The Truth by Jane Lark ~ a free book exclusive to my blog ~ part fourteen

The Truth

© Jane Lark Publishing rights belong to Jane Lark,

this should not be recreated in any form without prior consent from Jane Lark

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Richard

Emma Martin bloodstained and bruised was a humbling hit to his system. It made his anger swell in its intensity. “What is going on?” he yelled again, eyeing her with accusation burning in his gut. Why had she come out of the damned cabin? The stupid girl! She might now be dead not wounded!

She did not answer him, merely sat there, clutching Mark’s arm and looking at Richard like the Indian girls did in the markets back in Calcutta, when they shied away from him.

When he’d seen her on deck, he’d been struck by a fear he hadn’t thought himself capable of as waves washed over the rail and Mark had half dragged her to the far side where the door led belowdeck. His fear had been followed by a fuming temper. He’d been cursing all the way down here, turning the air blue with his diction.

Women should not be on a damned ship!

She is injured. The stark reminder punched him hard, warring with his anger. It was the fear that had made him so enflamed. She was covered in blood. He’d seen that even from the top deck.

What the hell had she been doing on the deck! They’d been told to stay in their cabin!

“Are you mad?” he said more calmly but still his tone was accusing and his posture tight with aggression – and concern. “You were told to stay in your cabin! Can you not listen to a damned order?” The last was cast at her with a throw of his hand.

In answer the courageous, stalwart and stubborn Miss Martin, burst into tears, turning her face into Mark’s stomach with a sob, still gripping Mark’s arm. Anger, apprehension – and envy – raced through Richard in a rush as he grasped a hold of figurative reins, taking a grip on his temper.

He was not a compassionate man, nor was he a tolerant one, but seeing this intelligent, endearing woman, suffering, cut him in half like a knife slashing through his middle. He gripped Mark’s shoulder and thrust him away.

She may not realise it in her distress but her reliance on a man of Mark’s rank was inappropriate. He took her hand from Mark’s arm and held on to it, dropping to his haunches. Her wound had begun congealing a little but it was a brutal gash. When she continued crying, he laid his other hand on her hair and pressed her head to his shoulder. She shivered and sobbed and the feeling which ran through him was one he’d never known before; a tangible care, a need to protect and keep what was hurting her at a distance.

“Miss Martin,” he said more quietly, seeking to calm her, but his voice still burned with wrought emotions.

His gaze lifted to Mark. “What happened here? Why was she on deck?”

“She hit her head!” Miss Martin waled, shouting back at him and pulling away, yet she did not take her hand from his. “Mama and Rita are sick. I was trying to help them and I fell.”

“Miss Martin was knocked unconscious,” Mark added. “As you can see the wound needs stitching. She fell down the steps into here too, Sir. I think she is concussed. She’s dizzy and not thinking clearly. Am I right, Miss Martin?”

She nodded once, then sniffed as more tears ran down her cheeks. “My mother…” she sobbed.

“Mrs Martin and the maid will be unable to manage alone in the cabin,” Mark interrupted, “I said I’d go back up and bring them belowdeck. Then I’ll leave a man down here and get back to my post. I was waiting for Dr Steel to look after Miss Martin.”

“And Dr Steel is almost free,” Duncan answered. “Mr Gibbs is nearly done.”

Richard remembered, at last, that one of his crewmen was in the room. He rose and turned with Miss Martin’s fingers still gripped in his hand, as his arm hung loosely at his side.

Gibbs’s eyes were shut, and from the dimple in his cheek, his teeth were gritted. He opened his eyes and looked at Duncan. “Will you let me have a bottle o’ rum t’ dull the pain when you ‘r done?”

Duncan laughed and Mark snorted.

“So you can fall out of your hammock and break the other arm, no,” Richard answered.

“You can have a dose of laudanum it’ll dull the worst pain,” Duncan offered. “You may come back if you need more.”

Duncan pulled Gibbs’s bandage tight and tied it off. At the same moment Richard realised he was still holding Emma Martin’s hand. He let it fall, then found his hand resting on her shoulder. He was physically unable not to touch her, concern was twisting up like a reel of rope inside him.

He’d brought Gibbs down here. The man had been thrown against a bulkhead by a wave which had crested over the deck. the same injury, or worse, might have happened to Emma.

“Sir,” Gibbs said when he stood, nodding his head and pulling his forelock with his good hand, as he acknowledged Richard then looked at Mark. “Mr Bishop.”

“Gibbs,” Mark responded.

“I’ll look in on you later, Gibbs,” Richard stated.

“Thank you, Sir, I appreciate y’ur ‘elp, I’m sorry I cursed at y’u, Sir.” Gibbs’s gaze, dropped from Richard’s shoulder, where it had hovered to avoid looking Richard in the eyes, to Miss Martin.

“You are excused, Gibbs,” Richard said in response, warning the man to keep his eyes averted. Gibbs’s head lifted and he nodded again, his eyes meeting Richard’s momentarily.

Women should not be on a ship. It distracted men.

His hand still resting on Miss Martin’s shoulder, looking at Mark, Richard said, “Go back up and fetch Mrs Martin and the maid. Then Mr Swallow will want you back on deck and giving orders. I’ll stay down here with the women.”

Mark nodded and turned immediately, following Gibbs from the room.

“I’ll look at Miss Martin,” Duncan stated when the door shut behind them.

She was silent.

Richard looked down. She was looking up at him.

Her pale hair had half fallen from its knot and bloodstained strands were stuck to her face and neck. Her eyes shimmered, fluid with tears, as her shoulder shivered beneath his hand. He wanted her. Oh God, he wanted her. It was a painful, terrible need.

“Miss Martin?” Duncan spoke, drawing her eyes away from Richard.

She was nineteen, barely out of the schoolroom really, and genteelly bred. She was not for him. He lifted his hand from her shoulder as Duncan moved to look at her forehead.

“That is a nasty gash, Miss Martin. But we’ll soon have you sorted. You’ll have a scar I’m afraid, but I’ll make it as tidy a job as I can. Would you like some laudanum to dull the pain before I stitch it?”

“Or you could have rum,” Richard jested, looking down at her again, his anger entirely deflated.

She glanced at him, smiled slightly, and shook her head, “I’ll take the laudanum thank you,” then she looked at Duncan. “I admit to being a coward.”

“You are no coward,” Duncan answered, turning to a cupboard to take out a vile. “Here. If you were a coward, you would have stayed in the cabin and let the concussion turn to sleep. Not a sensible thing to do, I might add.”

She drank from the vile then made a face. “It’s horrible.”

“No body ever said medicine was pleasant,” Duncan quipped, taking the empty vile from her hand. “Now, let’s take a look at you.”

Richard had recruited Duncan. He’d been an army doctor, but Richard had convinced Duncan to sell out. It was Duncan’s approachability that Richard liked. He classed Duncan as a friend now, as he did many of his senior men.

Duncan held one of Miss Martin’s eyes open and studied her pupil without touching the wound. “How are you feeling?” he said, checking to see if she had been seriously concussed.

“Sick,” she answered. “And dizzy? Woozy. Muddled. Tired. I am tired…”

“How long were you unconscious for?”

Richard stripped off his rough working gloves and shoved them in his pocket, resigning himself to this new task.

“Moments? I am not sure.”

“I suppose your head is throbbing?”

“Yes,” she breathed as though she’d only just realised it was.

“Well, the laudanum will work its magic soon,” he answered, letting her eyelid fall. “We shall get you sorted now and then we’ll keep an eye on you tonight, just in case there are any hidden problems.” With that he reached for the cloth Mark had left by a jug of fresh water. “I will clean you up a bit more first.”

As Duncan touched the wound her bare fingers clasped Richard’s, seeking comfort as earlier she’d sort it from Mark.

A strange sensation – a soft pain – spilled from somewhere in Richard’s midriff, warmth slipping into his blood as he gripped her cold, slender fingers in return. She was silent while Duncan washed the wound as best he could without making it bleed heavily once more.

“Sit still, Miss Martin.” Duncan took up a needle and threaded it, before tipping rum over it.

The deck beneath them rocked and lurched.

“Gibbs would call that a damned waste,” Richard said, watching Duncan brace himself, one foot wedged against the chest beside Emma.

“It is a damned waste.” Duncan answered.

“Do you wish me to hold her?”

“Unless you can order the sea calm, it may help, yes.”

Duncan had said nothing about her grip on Richard’s hand. Richard swapped her fingers from one hand to the other, bracing his own feet in a wider stance. Then he stroked her hair back from the wound and pressed her head to his hip, half-hard for her, his blood throbbing probably harder than hers. After tonight he was going to have to distance himself from the girl. The ship rocked, but neither he–and therefore Miss Martin – nor Duncan, moved.

“Ready,” Duncan warned, it was not a question, within a second of the warning the needle slid into her skin. Richard felt her jump and her fingers clutched his harder. He’d never thought vulnerability could be an aphrodisiac, but God, to have her reliant on him egged on his need. He wanted her to need him. He wanted her to want him.

“Breathe,” he said to her gently.

She did, she took a slow breath as the needle slid from the other edge of the wound and drew the skin together. Duncan tied the stitch off and cut the thread, securing it.

“Well done, Miss Martin, just three more to go I think.”

She still jumped when the needle pierced her skin for the second stitch. Richard stroked her hair as her fingers clung to his other hand – the intimacy of the gesture was more than he could bear.

He could not remember holding a woman’s naked hand before today. His intimacy with June and all his former mistresses had always been purely sexual.

Brave, bold and determined Emma Martin, did not say a word as she let Duncan work, breathing slowly to keep calm. It must hurt like the devil. The wound was bleeding again, and swollen to the size of an egg and Duncan disturbed it with every stitch.

“Done,” Duncan stated, tying off the last stitch and setting aside the needle.

Emma was white.

“Duncan, I think she’s going to be sick.”

Duncan looked at her, then immediately turned and grasped a bucket.

She let go of Richard’s hand, clasped the bucket and was sick, her head slipping away from his touch. He rested his hand on her shoulder, once more, a surge of protective emotions rushing through him again.

“You have concussion, Miss Martin,” Duncan said. “Someone will have to watch over you tonight. I doubt your mother or your maid will be well enough to do so.”

At that moment Mark knocked the door. Richard looked. Mark was carrying Catherine. She was too weak to even look up and acknowledge Richard.

“Put the ladies in the bunks in the cabin next door, I’ll keep an eye on them.” Duncan ordered.

Mark nodded.

The poor maid followed Mark, determinedly gripping the arm of a crewman, looking wrung out.

This journey was a trial for them all. They were probably bemoaning being on his bloody ship as much as he complained about them being here.

“Miss Martin, let us get you settled too, then you may sleep. You should feel a little better when you wake. I’ll sit beside you.” Duncan stated, dousing another cloth with rum before patting it over the wound.

“I shall come back in an hour to see how they fare,” Richard added. “If you need me to take over the watch before then, though, just say.”

Duncan met Richard’s gaze as they helped Miss Martin stand. The look in Duncan eyes was a question. Why?

Richard had made his opinion on having the women on his ship plain enough before they’d even boarded. He’d wanted as little to do with them as possible. But as the voyage progressed, he’d found himself increasingly in their company, or rather in Miss Martin’s company. Duncan had seen it happening. Duncan also knew how unusual that was.

To be continued…

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The Marlow Intrigues

The Lost Love of Soldier ~ The Prequel #1 ~ A Christmas Elopement began it all

The Illicit Love of a Courtesan #2

Capturing The Love of an Earl ~ A Free Novella #2.5

The Passionate Love of a Rake #3

The Desperate Love of a Lord ~ A second Free Novella #3.5

The Scandalous Love of a Duke #4

The Dangerous Love of a Rogue #5

The Jealous Love of a Scoundrel #5.5

The Secret Love of a Gentleman #6

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Jane Lark is a writer of authentic, passionate and emotional Historical and New Adult Romance stories, and the author of a No.1 bestselling Historical Romance novel in America, ‘The Illicit Love of a Courtesan’.Click here to find out more about Jane’s books, and see Jane’s website www.janelark.co.uk to learn more about Jane. Or click ‘like’ on Jane’s Facebook page to see photo’s and learn historical facts from the Georgian, Regency and Victorian eras, which Jane publishes there. You can also follow Jane on twitter at @janelark

The Truth by Jane Lark ~ a free book exclusive to my blog ~ part thirteen

The Truth

© Jane Lark Publishing rights belong to Jane Lark,

this should not be recreated in any form without prior consent from Jane Lark

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

Emerald

It was early evening a week later when they hit the rough water. Mr Bishop rapped on their door an hour before the sea became choppier, telling them to stay in their cabin. They were to sleep in their clothes, he’d said, just in case the ship fell into trouble and everything which was moveable should be secured. He’d even given them leather straps to secure themselves into their bunks. He had knocked at four in the afternoon, by five the ship was rising and falling to the point it was impossible to stand. By six, Rita was kneeling at the end of Emerald’s bunk, gripping its edge and praying in a quiet chant. The leather strap secured about her middle tied her to the frame of the bunk . Emerald sat at its head the leather strap across her middle as she gripped the bunks edges and watched her mother.

Her mother was lying flat, secured by three leather straps and her teeth were gritted, as though she fought pain or a desire to be sick every time the ship rocked .

The ship was being tossed about on the sea like a matchstick.

The aft of the boat rose up suddenly tipping Emerald back, while her mother slid further up the bed and Rita squealed. Then the ship went over the wave’s crest, rocking forward, casting them all the other way, before almost immediately tipping to the portside and then rocking starboard.

Her mother was pale and Rita was a sickly grey.

Mr Bishop had said it could be hours or days before they passed about The Cape, it depended on the winds and waves. At the mercy of nature they could do no more than run the course.

Emerald started praying too, it was the second occasion on this journey she’d called upon a deity she’d never fully believed in. If there was a God, he was obtaining her attention in the style of Jonah.

The aft suddenly dropped away. Rita screamed and Emerald’s gaze spun to the window. The ship plunged downward into the trough of a wave, as though the swirling sea would swallow them up.

The men on this ship travelled this route time and again. How could they bear it? Why would they return?

“We are coming back via Egypt, Mama, on a steamship.” Emerald cast at her mother as the ship swept up and over the crest of the wave.

Her mother’s answer was a weak smile. Prostrate, her fingers gripped at the top leather strap.

“I am going to be sick!”Rita cried. She scrabbled loose from the leather strap and grasped hold of the bucket that had been hung from the wall. The moment she did so the ship rocked portside and tossed Rita to the floor.

She lay there unmoving.

Emerald slipped free of her strap too, reached for the bucket and pulled at the knot which held it. Once it was loose, she slid off the bed, holding the end of the bunk with one hand and the bucket in the other as the boat rocked back. Their trunks were secured below decks and the drawers locked. Rita did not even try to rise from the floor, but braced her back against one bunk and pressed her feet on the other while Emerald leant over and held the bucket out. Rita grasped it and was horribly sick.

Emerald looked at her mother.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” her mother whispered in apology, “I feel ill too.” Weakly, she began struggling with the first strap.

Emerald moved to undo it. There was another bucket secured near her mother and as the buckle slid free her mother sat up, gripping it as though she had been trying not to be sick for the last hour and could hold it no longer. Placing an arm about her shoulders, Emerald felt a sudden wave of nausea herself as they rocked sideways again.

Oh she wished this journey over. They had weeks to go yet. “I am never doing this journey again,” she whispered to her mother.

“Nor I,” her mother answered on a half laugh, pressing her wrist to her mouth.

“I’ll fetch you a handkerchief.” Emerald whispered, letting go of all support and bending to unlock the drawer which contained them as the ship righted itself for a moment. But then the aft dropped downward into a deep trough again and Emerald went with it, falling backward. There was nothing she could do, she had no time to clasp anything, the ship whipped her back and she fell hard, her bottom hitting the floor first, but even as it did the boat tipped sideward and unable to get her arm down in time to stop her fall, her head hit the wooden frame of her bunk. Everything went dark.

When Emerald’s eyes opened, Rita was leaning over her. The smell of sickness hung in the air and nausea twisted through Emerald’s stomach. “Miss?” Rita stroked back Emerald’s hair. It was a strange thing for her to do. But then the cloth touched Emerald’s forehead and she realised Rita was pressing a handkerchief against her head. The ship rocked, casting them both against the end of the bunk.

Emerald banged her shoulder. “I shall be black and blue,” she whispered.

“You’re head will not stop bleeding, Miss.”

Emerald’s fingers lifted to her forehead. She felt a large damp gash. When she looked at her fingers they were covered in scarlet blood. She felt sick again. Rita pushed the handkerchief into Emerald’s hand and was sick.

“Emma, darling,” her mother leant over the edge of her bunk. “You will need stitches in that wound.”

Emerald clasped the handkerchief near her head, it was damp and red, and now it no longer pressed against the wound, blood ran down Emerald’s face, dripping onto her dress and onto the floor. She wiped it away with the handkerchief, her thoughts spinning, unraveling, fraying. She took a deep breath, fighting the nausea. “I’ll find Dr Steel.”

“You should not go on deck!” Rita cried as Emerald struggled to her feet. The room span as well as rocked.

Dr Steel would help her. He would mend her head and send help. “I’ll find him and come back,” she said swaying towards the door as the boat tossed her from side to side.

“Emerald!” her mother shouted, gripping the rope her bucket hung from as she twisted around trying to catch hold of Emerald’s arm. She could not reach her though and Emerald did not stop. Her thoughts were focused solely on finding Dr Steel and bringing help.

When Emerald pulled open the cabin door she was immediately struck by a wave cresting and breaking over the rail near her. Blood and stinging salt water smeared her vision, as she turned and shut the door.

When she turned around she saw men everywhere. Four men had a rope tied about their middles, the other end secured to the jib of a sail as they fought to strengthen its grip against the wind. They had furled the highest sails and were just sailing under the lowest and the largest as the wind caught it one way and then the other. Mr Bishop was across the deck, yelling orders over the noise of the wind and waves, as three men were descending from the rigging.

The ship rocked to port again as a wave hit on the starboard, throwing spume across the ship. Emerald lost her balance and fell sideways, landing sharply on her hip and skidding across the soaked deck.

“Miss Martin!” Mr Bishop’s eyes had been brought from the rigging to her.

“Miss Martin!” he yelled again.

He was wearing a calf length oiled leather coat. When he came towards her his movement was slowed by the swaying of the ship, casting him one way then the other. “Miss Martin?” He said more urgently as he neared and then he looked back over his shoulder at one of the men on the deck behind him. “Tell Mr Swallow I have Miss Martin on deck, I’ll be back in a moment.” The man behind him moved instantly, half running, half sliding to the poop-deck steps.

Mr Swallow must be up above. She couldn’t see from her position.

“Miss Martin?” Mr Bishop said again, bending over her and clasping her arm.

It was not only sea-water and blood in her eyes but tears too. Another wave threw itself onto the deck, sweeping over them both, the spume engulfing her. She hung on to Mr Bishop’s forearm as the wave swept away. “I cut my head. I need Dr Steel,” she shouted over the noise of the wind in the sails, as his face loomed near.

His eyes looked at her wound.

“Come, I’ll get you below decks.”

The tight grip on her arm helped her struggle to her feet, dizzy and disorientated.

Mr Bishop’s arm came about her shoulders and continued to hold her up as he urged her to walk across the deck, in the opposite direction from her cabin. Together they swayed across the ship.

“Mr Bishop!” Someone yelled from the poop-deck. Emerald looked up, her vision was blurred but she could see Mr Swallow leaning on the rail, yelling orders at the men on the quarterdeck. Mr Prichard was at the wheel, with two men beside him putting their weight into holding the ship steady. Then she saw Mr Farrow, standing to the other side, observing everything, his feet planted wide, one hand gripping the rail, steadying himself. His shin length leather coat was unbuttoned and it caught the wind, sweeping about his legs. The look on his face was a mask of determination and his eyes were on her. “Mr Bishop! Get that woman off the damned deck!” He yelled, gesturing with his hand.

She’d been dismissed.

Mr Bishop’s grip on her shoulder and her arm tightened and he half dragged her towards a door that must lead to the lower decks.

Like the steps to the poop-deck, those going down were steep, almost sheer. A wave swept onto the deck behind her, and onto the first step. Emerald slipped. The wave washed her down and stole Mr Bishop’s grip from her arm. She tried to grasp the rail, but forgot her hand was clutching the handkerchief so she was unable to catch it. She slid down the rest of the stairs, her bottom bumping on each step, and landed on crumpled legs in a heap on the floor. More sea-water swilled down on top of her before Mr Bishop pulled the door shut behind them.

Emerald feebly pressed the bloodstained handkerchief against her head and wept. This ship and this journey had defeated her.

“Miss Martin…” Mr Bishop was beside her, squatting on his haunches, his back pressed to the wall in the narrow passage way. “What happened?” His arm was about her once more but he did not urge her to stand.

She looked at him through blood and tears, the scarlet covered handkerchief slipping to her cheek. “My mother and Rita are sick. I tried to help. I fell. I was unconscious. I–.” Her words ran dry.

“Come, we’ll get you to Dr Steel. Can you stand?”

“Yes, I did not hurt my legs.” But even so she was glad that he helped her rise. “What about my mother and Rita?”

His arm about her shoulders, he pressed her onward. “Let us get you to Dr Steel and then I shall worry about Mrs Martin and your maid.”

The two of them swayed along the passage, bumping into one side and then the other, but Dr Steel’s cabin was not far, in the fore of the ship, at the end of the passage.

“Miss Martin?” Dr Steel stated, looking up as the door swung inward. He stood over a seated crewman and was wrapping a bandage about splints on the man’s forearm. The man’s teeth were gritted.

“Miss Martin needs stitches, as you can see, Dr Steel,” Mr Bishop stated.

“Sit her down, Mr Bishop.” Dr Steel looked back at his task, speaking while he worked. “Can you stay with her a moment, she looks faint. I’ve nearly finished Gibbs here.”

“Aye, I’ll stay.”

Emerald sat, willingly letting the men take control. Her thoughts were muddled and her heart raced as blood still streamed down her forehead.

“May I use this cloth,” Mr Bishop said to Dr Steel. “I can start cleaning the wound.”

“Yes, yes indeed,” Dr Steel replied, glancing back.

Mr Bishop’s fingers were under her chin, lifting up her face, his other hand dabbing the damp cloth against her skin. “The bleeding is slowing,” he said to her. Emerald shivered as a chill seeped through her damp clothes.

She caught hold of Mr Bishop’s forearm. “My mother? Rita?”

“We will get you sorted and then I’ll go back and bring them down.”

Both men balanced easily no matter that the ship rocked back and forth and sideways as they worked. With their legs braced wide they moved with it, shifting their balance.

“I want to go home,” she whispered to Mr Bishop as he worked, the cloth patting softly against the wound, wiping away the blood, his touch soothing her nerves.

He laughed, “Sadly that’s not a possibility, Miss Martin, but we’ll be about The Cape soon enough, the winds good, and then you’ll forget the experience.”

“I’ll never forget it,” she whispered in answer.

The door crashed open, swinging inward suddenly. It made Emerald jump with shock, then clasped Mr Bishop’s forearm.

“What the hell are you doing out of your cabin! On the bloody deck, for Christ’s sake! Have you no sense!”

Mr Farrow filled the aperture of the open door with a God like appearance. The anger in his eyes, and the rage in posture, awed her in a away that was part fear and part admiration. He was dressed in an open shirt without a neckcloth or waistcoat and his long oiled leather coat hung loose.

Perhaps was more pirate than God.

But in either case she was duly afraid.