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

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, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18

Emerald

Two days later Mr Farrow came below deck to visit Emerald and her mother with a smile splitting his lips.

He still had the look of a pirate, no matter that he wore his neckcloth, waistcoat and his shirt sleeves were down. It was the colour the sun had lifted in his skin.

She knew now, though, that beneath his tanned skin and his arrogant, self-assured façade was a trustable, likeable, considerate man.

She smiled too and swung her legs over the edge of the bunk so she could sit upright and look at him. Her stocking clad feet rested on the floor. She was clothed, as was Rita, though they remained down here with her mother. They were all still a little fragile. He looked down at Emerald’s toes peeping from beneath her dress then up to her face, his smile broadening.

He was very captivating when he smiled. It caught in his dark intuitive eyes. If he had smiled more genuinely like this in Calcutta her friends would have swooned at every ball.

Her smile broadened too. They had been sharing many smiles these last two days; smiles that seemed more like a secret conversation and private touches when he sat beside her bunk. Every time he read to them her hand found his – or perhaps it was his that found hers. She didn’t really know who led this thing that had begun between them or even what it was, she was fighting the urge to think about it and just letting it be. There was nothing particular to be defined in smiles and touches of hands and so she was waiting to see what might become of such things.

Nothing. She was to be married in England.

“What do you say to going back up to your cabin?”

“That I would like to go,” Emerald answered, “please.” Being below deck felt like being buried in the bowels of a giant fish. They had no light.

He turned his smile to her mother. “Are you well enough, Catherine?”

“I’m sorry, Richard, I doubt my legs will carry me.”

“They do no need to, I shall.”

“Then I would certainly appreciate a more comfortable bed.”

“It is agreed then. Prepare to move. The cabin has been cleaned and is nice and fresh and ready for you as soon as you are ready -.”

“We are ready now?” Emerald responded, standing. But she moved too quickly and as she did so the room took a quarter spin. She reached for the pillar supporting the bunks and found herself gripping Richard’s arm.

He grasped hers too.“I’ve got you. I’ll carry you up too, Miss Martin. In fact…” he looked at Rita, not letting go of Emerald’s arm, “I’ll carry you all, seeing as Rita must be just as weak. If you give me a moment, I’ll fetch some help.”

He let go of Emerald and left them then. She sat down.

After a couple of minutes he came back with Mr Bishop.

Richard said they’d take her mother first. Emerald had not seen Mr Bishop since he’d brought them below deck. None of the men other than Dr Steel and Richard had visited them here . She supposed it was inappropriate of Richard to have done so as they had lain abed in their nightdresses and yet without his company she would not have endured it.

Richard lifted her mother, still wrapped in blankets, and bid her to put her arms about his neck. She looked very light, thin. She was fading away. When they were back in their cabin Emerald decided she’d concentrate on making her mother eat.

With Mr Bishop holding the door, Richard carried her mother out.

Richard took Rita next. She resisted Richard’s insistence on picking her up and remained on her feet, letting him support her on one side with Mr Bishop hovering at the other.

When Richard returned, he was alone. He leant down to Emerald, smiling. “You, I am definitely picking up.”

“I am not protesting,” she responded, slipping her arms about his neck, her heartbeat thundering.

He lifted her with one arm beneath her knees and the second about her shoulders, the muscle bracing in his shoulders as he moved. Emerald held him tighter.

“How are you?” he whispered.

The warmth of his breath brushed over her lips as he met her gaze and a shiver twisted through her, but not from the cold or fever, it was with a sense of expectation. “Much better, just a little dizzy and my head still thuds with pain at times, but other than that fit-as-a-fiddle.”

His smile broadened. “You do amuse me, Miss Martin.”

“And you I, Mr Farrow, now I have broken through your surly looks and found the man with a sense of humour beneath them.”

“Good God is he there somewhere, a man who might laugh? God help me, do not tell my men.” He looked at the door not her.

“See,” she whispered, resting her head against his shoulder as he shifted her weight, grasping the door handle.

His embrace was a familiar feeling still. The dark nights when he’d held her would always stay with her.

When he carried her along the narrow hall she imagined her friends laughing, as they would if they could see the fearsome Mr Farrow with her draped about his neck.

Her right breast brushed against his chest as he walked. The sensation stirred up an awareness of how much closer she would like him to be – very close. She’d never kissed a man. She would like to kiss Richard.

Her fingers lifted and stroked over his clean shaven jaw. He smelled nice, of soap today.

He did not look down at her.

She continued to try and torment him, running her fingers from his cheek to his nape and then into his soft dark hair.

He said nothing and continued to look ahead. He was only making the game more amusing.

Her fingers ruffled his hair, then she ran just her fingertips along the line of his jaw to his lips.

He took a deep breath then said quietly, “Very amusing.” They had reached the stairs to the quarterdeck, the door above was open and voices filtered through. “My men are up there, Miss Martin, would you have them see me thus and think you fast?” His pitch was all business man Mr Farrow once more, not Richard.

She smiled regardless, speaking to Richard. “Fast?” she mocked, “God forbid!” She looked up and stroked his hair flat, though, setting it to order.

An amused sound left his throat, even though he had sounded unamused before. “You are a witch, Miss Martin, do you know that? You put men under a spell. My entire crew have fallen beneath it. Now hold on tight.”

She did, gripping his shoulders with both hands and bracing herself, lifting her head from his chest. But as he took the first step, resting his elbow on the rail as he climbed, she answered, “Should I not be a siren – while we are at sea. Is it not a siren who enchants men to their deaths?”

“God woman,” he complained still in his business voice, “will you never learn? Cease casting ill omens on my ship. You do not mention Sirens; mention them and you’ll hear them call.”

“Are they real then?”

He continued climbing the stairs, not looking at her but ahead of him.

“They are. They are enchanting noises you hear in the night and can never explain. It is like St Elmo’s fire.”

“What is St Elmo’s fire?”

“A miracle,” he answered in an amused tone again as they reached the deck and a breeze caught at her hair. It wrapped about them both. “It is coloured lights,” he progressed, “they dance in the rigging and in the sky when you sail north, like mystical fay creatures. You can see them but never touch them.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” He looked down at her and smiled as they crossed the deck.

“Good afternoon, Miss Martin!”

She looked up, Mr Prichard had called from the poop-deck. Mr Swallow was standing up there too.

Mr Swallow, lifted his hat a little. “Miss Martin!”

“Good day, Mr Swallow! Mr Prichard!” She lifted one hand and waved.

“Siren,” Richard whispered through the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t mention the name, you’ll curse your ship,” she said as her fingers gripped the back of his neck.

“You curse my ship, sweetheart,” he answered as he reached the cabin she shared with her mother and Rita. Mr Bishop stood before it, holding the door open.

Richard walked on and carried her through. Their moment to speak privately was gone as he set her down on her bunk..

But he had called her, sweetheart, so she had not imagined this thing between them. He had been flirting with her.

Her mother lay in her bunk. She smiled at Emerald and Emerald smiled back intensely happy – even though her father was not here and this was not Calcutta.

She looked up at Mr Farrow. “Thank you.”

He gave her a heartbreaking smile, then shook his head at her for her mischief. “Rest, Miss Martin, and preserve your strength, tomorrow you may all sit out on deck if you wish. We are travelling up the west coast of Africa now and if we’re lucky we’ll hit no storms, you’ll be safe from sea-sickness for the rest of the passage.”

He was a rotten liar, of course they would hit storms, they had weeks of travel yet. But she liked him more for his kindness in trying to cheer them up.

“I remember you saying you had a pack of cards aboard. Can we have them? Can we play?”

His eyes flooded with benevolence. “You may have them but I have work to do today so I cannot join you. Mr Bishop will bring them to you. We’ll play a game another time.”

She was to be cast off then, now that she was no longer so very ill. A sense of being cut by a little knife pierced Emerald’s skin, and yet when he turned to her mother, behind his hip, he touched her shoulder. The gesture was brief, an instant only, a slight reassurance that he had not forgotten, that was all, yet as she glanced across the cabin she saw Mr Bishop watching. His expression blanked when he caught Emerald’s gaze and he looked away, in the same moment Richard’s hand lifted… Of course Richard was Mr Bishop’s employer. Mr Bishop would neither comment nor cast judgment anymore than Rita had in their small cabin below deck when she had seen Richard hold Emerald’s hand.

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 seventeen

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, 14, 15, 16

Chapter Seven

Emerald

Emerald’s fingers lifted to brush something from her forehead when she woke. It was cold and wet–a rag had fallen on her brow. She was hot, very hot, the air itself felt as though it was burning and she couldn’t catch it in her lungs. She was suffocating; the hot air pressed down on her. She saw red and light images moving about from behind her closed eyelids, people, no not people, angels, walking about with their wings folded. The red turned to white everywhere. She began shivering then, shivering with cold and they were not angels it was snow. Snow had fallen in Calcutta. Her father had a painting of a snowy landscape. He had said snow was very cold to touch. She opened her eyes catching a deep breath, not knowing who she was or where she was. The room was dull grey. The light was fading. The room was narrow and small. Something was above her, the ceiling within an arms length. She felt trapped, imprisoned. She sucked in a deep breath then cried out, suddenly afraid and screaming into the air of the small unfamiliar room.

“Hush, you’re mother’s asleep.” A deep voice resonated through her head, ringing in her ears. Pain throbbed. She could hear her own blood beating. It was deafening. It hurt to breathe. It hurt in every nerve, every limb and every muscle. She wanted to cry from the pain.

“You need to drink.” The voice said. She thought she should know it, but she couldn’t quite catch a hold of the memory, her head was in so much pain. “Sit up a little. Take the medicine and then you need to drink the water.”

“Do I?” she murmured.

“Yes, you do, Emma. You need to do everything that I and Dr Steel say, do you understand.”

I? I? Who was I? “Dr Steel?” she whispered.

“My doctor, you are on my ship and in my care and you are damned well going to conquer this bloody fever. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Drink this medicine, disgusting as it is, and then some water.”

She moved as his arm slid beneath her shoulders, lifting herself and pressing to his chest. Her cheek rested against clean fresh cotton. He smelt of sea and air. Mr Farrow, his name returned to her mind.

She gripped his hand and a small bottle pressed against her lips. She drank. The bitter liquid ran into her mouth in a rush as he tipped the bottle. It was revolting but she remembered the taste, she had drunk this before.

“Now have some water.” His deep voice ran through her veins.

The water was cool and refreshing. She gulped it, taking several long sips. Then he drew it away. “Not too much, I don’t want you to be sick. You need to keep it down. You can rest again now.”

Suddenly she was free of him and cold again, lying amongst a tangle of cotton sheets that clung to her skin. She was in so much pain. A sob escaped her lips, she rolled to her side and returned to the whiteness and the angels walking through Calcutta.

Richard

Emma was fractious and rolling about, tossing the sheet off as fast as he could put it on. Her arms and legs flailed as she murmured God knew what, waging a bloody war against her fever.

He’d admitted to himself over two hours ago, he was scared. They’d fought the elements of The Cape with an entire crew. She was fighting her storm alone, wrestling with death.

They’d left the worst waters behind hours ago. Half the ship was at rest, worn out by their battle. He’d slept five hours through the afternoon and then come here as soon as he’d woken, praying the news was good. It was not. She was worse again, far worse.

Duncan prophesied that if she survived the night she’d probably recover but he’d equally said there was a strong possibility she might not survive it. Richard’s heart had felt odd ever since he’d heard those words, like it was hanging in suspense, waiting, not knowing whether to beat or not. Yet it was beating in a steady rhythm which he felt in every artery as he sat here beside her, watching her breaths, counting them, fearing each one would be her last.

She could not die. No man could have that much ill luck – to lose a man’s wife and daughter in a single voyage – because he was certain he would lose her mother during their journey. Catherine looked weaker by the hour, just has her daughter had become increasingly delirious.

For God sake, he looked aloft, lifting his gaze to the Almighty, not using his name in vein but calling upon him. For God sake, this could not be. He would not let it be.

What was he, the master of death now? Richard mocked, looking back at the young woman in the bunk. Her skin was scarlet and when her eyes had opened they had been bright, vividly shining with fever and unseeing. She could be within minutes or hours of death, or her fever could peak and she’d ride the crest and return to them.

Her teeth started chattering again and she groaned, not awake but in a half dream like, half trance like state.

Duncan had spread a poultice on her wound a few hours ago, trying to draw out the poison in her blood and placed the damp cloth over it, which Richard had been rinsing out and replacing at intervals. She kept pushing it off.

He wished she’d just lie still.

Her leg flung off the covers and hung over the edge of the bunk again, his gaze lifted from her naked shin to the lower thigh that dangled before his eyes, a slender long limb, pink with fever. He rose and lifted her leg, placing it back beneath the covers. Her skin was hot and yet like silk, and her scent high yet sweet and tantalising. He’d never smelt a woman’s scent as sweet as hers. It was a heady drug to a man’s senses. It teased – and tempted.

He sat down and his heart thumped hard in his chest. “You had damned well better survive, Emma Martin,” he whispered in a determined voice.

Her mother slept behind him in the lower bunk and her maid in the upper one. He could hear their breathing and the creaking of the ship, the latter sound a familiar comfort, the former a disturbing intrusion.

He had not wanted them on board.

“If you make me give your father the news that you’ve expired I shall not be happy,” he concluded, redeeming himself in his eyes as he pressed the damp cloth against her forehead again.

“Father,” she answered on a breathy groan, rolling away from him. She’d spoken of her father often in her torment and called for her mother. Other names he vaguely recalled from India had passed her lips too, her young friends. Mentally she’d been back in Calcutta. He wished she was there now. He wished she had never set a foot aboard his ship. He would never forgive himself if she died, that was a simple fact. He had become responsible for her. The weight of it was the tight grip about his heart.

He decided she ought to have more water. Duncan had bid him to get her to sip it often. He lifted the pole from the edge of her bunk and let the loose end drop to the floor, then rested one hip on the bunk as he’d done half a dozen times tonight. “Emma?” he said quietly, “you need to have another drink. Will you sit up?”

He watched her face in the light thrown by the oil lamp he’d hung up. He was leaving it burning constantly tonight so that if there was any change in her condition he’d be easily alerted. Not that Duncan could do much to help her if she worsened. She either survived now, or she did not.

“No,” she moaned, pushing him away.

“Yes,” he said in a firmer tone and set his arm beneath her shoulders to help lift her head.

“I want to go home, Mama, to India,” she sobbed as he cradled her head in the crook of his arm. She ceased resisting and rolled into him, grasping his shirt where it hung loose at his side. “May we go home?”

Compassion filled Richard He’d never known an emotion like it. It poured in to him, like it ran from the lip of a jug and he was the cup it filled. His arms surrounded her, and he held her tight. “You’ll get home, sweetheart. You will. We’ll get you home one day. But for now just drink the water and then we’ll get you to England safe and later we’ll get you home.”

He let her go and leant back to pick up the metal cup. “Here.” He held it to her lips.

Her warm fingers gripped the back of his hand, as they’d done time and time again tonight. Her touch had become a familiar thing. Her hot breath brushed the skin on the edge of his wrist as she opened her mouth to drink. Her temperature was intense, like a furnace burned inside her. She gulped the water, he let her have several mouthfuls then took it away and drank the last himself, before setting it aside. Drinking the water which she’d drunk, felt like drinking communion wine – it was probably a sacrilege to say so, but it touched him somewhere in his soul.

When he began moving off the bunk she grasped his shirt more firmly. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You’re all I have.” It was a statement of madness, the fever speaking, she didn’t even know who he was and yet the pain in her voice made him stay. He brushed her hair back from her brow. It was tangled and wild, matted with blood, sticky with salt from the waves on deck and dampened by sweat and the cloth he’d lain over her forehead.

“Hush,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

She pressed into his side, clinging like a barnacle to the hull of his ship, this girl who knew what it was to love and be loved so much so she would sacrifice herself, her desire for more, to please her parents. She had boarded this ship for her mother, not for herself. She would probably even take the last foolish step and marry her parents’ choice for her, to make them happy.

How different it was to the life he’d known, he’d severed any contact with his parents at one-and-twenty and walked away. He would never have done what they’d wished. Yet they had never liked him let alone shown any love to him.

She gripped the material of his shirt tighter, the material brushed his skin as her fingers curled into a fist. His stomach muscle became taut. She started to bloody shiver again.

He held her closer.

He would be inhuman not to feel for her. He was human. He was a man, made of blood and bone and flesh – sinful – lustful – damned – flesh.

He should move. His body heat was only heightening her fever.

He did not, saint like, he stayed where he was, fighting for his sanity – or sinner like.

He nursed the strange mix of lust and emotion in his stomach and chest as he let her cling to him and he stroked her hair in reassurance, murmuring soothing platitudes and promising all would be well. He could not leave her fighting this alone.

Even if she survived, though, all would not be well – her mother was dying and there was no denying that.

When Duncan touched Richard’s shoulder to wake him a few hours later, Richard was still sitting, on Emerald’s bunk with his back against the supporting pillar and Emma’s head pillowed on his stomach as his hand rested on her hair.

Thank God it was Duncan who’d seen him thus and not her mother.

“Richard.” Duncan acknowledged in a whisper, neither his voice nor his face showing any sign of judgment as he leant over and pressed his palm to Emma’s forehead. “She’s cooler,” he stated in a swift jubilant announcement as his hand lifted and drew back. “The fever’s broken.”

Richard’s hand slipped from her hair to her forehead. She was. It had. He couldn’t even begin to describe the rush of relief racing through his blood. He felt like weeping as he lifted her off him, then he climbed off the bunk. “She was distressed,” he said in explanation to Duncan, not offering anymore words. He wished to be out of the cabin, he needed to be alone. He needed to be somewhere where he felt able to express what the hell had been going on inside him tonight – with a shout, or a growl or a fist slammed against the table in his room, or… tears.

But before he could leave the room, Duncan gripped his forearm and stopped him. “Richard, those of us who know you well can see what is happening to you, especially those of us who have experienced the same. I shan’t judge you for falling for the girl.”

“Is that what I am doing?” Richard answered dryly, pulling his arm free. “Thank you for informing me.”

Duncan laughed softly. Richard did not.