Page 61 of Only Scandal Will Do

Grimacing, Duncan immediately set the offending bucket outside the door, which seemed to remove the worst of the smell. Next he looked around for the bucket of fresh water and found it still a third full. He seized a cloth, wrung out and draped over the bucket, dipped it into the cool water, gave it a hard twist and approached the bed.

Katarina lay on her back on the stained sheets, reminding him more of a tiny wax doll than his spitfire wife. Her pale skin made her eyes, sunken and ringed in black, seem enormous in her head. The fiery hair, slicked back from her forehead and woven into a loose braid, lay draped over one shoulder. Sweat stood out on her forehead and as he watched, her face contorted and she clutched her stomach. A low moan escaped her dry lips.

Shocked at the sight of her so wretched, he sat heavily on the bed.

Katarina opened her eyes a mere slit, then wider in recognition. “Nooo.” The word became a moan and then she was rolling toward the side of the bed. Duncan leapt to his feet, steadied her head then rubbed her back soothingly between the shoulder blades until the spasm passed. He eased her onto the bed and wiped her face and mouth with the cool cloth.

Her hollow gaze never left his face, but once he’d finished his careful sponging, she took a deep breath, marshaled her strength and managed to say, “Please leave.” Her tone was plaintive, but the exhaustion in her face added a piteous plea all its own.

He took her hand, and was stunned at the cold clammy feel of it. Trying to warm it, he chafed it lightly then placed a gentle kiss on its back. “I am afraid you are now stuck with me, my lady,” he said softly, taking up the damp cloth once more and running it over her arms. “Margery is exhausted and getting ill herself. I have sent Larraby off to make her comfortable in her cabin. As I cannot leave you to your own devices, my dear, I fear you must put up with me for the night just this once.”

She tried to curl her mouth in a smile, but never achieved more than a flicker of movement in her cheeks. Then her eyes closed against the crippling nausea and she moaned deep in her throat. Wishing with all his heart he could bear the pain himself, he squeezed her hand.

The helplessness of watching her suffer hurt worse than experiencing the torment himself.

He’d started bathing her face again, when the door opened and a sailor he assumed to be Jenkins entered, carrying a set of linens in one hand and a bucket and mop in the other. Duncan took the sheets and hoisted himself onto the foot of Katarina’s bed as the seaman set to scrubbing the floorboards with a practiced hand. Within minutes, the room smelled of good clean soap.

Jenkins promised to return with a fresh bucket of water, and exited.

From the bed, Katarina stared at him with big dark eyes.

“I am going to change your bed, sweetheart, and get you into a new gown,” he told her. “Perhaps that will help you feel a bit better.” Before she could muster a protest, he scooped her into his arms and deposited her in the room’s one big chair. Perhaps sitting would make a difference to her, but he stripped the bed and tucked in the fresh sheets quickly nonetheless.

That task accomplished, he turned again to his wife, noted her bilious look and reached for the basin. The episode passed, and she lay worn out over the side of the chair, while he rummaged through her open trunk, searching for a clean night rail. Finding one was not difficult; getting her to allow him to put it on her might be a different story, even in her weakened state.

“My lady?” He straightened her in the chair. Exhaustion had claimed her. Even better. He swiftly stripped the soiled gown from her body, and was about to put the fresh one on, when a pungent aroma convinced him she could do with a wash as well. Praying the cold water didn’t rouse her, he hurriedly ran the cloth over her body, noting the beautiful swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the bright thatch at the top of her thighs. Images he set firmly aside for another time. His concern was for her comfort at the moment, nothing else. Lifting her limp arms, he slid the gown over her head then tossed the soiled one into a corner.

He pulled back the sheet, and glanced from his wife to the bed. Damn it. They were married after all.

Moments later he lay propped up in the bed with Katarina nestled against him, her legs anchored between his. He hoped this posture would provide more stability if indeed the swaying of the ship caused her misery. Gently he placed his arms around her, enclosing her in the cocoon of his warmth, and waited.

Time ceased to have meaning. He had no idea if it were ten o’clock, or midnight, or near dawn. The cabin boasted a window, but inky blackness outside divulged nothing. The lantern hanging from the ceiling cast an eerie glow all around the chamber that gave no hint of night or morn. More than an hour must have passed since he’d sent Larraby off with Margery, but perhaps the captain had needed the boy or Margery taken longer to settle than expected.

He laid his head against the headboard of the bunk. What a strange journey, to have led him to this moment with the woman in his arms. Despite the circumstances, he was grateful she was here, asleep with her head on his chest.

Her earlier rejection of his care hurt abominably, but she’d probably thought he would gloat over her weakened state. Perhaps she’d needed the one thing he had been reluctant to give-reassuring words. Though he’d made many gestures that spoke of his deep regard for her, to this woman, words might speak louder than actions. As soon as this crisis was over, she would have them. Lovingly, he dropped a brief kiss on her dark head and closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, Katarina was struggling in his arms. He came fully awake as she pushed against him, trying desperately to get to the edge of the bed. Too late to disentangle them, he instead rolled them both onto their right sides, then supported her head until it was over, and eased them back onto the bunk. She lay panting with the exertion and he adjusted her position so she lay on her side down the length of his body and he could see her face in the uncertain light of the lantern. With tenderness, he wiped her cheek as she tried to slow her breathing. “Is that better, sweetheart?”

He felt more than heard her response--tiny hitching sobs that were an attempt to cry, though no tears would come, from lack of moisture in her body.

“Oh, Duncan.” Her voice was little more than a croak from a mouth too dry to speak.

“Make it stop. Please, please, just make it stop.”

Duncan. She’d called him Duncan. The shock of it made him reel. Drawing a ragged breath, he carefully extricated himself from the bed and laid her down, moving as if he handled the most delicate and fragile crystal imaginable. “I will be right back, my love.” He smoothed her hair back and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I will make it stop. I promise.”

Once he’d closed the door, he tore down the gangway and onto the bridge like a mad beast. The captain had retired for the night, but the first mate acted as helmsman. Duncan seized the man by the shoulders. “Stop the ship, sir. You must stop the ship this minute.”

The mate stared at him as one would a madman suddenly appeared from nowhere. “Stop the ship, my lord? Why? What has happened? Has someone fallen overboard?”

“My wife is gravely ill. You must stop the ship now.”

“But we’re in the middle of the English Channel, my lord.”

He stared into the helmsman’s eyes, hoping the menace the mate saw there would prompt him to action.

“Go get Captain Stratton,” the mate called to the man on watch, and the fellow all but fell down the steps leading from the bridge.