The door creaked open a little too loudly, but his task should not take long. The great Captain Blake Keene sprawled over his bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He neither stirred nor opened an eye when Maston approached. Stooping by his bed, he reached for his hand but nearly dropped it due to the heat radiating from the captain’s skin. No Ring sat upon his finger.
Odd. Maston groaned.Bon sang! What to do now? It must be here somewhere. Blake would not keep it far. After groping through Blake’s pockets—to which his captain remained oblivious—Maston combed through the room, opening drawers, flipping through books, lifting up vases and trinkets. That’s when he found the lockbox. Of course.
Voices in the hall alerted him. Grabbing the box, he did the only thing he could do. He opened the door to the chamber beside Blake’s and dashed inside, closing it after him.
b
Emeline was the most foolhardy, naïve, bird-witted woman ever to live. Over and over, she chastised herself as she followed Pedro through the jungle back to the great house. More than once, she nearly halted and dashed back to the boat. Yet something pressed her onward—empathy, concern? More likely a stupidity for which there was no cure.
Now, as she slipped inside Blake’s chamber, drawing a glance from Sam Goode, a shudder overcame her, along with a stench that spoke of more than mere illness.
“There’s naught you can do, Miss.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “Might as well go back to your bed.”
Drawing close, Emeline studied Blake. Pedro had said he was worse. The lad had not exaggerated. With pale, flaccid skin, dark circles beneath his eyes, blue lips, and shallow breathing, Blake looked as close to death as a condemned man at the noose. Despite her attempts to the contrary, her heart shrank within her.
A quick glance told her the Ring had not been returned to his finger. Another glance told her the lockbox containing it was gone. Odd, that. Why was Blake now at death’s door?
“I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind,” she said quietly.
The surgeon studied her, then closed the book he’d been reading. “Your choice.” He glanced at Blake. “But I don’t know if you’re up to it. Death can be an ugly thing.”
Death?
Alarm fired every nerve. She steeled herself. “I have seen much death in my life, Sir.” ’Twas true enough. Though she had not seen anyone die whom she…she…she could not even bring herself to think the word.
“Very well. Come get me if there is any change. I’m three doors down on the left.” With that, the surgeon closed the door behind him.
Oh, Lord, what do I do?Have I returned only to watch him die?
Emeline drew up a chair and sat. The Ring was gone, but whatever illness it had caused remained. Or was it the Ring that had done this? She took one of Blake’s hands in hers and winced at the heat emanating from his skin.
Pray.
Aye. Of course.This was no ordinary illness. Instantly she knew that, could sense it deep inside. This was a spell, a hex, a wicked device cast upon Blake. And she also knew where it had come from. Josephine Arnaud. She had pushed aside the sense God had given her about the woman, not wanting to believe such an evil thing about anyone. Now there was no doubt.
Rising from her chair, she knelt beside the bed and laid both hands on Blake’s feverish body. He didn’t flinch…was barely breathing. She had to move fast. She’d seen her parents pray against spells on many occasions. She’d just never executed such power herself.
Drawing a deep breath, she closed her eyes and spoke in her most commanding voice, which trembled at the moment. “In the name of Jesus, I command any spell, hex, or wicked curse cast upon Captain Blake Keene to be broken and leave his body at once.”
Her words seemed to drift upon the air and float out the open window, as powerless as the woman who spoke them. Or were they? She must have faith. She knew the power of her Lord’s name, had seen it in action many a time. Now she would wait….and believe.
An hour passed and nothing changed.
Another hour and—was it her imagination, or did Blake’s breathing grow steadier?
His moan snapped her eyes open just moments after she’d given in to exhaustion and allowed them to close.
She knelt by his side and laid the back of her hand over his forehead. Still warm but not as hot as before.
More elation than she should feel soared through her.
“Emeline,” he mouthed.
“Aye, ’tis me.” She reached for a glass of water on the table, dipped a cloth into it, and dribbled it over his parted lips.
He licked it up, then attempted to speak. “Wha…? Wha...?”
“Shh, now, rest. You’ve been ill, but you are getting better.”
