

“Water.” Her throat felt afire, so dry she would swear she’d been in the middle of a dessert instead of at sea.

A wooden cup appeared before her eyes as the man helped the cool liquid drizzle into her mouth and sooth the back of her parched throat.

“Thank you.”

Easing the cup from her, he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. “You’ve finally rid yourself of that blasted fever.”

She was alive. Discovering their course was foremost in her mind, and then making certain her children were truly cared for before she disappeared for good. Her past would haunt her forever. It was her duty to keep it from hurting her children, and Addison.

“How long have I been in this bed?”

“Three days, Miss. Your wound will take some time to heal properly, but I don’t see no infection. The fever took its toll on you, but you’ll be right as rain in no time.” The burn marks marring his face made him fearsome but for the compassion in his eyes.

Anne nodded, swallowing the dryness creeping upon her again. “Is this Bartholomew’s ship?”

“Aye. He’ll be glad to know you’ve made it through. My name’s Patchey, Miss. Should you need anything, just holler. There’s a lad just outside your door there to do your bidding.” He motioned behind him to the door. “Now, let me have one last look at that wound a’ yours.”

The will it took to keep from cringing as his hand pushed aside the sheet from her shoulder surprised her. The memory of Dobison’s touch did not die easily. The realization that she remained nude beneath the blanket and sheet did nothing to help alleviate her level of unease.

Patchey’s hand did not make contact with her skin, but he made a noise in his throat of approval and pulled the sheet back over her shoulder. “It’s healing as much as it can with your deteriorated condition, what with that fever and all. But, now you’re awake, we can feed you proper.”

The sudden growl of her stomach surprised them both, and the man’s mouth lifted into a smile. “I think that’s a good sign. Jones, Miss Anne needs some food.”

Anne flinched at his loud bellow, but gave Patchey a smile. “Thanks for patching me up, Patchey.”

A flush crept up the older man’s neck. “It’s me job. Captain Roberts would have had me head had you not survived.”

“Well, I thank you anyway.”

Not long after Patchey left the cabin, the door creaked open and a lad, presumably Jones, strode in with a tray of food. The boy averted his eyes from her the entire time, and placed the tray upon the bed nearest her hip.

“Jones, thank you. I’m positively famished.” Her stomach growled again as Jones left with a nod and no conversation.

Finding that a bit odd from a man on a pirate ship, she decided to ignore it and focus on eating as much as her body would allow. The smell of the fresh bread and meat pie settled in her nostrils. She took a tentative bite of the bread, chewed and swallowed. It was delicious.

In the end, she was only able to eat half of the meat pie, and one quarter of the bread, and already felt drained of energy. Her muscles and bones were aching terribly. The door remained closed, so with her good arm—if one could call a scratched and bruised appendage good—she pulled the blankets from her body, biting her lip at the twinge of pain that shot through her wound at any slight movement.

Her skin stayed a dull, pallid color, the green and purple marks emphasizing that fact. Shivering at the memory of Dobison attempting to rape her on several occasions, and even on the deck at the end . . . yes, she prayed that he’d died somehow that day.

A curse on her breath, she scooted her bottom across the bed and gingerly threw her legs over the edge, allowing her feet to rest on the floor. There were two chests on the opposite side of the cabin, and Anne suspected some form of clothing would be available amongst the contents. There was no way she would continue her nakedness now that she had some sense about her.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed up with her good arm, and stood still to keep the swaying at a minimum. She closed her eyes tightly, willing the dizziness to subside. A few minutes of breathing in through her nostrils and blowing out through her mouth helped dissolve the swaying of her brain.

Fisting the sheet in her hand, she held it up before her, and took a tentative step forward. One foot before the next hurt like the devil, but biting down on her lip and breathing deeply led her from the edge of the bed to the chests.

Bending to tip one open sent a jolt of crushing pain into her wound, but she let out a long string of curses and reached inside. Not caring at the moment at the mess, she tossed several articles of clothing onto the floor until she found a long, white, man’s blouse. It would have to do. Getting it up and over her head would be difficult.

Sweat beaded upon her forehead at the energy she’d spent just getting to and rifling through the chest. Leaning over to pick up her sheet in the same hand, she held the blouse was another difficult feat, but she did it and found her way back to stand beside the bed. She faced the door, deciding her best course of action. Bloody hell, she’d have to have help maneuvering the blouse above her head, and putting her arm through the sleeve.

There was nothing for it.

“Jones? Are you out there?” Her voice was stronger, but still had a scratchy, screech owl quality.

“Aye, ma’am.” His voice was unsure on the other side of the door.

“I need your assistance, if you please.”

The door opened and he gasped, his eyes wide. He clenched his eyes shut, a pink tinge creeping up his slender neck.

At any other moment, she might have laughed, but her body ached and she felt as if she might pass out on her feet. “Jones, if you could open your eyes long enough to stand before me, I could use your assistance sliding this blasted thing over my head. I cannot go about naked.”

One dark eye cracked open, one side of his face scrunched as if he’d eaten a lemon. “I don’t think he’d like me seeing you like this, ma’am.”

She gave him an encouraging smile. “Oh, come now, he’d help me if he were here. Besides, truly, he could care less.” Although Bartholomew had been her friend for a few years, and they’d most assuredly made a few flirtatious comments to one another, he would never be jealous of one of his crew seeing her in such a way. How odd for Jones to say such a thing. She motioned him with her chin. “Please. You won’t see a thing. I promise.”

He looked behind him into the open doorway with a nervous glance before shutting the door with a soft click. “If you say so.”

“Thank you, Jones.” She closed her eyes for a moment, elation at being clothed again surging through her.

He walked to stand before her, clamped his eyes closed again, and held out his hand.

Smiling, Anne dropped the sheet to the floor and placed the blouse in his hand. “If you could open the bottom of it wide, and raise it, I will slide up through the bottom.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The shirt raised up and Anne shuffled her feet forward until the shirt was above her head. “Alright, Jones, bring your arms down slowly, and I’ll put my head through the top.”

She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. The shirt came down and she found her way through the neck of the blasted thing, cursing a few times as she missed the mark.

Once her head peaked through, and his arms stopped, she saw a smile parting his lips.

“You think that’s funny, do you, Jones?”

The smile faded as quickly as it appeared. Anne chuckled. “Open your eyes, sir.”

“But, you said I wouldn’t see anything.” He was aghast.

She put her good arm through the sleeve, but knew she’d need help with the other. “I need help with my wounded arm. Now, open up. You cannot do this with your eyes closed.”

Jones took one step backward, the whites of his eyes visible as he took in the fact that she stood in a buff-colored blouse, naked beneath, that came only to the top of her knees. She knew the swell of her breasts were clearly visible through the fabric, but she could not be concerned with that for now.

“Now, if you’ll grab the sleeve and pull it out from my body, I’ll push my arm through.”

He blinked as if her words didn’t register right away, but then he stepped forward, grabbed the sleeve and held it straight out.

The momentum it took to get her arm up and out made the sweat pour from her brow and several colorful curses flow from her lips. To his credit, Jones grimaced with each curse, and offered to help her more. She gave him a glare and finally pushed her arm through the sleeve. Trembling by the time she accomplished her goal, she collapsed back onto the bed.

“Jones, I apologize for my language. You have saved me from pure embarrassment, and I’ll make certain Captain Roberts knows of your assistance.” She smiled through the pain and thumping of her entire body.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” He bowed and rushed from the cabin.

She laid back on the pillow, relaxing her throbbing arms, legs, and back. Exhausted, she fell asleep within moments.

She awoke later to candle flame, the darkening sky in the window, and the coverlet covering her once again. Frowning, she hoped she hadn’t missed her opportunity to speak with Bartholomew to thank him for saving her.

With many painful movements and much cursing, Anne pulled herself to stare out the window into the darkness, wondering if her children thought of her. If Addison worried of her whereabouts.

Two days and a very cranky disposition later, Anne reached her patience limit waiting to speak to the captain. Jones feared her constant outbursts, Patchey shot her dirty looks and ordered her about. Although they’d been her only company since she’d awakened, she swore she was recovered enough to walk the deck and speak to Bartholomew. Patchey forbid her to do aught but rest. She’d thrown her cup at his head, twice, but remained in the cabin.