Wicked at Heart (34 page)

The "or
else" was not worth considering, he thought, grinning and massaging his
ribs.

Ah, well.  By
now she and Sir Graham and their growing brood would be preparing for their
trip back to the West Indies, and trouble from
that
quarter was — for
the moment at least — diverted.  As for returning
Kestrel
—

Orla's voice broke
in.

"Captain!  There,
just a point off to starboard, the signal!  Again!  Do you see it?"

He turned his
head and, yes, he did see it, the last, fuzzy blink of gold piercing the gloom
like an eye out there in the darkness.  He shoved the tiller hard, and the
schooner turned into the wind, there to lay shuddering and rolling as the waves
drove beneath her.

The crew — some
French, some American, all snatched from the prison ship
Surrey
by the
Black Wolf himself — ran to their stations.  Connor grinned to himself.  That
crew was about to increase by one, and tonight he was the happiest soul on
earth.

The boat came
melting out of the gloom like a craft from the netherworld, the oars rising and
dipping with steady purpose.  Moments later Connor heard it bumping lightly
against
Kestrel
's hull, then the voices of greeting as those gathered at
the rail reached down to help the newcomers aboard.

At last
,
he thought, on a wave of relief.

Having a
prisoner fake his own death had been the most clever, the most brilliant, the
most daring of the Black Wolf's rescues.  It was also, Connor thought grimly,
the last, and there was still little Toby to get out.  Toby, alone and
defenseless and at the mercy of the other prisoners and those bastards Foyle
and Radley.  Toby, who had lost his fearless protector —

"Welcome
aboard, Reverend Milford," he heard Gerard, one of the Frenchmen, say
warmly.  At the same time that gentle cleric stepped onto
Kestrel
's
shiny, wet deck, Connor saw Orla running toward him, her hair flying about her
excited face.  The chaplain's countenance broke into a happy grin at the sight
of her.

Connor looked on
with a paternal smile as the two embraced.

And finally came
that voice he had waited so long to hear.

Connor walked
forward, smiling, and there were real tears in his handsome eyes.

"Nathan,"
he said, extending his hand and heartily pulling his cousin up onto the
salt-sprayed deck.  The two embraced each other warmly.  "It is good to
have you back at last."

Chapter
21

Damon knew he
was dreaming; he could see the Black Hole rearing out of the darkness and awash
in liquid flame as he approached it.  He thought of the person locked inside, a
person with thoughts and fears and feelings just like himself, suffering,
hungry, lonely and in pain, and he began to hurry, the oily brine bursting into
flames now, licking at his calves, clawing at his legs, his stomach, his
chest.  Fear and desperation drove him, sweat drenched his body, and there was
no turning back, no salvation for him unless he could reach that horrible box and
free the man inside —

Hurry up,
damn it!

He was running
now.  He had to run because that man was himself.

The unholy roar
started on the decks above.  He knew instantly what it was:  the prisoners,
hundreds of them, streaming down through the decks, coming down the ladder for
him, and there, leading them, was his mother.

He screamed as
they came at him, yelling like savages.  
I pray to God the flames get me
before you do Mama
!  Burn, burn,
burn
—

She reached for
him, fingers cold as a tomb against his burning flesh.

"Damon —
Damon it's me, Gwyneth!"

No no no,
you're not Gwyneth, you're my mother.  Hurry, flames, take me, burn me, I'm
horrible, I'm not worthy, I don't deserve to live after what I know lurks down
here in this floating hell, after this suffering I have seen.  God forgive me,
I did try to help them.  Yes, Peter, I know my reasons were all wrong.  It was
because I hate the navy.  I see now they were wrong, and if I live I'll do it
for all the right reasons, I swear I will, just get her away from me —

"Damon!"

Her icy hand
seized his wrist, and with an inhuman howl of terror he lunged away, trying to
escape, clawing at the wrappings they'd put around his head and over his eyes. 
But it was too late.  He was in his cabin now and the prisoners had him,
pulling him down once more, punching him, kicking him, grabbing him by the hair
and slamming his head against the deck over and over again. 
Run, Gwyneth,
RUN
!
 Ad now a great whooshing, violent, sucking noise, and he was,
oh God, no,
please God, NO-O-O-o-o-o-o-o!
, hurtling through a tunnel, arms flailing,
and at its end was Morninghall Abbey, and he was flung into that massive
sixteenth-century bed.  It was dark, the spirits were coming, Mama was coming,
he could hear the door creaking open,
You are a very bad boy, Damon,
it
was she, she, SHE!

Everything
crashed to a stop.

Dead.

No sound, no
sight, no . . . anything.  Just hot, ringing silence.

He lay curled on
his side, wrapped in sheets damp and stinking with his own sweat.  He heard
himself panting, the sound close and loud and stifling against the pillow. 
Beyond the stillness that cloaked him, beyond his own desperate breaths, he
heard the patter of rain falling against glass and gutter and stone and grass. 
Morninghall.
  Shudders racked his body, and from deep in his throat came
a primitive, frightened whimper.

I am awake. 
This is real.  And God help me — I am at Morninghall.

He tried to open
his eyes but saw only darkness.

He curled closer
into himself, blind and trembling and afraid.  Damp heat enveloped his face
from the nose up.  Pain throbbed in his shoulder blade, clouded the side of his
cheek, his skull, his jaw.

He was in The
Bedroom.

And he was in
the dark.

Alone.

No, not alone. 
Someone else was here, someone whose breathing he now could hear, someone whose
hand was gently stroking his back and telling him that everything was going to
be all right, that he was safe, that she would look after him.  Her soft hair
tickled his jaw, and he could smell her light, elusive fragrance.

His heart began
to beat in that strange, rushed way it always did before an attack, and he started
to shake.  He didn't know who was leaning over him, didn't trust those words, didn't
know what she was going to do to him.

The woman's
voice was close to his ear.  He could feel its warmth on his neck.

"Damon."

He wished he
could stop shaking.

"Damon, you're
going to be all right.  It's me, Gwyneth.  Can you hear me?"

Gwyneth? 
Gwyneth who?

That gentle hand
caressed his shoulder.  Her fingers, sliding into his loosely curled fist,
remaining there.  The scent of peaches —

Lady Gwyneth
Evans Simms.

A bomb exploded
in his chest, shattering the last of the delirium that was far preferable to
what he knew to be true — the truth being that he was indeed at Morninghall,
and Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms was here with him, seeing him in all of his
vulnerability, all of his weakness, all of his
insanity
.

He parted his
lips, and from a mouth as dry as sand, whispered, "Lady Simms?"

"Yes, it's
me, Damon. 
Gwyneth
."

Gwyneth.
 
She was leaning far too close to him, too close to his soul, and the panic
began to feed off of it.

"You . . .
survived," he whispered.

"Yes, Radley
threw me overboard."

"Tell me .
. . you're not hurt.  I was so afraid that they . . . got you too. . . .  So
afraid."

"I'm all
right, Damon.  Be still now.  I want you to rest, not to think about what
happened."

"We never .
. . got to finish what we . . . started."

"We will.  When
you're better."

But he was
blind, and he could feel the sickness inside of him, could feel the powerful
effect of gravity, of death, on every cell in his body.  He wasn't going to get
better.  He was dying, this time for certain.

"I'm not .
. . going . . . to get better," he whispered.

"Don't talk
like that."

"'Tis true. 
You should not see me like this . . ."

Her fingers
burrowed even farther into his loose fist, and in that awful quiet he shared
only with his own heartbeat, he prayed to God that she would
not
go away;
he wanted her to pull him up against her sweet, cool body and hold him, just
hold him, because he was dying and he was scared.

"If you
think I'm going to leave you after all the worry you've put me through, I beg
you to think again, my lord."

She pulled her
fingers from his and put her arms around him, one against his back, the other
sliding beneath his neck and his throbbing, bandaged head.  Her embrace,
heartbreakingly sweet, tender, and loving, brought with it the panic, which
came howling down at him like a storm out of the Arctic.

No one had ever
hugged him before. 
No one.

He froze, stiff
and scared and blind and unmoving, his heart pounding in his chest.  The panic
screamed and clawed for a hold.  He broke out in fresh sweat, and nausea filled
his stomach . . . and eventually the panic, in defeat, slid back down into the
well from which it had risen.  In time Damon became aware that his heart was no
longer beating so hard, that the rasping, panting gasps that were his breathing
had calmed, and that
she
was still leaning over him, her arms wrapped
safely around him.

The attack had
passed.  He had looked it in the face, stood his ground, and it had gone away. 
It had gone away.

Oh, thank God
. . .

He relaxed, just
a little bit.  Maybe being held wasn't so bad after all.  In fact, when she
pulled back and took his hand once again, he missed her closeness.

"I'm hurt
badly," he whispered into the hot, smothering blindness, the words not as
much a statement as a question.

"Yes,
Damon.  You are."

"How . . .
badly?"

"Only time
will tell."

He thinned his
mouth, feeling like a child denied a piece of candy.  Anger and frustration
made him curl his fingers around hers, crushing her hand in his fist.

"You're
hurting me, Damon."

Embarrassed, he
immediately loosened his grip but dared not release her.  If he let her go,
she'd leave him just as he'd asked her to, for he had never been kind to her
and she had no reason to remain with him.  In fact, he couldn't understand why
she was here now with him at all.  Had she been there all the time he'd lain
ill?  He had a vague sense of elapsed time, a hazy memory . . . something about
wolves.  Still, he didn't want to be alone.  He needed her.  He wanted her
close by, but he didn't dare tell her that.  And he didn't dare tell her he
rather liked being hugged, as well.

"I'm
sorry," he whispered against the pillow, and meant it.

"I
know."

"I never .
. . wanted to hurt you."

"I know
that too.  Rest now.  Get better."

Outside, the
rain fell softly, peacefully.  He could smell the damp earth, the fresh-washed
pastures that rolled out into forever, the mustiness of this ancient room in
which he lay — and the light fragrance of the woman who sat beside him.  He
wondered if she knew he liked being held and hugged.  He wondered if she knew
how much he needed her.  He wondered if the lilacs were still in bloom, and
what she would have done if he really
had
broken one off that day in her
garden and given it to her, and suddenly wished with all his heart that he had.

He wondered if
she knew that he loved her.

There, that
powerful knot of emotion squeezing his heart, the same one that had struck him
when he'd gazed upon those lilacs in their vase and seen them for what they
were, and he was suddenly glad she could not see his eyes — for in them were
tears.

Her voice came
close beside his ear.  "Can you take something to drink, Damon?"

He nodded, not
trusting himself to speak, the back of his throat aching.

Slowly she
pulled her fingers from his fist.  It took all of his will not to tighten his
hand around hers and trap her there with him, and as she got up, he squeezed
his fist together and curled it under his jaw, trying to contain her warmth,
her essence, that little bit of
her
.

He could hear
water splashing into a glass, the rustle of her skirts, the quiet thump of a
pitcher as she set it back down on a table.  Her arm slid beneath his head once
more, and he felt the cold rim of the glass against his lips.  She lifted his
head, and the slight movement was enough to send nausea swimming through his
belly and needles of fire shooting through his brain.  They must've cracked his
skull in twenty pieces, he thought, and suddenly he wished he had his
Peterson's
so that he could see what it had to say about skull fractures.  Christ, he felt
awful.

"My head
hurts," he said, faintly.

"As well it
should.  Drink, Damon.  Please."

She was no
Peterson's
. 
She wasn't going to tell him
anything
.  Too ill to be annoyed, he sighed
in defeat, let the side of his head rest heavily against her arm, and opened
his mouth.  It was wine, thinned with water, cool and sweet and delicious.  He
took a swallow and felt it trickle all the way down to his stomach; there, it
sat heavily and waged a war with itself as to whether it wanted to stay there
or come back up the same way it had gone down.