“Girl, ye’ve not been well. I’ve broth, and ye must drink it, lest we lose you too.”
“Oh, Paddy,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should have died, should die.…” Her eyes had closed again, as if she were willing them to remain that way.
He took a deep breath. “Would ye have it, lass, that their lives were given in vain?”
“Nay, nay, but—”
“The lads we lost were fighters. ’Twas their choice to do battle. ’Twas their right as men to rage against such foul injustice. They died with their honor.”
She allowed her eyes to close again. “Paddy?” she asked, then hesitated.
“Aye, lass?”
“Sloan—was not injured, was he?” she whispered.
“Cap’n’s fine, don’t ye worry ’bout that one, now. He’s a cat with nine lives—and ’e always lands upon his feet.” Paddy paused but a moment. “He has much on his mind, now, girl. We hover off the coast, as the ship must have certain repairs made afore we can set sail for the Netherlands. There is a need for haste, as William of Orange has long been expecting him. Yet he must take grave care with his choice of port now, lest we find ourselves engaged in battle again.”
“I don’t understand,” Brianna murmured. “Matthews is dead; I saw him fall. Where is the danger now? Dear God, am I forever to bring about death and misery?”
Paddy sighed. “Nay, girl—you are no cause of this, except as victim. In killing Matthews, Sloan became an outlaw himself—but only as the law stands now. Wise men, when given the full facts, will know that Matthews was no true seeker of justice, or firebrand against true witchery. I believe myself that the man was grievously ill, and death his only release. He did not uphold the law, but only time will tell this true. There are many across the land—the firm and pious Britains of many persuasions—who believed Matthews to be an animal, and they would cheer his death by Sloan. But My Lord Treveryan is known to be ardently in favor of James’s abdication. The Papists would not welcome him. Therefore, we must assure ourselves that we make port in a community of those who are staunchly Protestant, and looking toward Holland too.”
The girl sighed softly, and Paddy was glad, for it seemed that her conscience had been somewhat eased. But then her eyes met his again and they were stricken with misery.
“What of Robin, Paddy?”
The old seaman had been sitting at the foot of her bed. He rose and shuffled about uncomfortably.
“Robin…well…uh…”
“Paddy! Please, don’t lie to me or hedge about! Tell me, is his wound healing, or not?”
“He’s fighting a fever,” Paddy said simply. “We know not if he can best it, as it ravages him fiercely. But you must not
be downhearted, for his chance at life at all comes from your quick thinking to remove the arrow.”
“Dearest God!” Brianna moaned, and she thought to rise. But she realized then that the covers upon the bed were all that clothed her, and with a puzzled frown, she thought, too, that her flesh was not grimed by salt or grit, that her scent was rather one of soap and something else—something sharp and medicinal. She glanced at Paddy, her puzzlement obvious. He cleared his throat.
“Girl, you carried frightening wounds yourself. Holes upon your back and breast, matted with blood. I seek not to embarrass you, but we had no choice but to tend to those wounds.”
She smiled, so wearily that Paddy thought his heart would break. “I’m grateful, Paddy. And you mustn’t worry that I feel shamed or humiliated. I don’t believe anything could cause me shame again.…” Her voice trailed for a moment. “Not after Matthews,” she continued softly. She met his gaze. “That friends should have cared for me warms my heart. Yet, how long have I lain so, out of touch with the hours?”
“A day, no more.”
She nodded gravely, then said, “Paddy, I would see Robin.”
He shook his head. “You must eat the soup. When morning comes, if you are strong enough, I will take you to Robin.” He rose, trying very hard to smile cheerfully. “If you wish to be strong, then you must eat the soup.”
His ploy worked. She nodded slowly, then reached for the broth. He left her then, certain that she would comply.
Brianna did comply. She ate the broth, but she could not rouse herself from lethargy. She lay there, finding that not even her thoughts could torture her to feeling. She was numb, and nothing more.
When morning came again, though, a natural healing mechanism forced her to rouse herself. She tried to crawl from the bed and discovered that the cabin careened crazily when she did so. She fell back to the bed, astounded by her weakness. But then she tried again, and very carefully came to her feet, found clothing in the wardrobe, and dressed herself.
She sat on the bed then, clasping her hands together, accustoming herself to an upright position. A dull pain beat against her heart as she wondered why she hadn’t seen Sloan. It seemed highly likely that he had at last decided she was not worth one tenth of all the trouble she had caused. Perhaps it was best. He would cast her from him now, surely. For now, she prayed with ever mounting fervor to remove herself from his life. Not for honor—after her time at Matthews’s feet she was not sure she would ever know the meaning of the word again—but because of him. Her love for him had grown and multiplied until it seemed entirely a part of her; but surely he despised her, and if he did not, he would grow to. It was, once again, very strange. Life was the greatest gift, but in its receiving, she had discovered again that it was a gift which must be lived by the heart, soul, and mind. She was alive, and being who she was, she could not be the man’s mistress—or his whore.
Paddy came to the cabin as she sat there, and seemed distressed to see her up and gowned. “Ye do not take care—”
“You said that I might see Robin.”
