Wherever You Are (4 page)

Barun.

The man was like a black cloud on Morgan’s horizon. Death nipping at his heels.

He buried his fingers in his hair and hung his head to massage his aching temples. His hand fell to the scar on the inside of his arm and he rubbed it. Sometimes he still felt the hot poker searing his skin, still smelled the stench of his burning flesh.

Get the Parkers’ ship to London. That was his plan. And then…

Morgan feared the “and then”, because he had no plan. He was weary of constantly looking over his shoulder, of knowing Barun lurked in his future just as he lurked in Morgan’s past.

He would never rid himself of his enemy and the thought tired him.

He’d escaped once but had no energy for a second time. He was thirty-two years old, had lived far longer than most men in his profession, and had nothing to show for it. Nothing to live for. No home. No family. Nothing but a lot of ill-gotten money he couldn’t spend in two lifetimes.

With a tired sigh he crossed his arms on top of his maps and laid his head down. First he had to get Isabelle and Reed’s cargo to London. And then—

The door to his cabin banged against the wall. Morgan grabbed the cutlass leaning against the desk and rose to a fighting stance in one smooth motion. Isabelle marched in, the young stowaway stumbling behind.

“I should have you flogged.” Isabelle pointed her sword at him.

Morgan’s cutlass dipped until the point hit the floor. “Pardon?”
 

She advanced and his curiosity gave way to trepidation. He knew that look. She was beyond angry, and if he was smart he’d get the hell out of there. But Isabelle rounded his desk, her eyes blazing, and trapped him behind it.

“Do you make it a habit to flog women?”

The softness of her voice and the fury in her eyes caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

She reached behind her for the stowaway, but the boy recoiled and tried to hide behind Isabelle.

Isabelle pulled the whelp forward. With a show of defiance, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Morgan through red-rimmed eyes.

Morgan looked from Isabelle’s angry face, back to the boy.

He stared at the outline of her breasts and his heart damn near stopped beating.

Her breasts?

What the hell?

He took a step around the desk. The woman’s expression went from defiance to fear, and Isabelle stepped between them, her hand on the hilt of her sword. The fact that Isabelle felt the need to touch her weapon as a warning for him hurt more than Morgan would admit.

“I am ashamed to call you friend,” she said. “After all we’ve been through, never once have you touched a woman in anger, never once have you hit a woman.”

The mysterious woman closed her eyes, her body held carefully still as if each breath hurt. Morgan knew the sting of the cat-o’-nine-tails. He’d seen grown men cry like babies after the first lash and he’d seen men die from the after-effects. That a woman had suffered this at his hand made his stomach turn.

“You’ve changed, Morgan. The man I knew would never have done something like this.”

“I had no idea.” They were the only words he managed out of his numb mouth. He’d had a woman flogged. A woman.

He closed his eyes, fighting despair and self-hatred and felt himself slipping over the edge. Is this what Barun had reduced him to? Seeing spies in everyone? Blind in his paranoia?

He carefully leaned his sword against the side of the desk. The woman’s terrified gaze followed his weapon. How had he not known, not seen what was before his very eyes?

“Please tell me you’re speaking the truth,” Isabelle whispered. “Please tell me you didn’t know.” She pierced him with a bewildered stare. “Tell me you would never have ordered her flogged if you had known. I’m tolerant of many things, Morgan, but having a woman flogged is not one of them.”

“Good God, Isabelle, of course I didn’t know. I would never hurt a woman on purpose.”

He walked toward the mysterious female. The sight of her blood dripping from beneath the hem of her shirt onto his floor made him change course to walk a few paces away and run a weary hand through his hair.

“I’ll take her to Reed’s ship and care for her there,” Isabelle said.

“No,” he said.

She paused in the act of reaching for the woman and looked at him in surprise.

“I did this to her, I’ll take care of her.”

“Morgan—”

“I’ll take care of her.” He forced himself to look at the woman and what he had done to her. “I have to.”

The woman was shivering. Beneath the tear tracks that carved furrows through the soot from the fire, her face was pale. Her eyes were wide, the pupils huge. Morgan knew the signs of shock when he saw them. Carefully, slowly, he reached for the blanket at the end of his bunk and held it out to her. She stared at the offering as if she didn’t know what it was before tentatively reaching for it. Morgan didn’t miss the wince of pain or the small whimper she tried to bite back.

She clutched the blanket to her chest, turning wide, blank eyes to him.

“Leave her with me, Isabelle.”

The woman made a strangled sound, her terrified gaze going to Isabelle.

“I don’t trust you, Morgan. I’m sorry…”

Isabelle might as well have taken the sword and stabbed him through his stomach. After all they’d been through, the words tore through him. Yet, he couldn’t blame her. Three years ago he’d returned to his best friend and sailing partner a broken man, unable to speak of the horrors inflicted on him. Slowly his silence and moodiness had eaten away at their friendship until it hung by one thin strand. Morgan feared he’d just broken that strand.

“I swear on my sword I will not hurt her.” No, he needed to heal her. Needed to do this. To right this wrong.

Every so often a drop of the woman’s blood hit the floor, each splatter an ice pick to his heart.

“I’ll check on her before I leave.” Isabelle walked out of the cabin and shut the door softly behind her.

Slowly the woman looked around, her gaze stopping at the wall of windows behind him and the vast ocean spread before them. She turned her blank gaze to him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not knowing what else to say.

Her fingers tightened on the blanket. She needed to get out of her clothes so he could tend her back, yet asking her to disrobe was out of the question. She began to sink to the ground, as if her legs couldn’t hold her. Morgan reached for her, ready to catch her, but she recoiled and settled on her knees, her wide-eyed gaze never straying from his.

Morgan, too, sank to his knees before her.

In his lifetime as a pirate he’d had many people look on him in fear. Fear was a powerful weapon he’d ruthlessly cultivated to get what he wanted. But this woman’s fear was far more than he could take.

He reached into his boot with careful, slow movements. She tore her gaze from his face to follow his hand, gasping when he pulled out a sharp dagger.

“Easy,” he said softly. “I won’t hurt you.”

He turned the dagger and offered it to her hilt first. Again her eyes searched out his. The reddened skin between her brows puckered.

“Take it.” He kept his voice soft. “It’s yours. I won’t harm you again, but if you should feel threatened, feel free to use it.”

It was an attempt to show good faith yet guilt pricked him. Even if she tried to use it against him, he was faster, bigger and more powerful. He could easily strip the small weapon from her. He’d given her false hope and somehow that seemed worse than no hope at all.

Her fingers unfurled themselves from the blanket and she slowly reached forward to take the dagger.

“I need to get supplies in order to tend your…injuries.”

She swayed. Morgan reached for her, but she batted his hand away with the hand holding the dagger. He pulled back before he found himself sliced to ribbons.

Fresh blood dripped to the floor and he had to swallow the bile rising in his throat. Funny, he’d seen damn near everything one human could do to another and never before had his stomach turned so.

“You need to be in bed. It’s more comfortable than the floor.”

She gave him a look that said if he thought she was getting in that bed, he was crazy.

“Fair enough.” He stood. She had to crane her neck to look up at him. Always keep your enemy in sight, it was a good motto to live by and it seemed she’d learned it well. “I’ll be gone a short while to get some supplies.”

Her eyes widened, the fear turning to terror. Disgusted with himself he grabbed his sword and left, smacking into Thomas who was standing in the doorway bare-chested.

“How is she?” Thomas craned his neck to look inside the cabin but Morgan drew the door closed. Thomas’s nose was swollen to almost twice its size and blood was smeared across his cheek. She’d fought hard. Strangely Morgan was proud of her spunk.

“Stand outside this door. Let no one in. And for God’s sake don’t let her out.”

When he opened the door to the cabin with the supplies in hand, Thomas was right on his heels. Morgan knew Thomas felt guilty for being the one to wield the rope, yet it wasn’t his fault. He’d been acting on Morgan’s orders and so the guilt lay on Morgan’s shoulders.

Morgan stopped and Thomas barreled into his back. “Where is she? Damn it, Thomas, I specifically left orders that she was not to leave.”

Good God she was in excruciating pain yet she’d found the fortitude to walk out? Had she jumped ship like Thomas said she’d tried to do before?

“No one left, Cap’n. I swear.” Thomas stepped around him and looked at the spot where the woman had been. There was nothing but splatters of blood on the floor.

They found her curled in a corner, her bloody back pressed against the wall. There were smears of blood on the wood behind her. How in the world was she withstanding the pain?

Thomas pulled in a breath and muttered, “Dear God.” He took a step toward her but she whimpered and pulled back. Fresh blood dripped onto the floor.

“Out, Thomas.” Morgan crouched in front of her and held a cup of laudanum-laced rum to her. “Drink.”

Her gaze flickered between Thomas, the cup and Morgan.

“Out, Thomas.”

“But, sir—”

“Out!”

She flinched. Thomas mumbled something and left.

“This will help the pain.” He offered the cup again.

She pressed her lips together in silent argument. Morgan sighed and raised the cup to his lips, pretending to sip and swallow. “See? No poison. Just a little willow bark for the pain.”

He shuffled forward, held the cup to her lips and the back of her head with his free hand. His dagger was clutched tightly in her hand, the blanket held firmly in the other. Her wide eyes watched him warily as she drank.

“Wh-what is that?” Her face twisted into a grimace.

“Rum laced with willow bark,” he lied. “Drink more.”

She let him feed her the drink, strangely relieved she was allowing him to touch her. When she drained it all, he moved back and watched her closely. Her gaze wandered over the cabin. After a short amount of time her eyelids began to droop. She fought to keep them open.

“How’s the pain?” he asked.

“Still hurts.”

“Give it time.”

She forced her eyes open. “What… What did you give me?”

She struggled to stay awake, her fear and anger helping in the fight, but the laudanum would clearly be the victor. “I told you. Rum and willow bark.”

“Liar.” Her eyes closed fully and she slumped forward, his dagger clattering to the floor. He caught her against his chest. Her hair clung to the stubble on his face and he smelled the stench from the fire in it.

“I won’t hurt you, little one,” he whispered, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him.

He lifted her, trying not to touch her wounds but finding it impossible. She moaned and her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t awaken. Morgan laid her on her stomach and retrieved the dagger to place beside her; within easy reach should she awaken. Slowly, he pulled her arms out of Thomas’s bloodied shirt. The one beneath was singed, burnt through in places and shredded by the cat-o’-nine.

He cut it up the back and pulled it off her. He was about to ball it up when he paused, then stared, disbelieving. What the hell? The buttons weren't like the buttons he was used to. These were thin, transparent and smooth. Definitely made of something other than wood. His breathing hitched. Quickly he worked the shirt off her, only to find yet another one made with thin straps over the shoulders and lace along the top. He used his dagger to cut it off with shaking hands, slicing what was left of it up the back and peeling it away.

His stomach muscles tightened. His gaze strayed to her burnt outer shirt he had thrown on the floor. He lifted it by the collar. A small fabric tag was sewn inside with the letters DKNY stitched on them. He inspected the lacy undershirt and found a similar tag only this one said Victoria’s Secret in flowing letters.

He looked at the woman, his mind tumbling backward to a place he rarely allowed himself to go.
No
. His mind screamed the denial.

Trembling, he reached beneath her and tried to tug her trousers off but they were stuck on her slim hips and she groaned when he jostled her. Blindly, carefully, he searched for a buckle or a belt and found a small metal tab on the side. He drew back, studied the tab as his heart galloped in his chest. This wasn’t happening. Not again.

He removed her trousers and held his breath when he saw the undergarments beneath. Holy hell. White lace. Very, very tiny white lace that barely covered her nicely rounded derrière.

Morgan stared, his mind a mixture of thoughts and impressions he couldn’t sort through. No wonder everyone thought she was a boy. With those slim hips and small breasts concealed under so many layers, added to the fact that except for Isabelle no one expected to find a female on the ship, it had been a natural assumption.

Someone knocked on the door. Startled, Morgan stuffed her clothes under the bed. The ship’s surgeon, a jovial, short, squat fellow named O’Callahan poked his head in as Morgan flipped a blanket over her rump, concealing the finely laced undergarment.