“Neptune’s bullocks!” This time the captain didn’t bother to apologize for his language. He turned and barked an order to a sailor standing nearby. “Get the quartermaster. Tell him to come to my cabin.” As the man hurried away, Captain Vance turned back to Annie. “We do not have a surgeon on this ship, but our quartermaster has some medical skill. We will see what he says.”
Annie followed the captain below. The quartermaster soon clattered down the ladder, carrying a leather bag, and pushed past her to enter the captain’s quarters. Since the cabin was too small to accommodate more people, Annie took a seat on one of the empty berths. The smells from the hold, which included chickens and sheep as well as their horses, nearly choked her and, without benefit of the horizon, the continued roll of the ship was making her queasy again, but she ignored both. The only person who mattered was Niall. She looked at the closed door. What was taking so long?
Finally…finally…after what seemed like an eon of time, the captain and the quartermaster emerged. Both looked grim and Annie felt an icy fear clench her stomach.
“How is he?”
The quartermaster shook his head. “Mr. MacDonald’s entire leg is infected. He will be lucky to still be alive by morning.”
Chapter Eighteen
Annie stood at the small porthole of the captain’s cabin and stared out at the dark water. A sliver of new moon barely cast light on the sea, causing the swells to look like giant, black monsters undulating toward her to crash with the pounding force of cannon against the hull. The first hour they’d been in open water, she had been sure the boat was going to splinter apart, even though the quartermaster had assured her the ship had crossed the Atlantic in much worse conditions. There wasn’t even a storm forecast this night.
There might not be a storm brewing on the water, but there was one raging in her heart. Annie leaned her forehead against the cool brass fitting and closed her eyes. Niall was lying at death’s door because of her. He had saved her from falling into the hands of an angry mob and gotten stabbed in the process. He hadn’t had adequate medical care because he refused to stop too close to Glasgow. He’d insisted they keep moving, all the while aggravating the injury and causing it to become worse. He hadn’t let on how much pain he was in.
Or had she just been too stupid to see?
Annie opened her eyes again to look into the never-ending black night. The captain had said they should reach the end of the loch by midmorning and then it was just a few miles to Ian MacLeod’s. Captain Vance had assured her that he’d transported the MacLeods before and that Ian kept a carriage at the coaching inn by the small dock since it was often quicker to travel to Loch Linnhe and catch a boat than to go through Loch Shiel.
She just hoped the carriage wouldn’t become a funeral coach.
Niall emitted a low moan and Annie spun around. His eyes remained closed, which meant he was probably still in the semi-coma he’d been in since the sailors carried him down. Reaching for the washcloth lying in a basin of water, she wrung it outand sat on the edge of the narrow cot. Even sitting on the side opposite his infected leg, she could feel the fever heat radiate from him. Annie dabbed his forehead and cheeks with the cool cloth, then dipped it in the basin again and wiped his throat and chest where his tunic lay open. The shirt was drenched with sweat and clung to his skin, revealing the powerfully-muscled chest and arms. She hoped that strength would get him through the night.
He wouldn’t be in this condition if it hadn’t been for her.
Annie put the washcloth back in the basin and picked up Niall’s hand. It felt as hot as though he’d been holding it over an open fire. She intertwined her fingers with his. “Ye are a willful man, Niall MacDonald. Now use that will to stay alive.” She felt a teardrop run down her cheek. “Will ye stay alive? Please?” Another tear rolled down. “Please? Please stay alive.”
Niall didn’t open his eyes and he didn’t answer. Annie was about to reach for the cloth again when she felt a slight squeeze on her fingers. It was so feeble, she wondered if she’d imagined it. Then it came again, light as a cat’s paw.
Annie squeezed back. “Niall? Can ye hear me?” When there was no response, she sighed. She had hoped he’d heard her, but the movement might have been involuntary. People tossed and turned in their sleep, after all. But then…maybe the fragile pressure to her fingershadn’tbeen involuntary. Maybe Niallhadheard her. Maybe if she kept talking, she could hold that link. Let her strength flow through that connection. Maybe, just maybe, she could keep him alive.
She settled on the bed, holding Niall’s hand in both of hers. “Ye said I was a stubborn lass, Niall MacDonald. Verra well. Now I will show ye just how stubborn I can be. Ye cannae die. Do ye hear me? Ye cannae die.”
Niall’s fingers moved ever so slightly and Annie began talking. She talked throughout the night, telling him of all thethings he had to live for, asking questions about his family even though she knew he would not answer, and eventually, near dawn, even telling Niall of her childhood, stopping only when she reached the part about Broderick.
Having exhausted conversation, but encouraged by the occasional twitch of Niall’s hand in hers, she began to sing. Off-key and flat, no doubt, but she didn’t care. Her voice grew hoarse over the next hours, the sound more like a croaking frog, but still she continued, but that didn’t matter if her voice could keep Niall in the world of the living.Please, Lord. He cannae die!
****
Annie startled when she heard the cabin door open. She blinked her eyes open to find herself looking up at the quartermaster looming in the entrance. She tilted her head, rubbing it against something hard, and realized she had fallen asleep slumped over Niall. Annie sat up quickly. She wasn’t supposed to fall asleep! Her gaze flew to Niall.Dear Lord… She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw Niall’s chest rise and fall.
“He still breathes,” the quartermaster said as he stepped inside. “Perhaps the infection hasn’t spread throughout his body, then.”
“Is it morning?” Annie croaked, her voice scratchy and barely audible.
“Aye.” The quartermaster moved to Niall’s other side and lifted the blanket to unwrap the bandage on his leg. “Hmmm.”
The man’s face was as impassive as a faro player’s. The grogginess left Annie’s mind as her senses kicked in. She tried to peer over the sheet, but it was held too high. “What does that mean?”
“It means he is not worse.”
Annie placed her hand on Niall’s forehead. “But his fever still burns.”
“I didn’t say he was better.”
“Doona talk in riddles,” Annie said. “Speak plainly.”
The quartermaster arched a brow. “I thought I was. It is a good sign that your husband has held his own overnight.”
