The Companion (20 page)

“Ho there, are you for the
Beltrane
?” he called.

The Captain’s cox’sun turned, took in the situation, and motioned several hands forward.

“Miss Rochewell is not feeling quite the thing,” Ian muttered, through the searing pain.

But they had her already in hand. “Put a foot just here,” one said as he lifted her in. Did she wish to sit there by the stern? This extra cloak might be welcome in the freshening breeze. It would be but a moment until they had her aboard, they said. They glared at Ian as though they knew that he had caused her malaise.

“A physician recommended porter,” Ian lied. He handed over the crate he’d purchased from the landlord. It took two men to stow it. They looked at him with even more suspicion.

Behind him, Mrs. Pargutter bustled up, wailing. “Wait!” she called. “Wait for me!”

“Full up,” the cox’sun barked. “Take that there skiff.”

The boat pushed off. “Stretch out!” the cox’sun barked, and the men pulled at the oars. Miss Rochewell huddled in the huge woolen cloak, not even waving to him. He pulled up his neck cloth and stepped into the skiff with Mrs. Pargutter and Jenny. He had eyes only for the Captain’s barge. He was relieved to see that the cox’sun called for a bo’sun’s chair for Miss Rochewell before his boat ever kissed the ship’s side. They bundled her into that contraption tenderly, then scrambled nimbly up the side to take her out
on deck. She was already in her quarters by the time Ian had run up the side himself.

In the fading light Mrs. Pargutter was shrilling about the stowing of her parcels. Ian strode to the forward hatch and so down to the surgeon’s domain below the waterline, stripping off his gloves, cravat, and hat. “Granger!” he barked. The surgeon smelled of spirits. A hanging lantern cast wild shadows as it swung with the roll of the ship. The air was close down here, stinking of alcohol and the vile concoctions he poured down the sailors’ throats. Granger raised bloodshot eyes to his. “Miss Rochewell is ill,” Ian said. “You will be called. You are not to bleed her. You will instead prescribe sustaining food five times daily, to include both meats and vegetables, and porter whenever she can take it. Am I understood?”

Granger managed to get to his feet. “You dare to dictate to me, sir?”

Ian’s anger swelled. This man could harm Miss Rochewell, even cause her death, with his stupidity. With the anger, Ian felt a singing along his veins. The song buzzed in his ears, even blurred his vision. Granger shrank back and Ian knew his eyes had gone red. “You will not bleed her.” The whisper would echo in Granger’s mind. “You will consult me before any treatment.”

Granger nodded blankly.

“And stop drinking.” Ian whirled and climbed up to the deck. He would order some gruel and chopped boiled fowl to be taken to her cabin. Could she eat on her own? The ship’s rigging groaned. He felt the pull of her sails. The convoy was under way. The next stop was Brest.

There were no secrets in a ship. The moon sank in a sky streaked with clouds. The steady creak of rigging and spars and the slip of water past the keel were the only sounds apart from the whispering crew. He stood at the bowsprit, the very apex of the ship, where he was most nearly alone. In the middle watch, Ian’s newly sensitive hearing had picked up
ing the thick copper-tanged liquid slide down his throat, their bodies twined in ecstasy?

He must convince her not to bear witness against him. Her goodwill could disarm the crew’s suspicions. Her silence in England would allow his dream of home to blossom. But how? He racked his brain, every lie, every possible excuse, only sounding lame in his own ears. What fabrication would a woman like that believe?

He closed his eyes against the round of fruitless thoughts as the sky grayed. An image of her, frail against the quilts, gnawed at him. Her chess game, played to win, but thoughtfully, rose to mind, and her practical acceptance of his healing powers. He saw the flash of her eyes as she told him she had seen the mysteries of the Levant and explained her theory about the Sphinx.

The key to his dilemma lay in who she was . . . a searcher for truth, no matter how strange, a practical woman, more intelligent than most men he knew, who accepted no condescension. He sighed as the conclusion became inescapable. He would have to tell her at least part of the truth.

This was bad. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done. It would put him in a woman’s power to an even greater degree—something he had vowed never to let happen. He turned and paced back toward the waist, the crew melting out of his way. The price to his pride was too great. He couldn’t do it, no matter the consequence. The pipe called the morning watch up to clean the decks. It was his signal to retire for the coming day.

On the other hand, how badly did he want to go home to England?

Ten

Beth woke to painful light streaming through the window hatch. Tapping sounded at the door. The roll of the ship was a comfort. She must be a hundred miles away from Rufford now. She had escaped. She was
glad
to be away from him. Absolutely ecstatic. She felt a little better today. Redding had brought her a bit of roasted chicken last night and more of that vile porter. And she had slept the night through, with only a couple of disturbing dreams she would not think about. One had to be forgiven for one’s dreams, did one not? In some ways, those dreams seemed to be her blood, her Egyptian blood, calling to her.

The tapping came again. “Yes?” she called, amazed at the smallness of her own voice.

“Redding, miss. The cook thought you might fancy a boiled egg and a bit of gruel. And the doctor is here to see you.”

“Just leave the tray.” She sat up and pulled the quilt to her chin. “I am not dressed.”

But the door opened and the doctor brought in the tray. “I am a medical man, my dear. It makes no difference whether you are dressed.” He filled the narrow stateroom, looking haggard this morning but not drunk. He set the tray on her
lap. She had no desire for another examination. At least Rufford could not interrupt and throw the doctor bodily out the door.

But the surgeon showed no signs of wanting to examine her. “I thought you would require bleeding, but I find you much improved,” he said, looking nervous somehow. “I think just a diet filled with red meat to stimulate your bodily functions, some good strong porter, and perhaps a tonic bolus of Peruvian bark should set you up.”

She nodded warily. “I’m glad you decided against bleeding. . . .”

“As am I,” a familiar bass voice rumbled. “Miss Rochewell, you seem improved.”

The doctor started as badly as Beth. Rufford loomed behind him.

“I shall look in later with your bolus.” The surgeon practically scurried from the room.

“What are you doing here?” Beth said, trembling, when left face-to-face with Rufford. “You promised you would go overland. . . .”

“I regret I had to break that promise.” He slipped into the room and closed the door. Beth shrank away. “I could not trust the good doctor not to bleed you and there seemed no one to see to your needs.”

“Mrs. Pargutter—”

“—could not be bothered even to see you to the launch,” he cut her off brutally. His face was reddened and a little swollen, as though he had been in the sun. Which he had, she remembered. He had come to the inn in daylight to see how she did and walked her to the barge.

“Well, you had no need to worry. The doctor did not want to bleed me, and Redding brought a most sustaining supper from the cook last night. You might have kept your promise after all.” She was almost sure she was frightened to death that her tormentor was on board the ship. Certainly her heart was pounding, and the telltale black circles floated in her vision.

“Calm yourself, madam.” He squinted against the light
from the small window. Now he reached for the little curtain, drew it, and cast the cabin into twilight. He was planning to stay.

“Go now,” she ordered.

“I must talk with you.”

“Go this minute or I will scream.” The black circles threatened to close in on her.

“If you would calm yourself and let me explain—”

“What can you explain?” He had sucked her blood, though she didn’t like to say that where others could possibly hear. He loomed over her. “If you kill me they will know it was you,” she whispered. “They will clap you in irons.” An empty threat, with his strength.

He looked at his hands as though to gather courage. They were strong, square hands. She remembered the feel of his fingers on her throat. If he had wanted to kill her, it would have been easy then. He raised his eyes. They were filled with such dismay she was startled.

“You think I would kill you?” His mouth was mobile. “I would not harm you. I have sought only to remedy my . . . my indiscretion.” He took a breath. “No. No excuses—my inexcusable sin.” He continued when she could think of no reply. “You may call the Captain, of course. You have the marks on your neck and Callow’s for corroboration. The sailors distrust me since the pirate attack. They might believe you.” He seemed to gather courage. “I want to go to England—to get back some version of a normal life. I am guilty of my needs unless—no, until a doctor cures me of what I have become. If you desire it, I will confess.”

Why? Why would he confess? All he could expect was incarceration, which for him would be death without blood to sustain him. Or being torn limb from limb by a mob here on the ship or when he was tried in England. Unless his healing powers could preserve him. But still—to expose himself to that risk, the physical pain . . . Her gaze darted over his face looking for an answer. She did not have far to look. It was in his shame, in the distress that had lurked in his eyes since the moment she first saw him. He said he wanted to
justify himself, but underneath he believed he deserved the worst.

She blinked. “I shall consider your offer to confess.” She should demand he leave.

He looked down again, awkward. “You have a scientific curiosity. Perhaps you will find my story . . . interesting,” he murmured. “Listen, then do what you must.” He grabbed the stool from beneath her basin and pulled it between his legs before she could say yes or no. His knees touched her cot. His thick lashes brushed his cheeks as he stared at the wood floor. “I did not choose to become what I am.”

Beth said nothing.

His brows drew together. “I was taken out of a Navy sloop two years ago by Barbary pirates and sold as a slave. You have guessed as much.” He stopped, unable to go on.

Beth realized that the mystery she had so wanted to unravel now wanted to explain himself. Suddenly she wanted to hear his story very much. How had she let fear stand in the way? “You have been cruelly treated.” Would that make it easier for him to say what he wanted so much to tell her, yet obviously dreaded telling?

He took a breath, dared a glance at her. She nodded encouragement.

“I was sold as a pack animal to a caravan, or so I thought.”

Beth checked a sharp intake of breath. “How horrible!”

He gave a chuckle he meant to be rueful. It cracked in the middle. “Oh, that was not the horrible part. The keepers beat me, of course, and the life was hard. No one spoke to me until Fedeyah wanted to practice his English. They treated me like a mule or an ox. But they fed me well and watered me so that I could bear the work. I grew used to the drudgery and the whip. One can grow used to almost anything, you know.” He studied the hands he had clasped before him. “But this was a special kind of caravan. It traveled by night and did not carry goods to trade, but only supplies for an endless journey through the desert. The owner of the caravan rode in a strange litter. Slaves sent into the owner’s tent came back
dead, drained of blood.” He swallowed. “One slave at a time was chosen to serve the owner . . . more . . . personally.”

Rufford’s knuckles were white on his clasped hands. Beth knew she had to help him if he was to get the story out. “Who was this owner?”

“Her name was . . . Asharti.” The name came with difficulty to his lips.

Oh, dear. She had a good idea where the story was going. She waited.

“She circled the desert, searching for your lost city, Kivala.”

Beth opened her eyes wide. Had he actually been there? She checked any excited questions. Now was definitely not the time for eager curiosity.

“She traded only to take on new slaves to fill her . . . needs.” Again he stopped. His eyes flickered with memories so painful he looked like they might strangle him.

She must tell him that she knew. It might free him to let his story flow. “I saw the marks of her teeth on your body,” Beth whispered, remembering the fine body as well as the marks.

He nodded, faked nonchalance with a shrug, not free at all. “I lived longer than most. She took only a little blood each time.” There was more; Beth could feel it. He cleared his throat and shut his eyes. “She . . . could compel . . . with her eyes. . . .”

Just what could Asharti compel? Something that shamed Rufford. He must say it or it would eat him alive. “Did she make you kill for her?”

He rolled his head and stared at the ceiling. “No. She never thought of that, thank God.” He gave that cracked half-chuckle. “She thought of other things, though.”

Beth recalled the places on his body she had seen the round scars: loins and thighs and buttocks as well as his throat. A dreadful surety of what Asharti had compelled rose inside her.

“It was her blood that infected me. One thoroughly evil drop of blood.” He took a breath and held it, then consciously released it as he unclenched his hands. “She left me
for dead. But I didn’t die, more’s the pity, and now even suicide seems to be denied me.”

He had tried to kill himself? Beth bit her lip to keep from protesting against the act of suicide or even comforting him. He would never allow it.

“You will chastise me for not starving myself of blood. I have tried. But when the craving becomes too strong, there is some . . . discomfort. My mind grows unclear. I am in danger of filling my need recklessly at the cost of lives.” He took a breath. “So,” he said brusquely, putting his palms on his knees and straightening, “I take a very little blood from any one person. I . . . I lost myself with you; I don’t know why. I hope you can . . .” He choked and was silent. He had been about to ask forgiveness but couldn’t because at heart he did not think he deserved it. He started again, without conviction. “Not a happy situation. But I vow I will do no lasting harm. I shall be like a banker who lives off the interest of others’ invested funds, or a painter who captures the spirit of a sitter and sells his paintings for a living. And I can leave them something in return, a memory of being . . . valued by someone.” He looked away.