Page 19 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)
I nodded. While we wait . Because there would certainly be more.
I took the cloth from Harvey and dipped it into the bowl.
Sanchez continued to mutter in Spanish, breathing strained.
A few years ago, the helmsman would have been England’s enemy, back when Spain had sided with France. Now he was a friend.
A shot rumbled through the hull, vibrating my boots.
I glanced toward the upper decks. Frank was up there.
And Shelby and Catterick. Mr. Doswell. I swallowed.
I hated the thought of him up above most of all.
Gentle Mr. Doswell, in the midst of such chaos.
Like Mr. Sanchez, he had once seemed an enemy. But now ...
I dipped the cloth into the water to rinse it and then squeezed it out. I hadn’t managed to get all the blood off Mr. Sanchez’s face, but it was better than before. His shirt had started to dry stiff and would need a good scrubbing. I’d offer to clean it for him when he could think more clearly.
Across the cockpit, Mrs. Peyton had lowered her hand, but she still looked pale.
I sighed. Here was another enemy of sorts.
When had I let my life fill with them? I chewed the inside of my cheek.
Or rather than allow enemies into my life, had I instead chosen to see them all as enemies?
Perhaps I did not have as many as it appeared.
Mrs. Peyton certainly didn’t look like much of an enemy right now.
I crossed the room to my employer. “Are you well, ma’am?”
She rubbed her brow, a look of disgust on her face. “I’m sorry. What a great help I am.”
“You cannot help feeling ill.”
She planted her elbows on her knees and dropped her head to her hands. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“To the cockpit?” I knelt beside her.
“On this voyage,” she said so softly it was nearly a whisper.
If she hadn’t come, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have met Frank or Mr. Doswell. I’d be the lowest of servants working my fingers to the bone for a few guineas a year. “Why do you feel that way?” I asked.
She fixed me with a long look, chewing the corner of her mouth as though she had something to say but wasn’t sure she wished to say it. Her whole body tensed as she contemplated, and I tensed with her. Dread began to spill into my chest the longer she paused.
“Byam, it would be best if you knew—”
Agitated voices came from the hatchway, punctuated with blasts from a distant broadside. We both turned toward the sound of labored footsteps.
“Here comes another,” I said, scrambling to my feet. There was no time to press her now.
Two men stepped into the light, dragging another between them. The wounded seaman looked younger than I was by a few years. Fair hair fell into the lad’s eyes. His clothes were torn and bloody down one side of his body.
“Fitz.” Mrs. Peyton flew off the barrel.
étienne motioned to the table. “Bring him here. Lay him down.”
“Harvey, move the bowl,” Mrs. Peyton instructed as though she hadn’t been about to vomit a few moments earlier.
I backed out of the way as the men brought Fitz around. The red hair and finely tailored coat of the nearest one made my heart skip a beat.
“There’s another coming,” Mr. Doswell said, breathing heavily as they lowered Fitz to the table. The young seaman groaned.
“Badly wounded?” étienne asked.
“About the same.” The chaplain didn’t look at me, just turned on his heel and made for the door.
The surgeon nodded as he pulled out a tool. “We’ll have to work fast. Harvey, the lantern.”
“Mr. Doswell?” I said softly. Something was wrong with him. He walked too stiffly. Like another person had donned his clothes and taken his place. When he didn’t turn, I grabbed for his hand.
He turned his head sharply, his features graver than I’d ever seen them. His hand felt slick against mine. He winced. Red stains appeared on my palm.
“You’re injured.”
Mr. Doswell drew his hand back, shaking his head in a leaden motion. “I need to return.” His glazed eyes trained on something past my shoulder.
“Let me wrap it for you,” I said, snatching his sleeve. The wound didn’t worry me as much as his actions.
Fitz cried out, and Mrs. Peyton murmured something.
“We’re making a run for it,” he said. “My duties are above.”
I didn’t let go. He hadn’t come aboard to fight.
“Miss Byam, fetch the laudanum,” étienne said behind me.
“You’re needed,” Mr. Doswell said, trying gently to pull his sleeve from my hands.
“You’re not well.” Why did it worry me so? The hollowness in his voice shook me to my core. “You shouldn’t be above.” étienne had said Mr. Doswell didn’t have the stomach for blood, and now the chaplain was in the middle of it.
“It’s not as terrible in the dark.” The phrase held back so many thoughts. I could sense them, almost hear them in the shadows that swayed across the room.
“Miss Byam,” étienne barked.
I released Mr. Doswell and let him slip away. I retrieved the laudanum, then helped Mrs. Peyton administer it to a trembling Fitz.
“We need to strap him down while I dig out these splinters,” étienne said, almost to himself. He widened the tear the wood had made in Fitz’s trousers. “Harvey, the rope.”
“I forgot to duck, Taylor,” the injured boy said, giving a wry grin.
Taylor? What did he mean by calling Mrs. Peyton that?
“How clever of you.” The seasick captain’s wife had vanished. Perhaps I’d too quickly given her my pity. She’d come alive to help this ordinary sailor.
More men entered, and I went to help the next patient as the others tended to Fitz.
I kept watching the door, anticipating Mr. Doswell’s walking through again.
Why did I so badly want him here instead of up there?
If he did return, it could be seriously injured.
I should prefer him to remain above. I rushed about, woodenly heeding étienne’s orders.
Wounded men needed caring for, yet my mind had wandered.
More than anything, I wanted to attend to Mr. Doswell’s unseen hurts.
Deep down, this bloodshed pained him more than most, and for some reason, I needed to know why.
Another burst stopped me short as I retrieved a bandage. The Marianne shuddered, sending a chill down my spine. Men around me glanced above. I tried to quiet my spinning head. Would I get the chance to ask him, or would that conversation never be?