“Nay, girl, for you do more than I can at this time.”
Robin’s eyes suddenly opened; they were glassy with fever and pain.
“It hurts!” he cried. “Dear God, it hurts like fire! It twists in me like a knife. Please, God, let me die.…”
A furious spasm suddenly riddled his body, and then he stiffened, shuddered violently once more, and lay still. His youthful heaving chest rose no more.
The surgeon rose. “I’m afraid, lass, that there is nothing more any of us can do.”
Brianna could not believe that Robin—brave, cocky young Robin—had died. She sobbed out his name with the pain of it and leaned forward to clasp his body, willing it all to be a mistake.
But it was not. Even as she sobbed, George and Paddy caught hold of her and hauled her away; the surgeon draped he covers over Robin’s ravaged face. Still Brianna did not see Sloan, for her face was buried in Paddy’s chest, the old man comforting her as best he could. Sloan watched the scene silently, his sorrow for Robin deep, his heart a tempest for the woman he loved. Paddy was looking to him for help, Sloan knew, but he felt entirely helpless. She had almost died to escape him. Better to leave her with Paddy, who had earned her caring and respect.
Paddy, nodding to Sloan, led the sobbing girl from the room.
Sloan paused only a minute at Robin’s side. “You were the best of seamen, the best of men, my young friend.”
“He rests in the hands of God,” the surgeon said quietly.
“Aye, surely he must,” agreed Sloan, and turning, he left the cabin. They were at anchor that day, and half the crew were on guard. There was little for him to do, since he and Lord Darton knew it would be best to allow a few days to pass before leaving for another port.
He could not return to his own cabin. Perhaps he had to find his own peace before he could even attempt to console her. That night he found his peace in a bottle of rum.
When Robin’s body was cast into the sea, it was Paddy, Geoff, and young George who stood beside her. And even as Sloan ached for Robin, he was seared with an envy that he despised. He could not help loving her, but still he could not go to her. Paddy later informed him that George and Lord Darton had tended to her like two mother hens, escorting her to the galley for a meal, returning her to his cabin. Paddy looked at Sloan very reproachfully as he talked, but then Paddy was aware that he had been spending his nights in the chartroom since Port Quinby. But Sloan had nothing to say to his first mate except that he chose to be left alone. Paddy did not leave the chartroom quickly enough, and so Sloan departed himself with an angry exclamation.
He hurried along the hallway. His boots clipped crisply across the flooring as he sought the companion ladder to climb topside. He needed time to feel the sea and the wind, to watch the great sails of the ship billow proudly against the velvet night sky. The wind had always been his true mistress, the unpredictable sea his tempestuous love. Perhaps they would reclaim him, or at least fill him with new strength. Work their form of magic upon his soul…and return to him the staunch guise of indomitability that was the trademark of Sloan Treveryan, His Grace, the Fourteenth Duke of Loghaire.
The “devil” master of the swift and cunningSea Hawk…and a man so enamored of a blue-eyed lass that he trembled beneath a clear sky, searching for answers within the stars.
Matthews was now dead. Brianna was going to assume that made her safe, that she had every valid reason to demand that he set her free to reach her family. But she wouldn’t be safe until William was king, and her records could be swept clean of the witchcraft accusations. She was an outlaw, just as he had become. She was going to have to stay aboard theSea Hawk, and he was going to have to tell her so.
He emitted a loud oath, suddenly furious with himself. Then he gripped his ship’s rail and exhaled a long breath. He was Lord Treveryan, the master of his ship. He had twice wrested her from the hands of a true devil. He could command her, for he was a man who had rightfully and unquestionably made her his.
But he did not seek to command. He sought to be loved. And to give her his love. But he could not give her the one thing she so heartily desired. He could not give her his name.
Chapter 11
“Ah, Brianna, it was not my choice to be assigned to the likes of Matthews,” Lord Stuart Darton said as he sat opposite Brianna in the galley. “I am a soldier, a fighting man. I’ve little knowledge of the law.” He shrugged, then stared up at her. “Odd, though, I did not doubt Matthews’s ability. Not until he accused Sloan. I could not believe Lord Treveryan of all men to dabble in wizardry!” He shook his head. “It did not seem plausible. And yet I am convinced that Matthews believed you both truly to be the devil’s representatives on earth.”
Brianna stared at Lord Darton curiously. He was a tall, muscular man with snow-white hair, and a face wrinkled with the years. And he had been very kind to her.
Robin’s death was a cruel blow to her heart. Sloan wanted no part of her, and that increased her heartache. She had not even been able to thank him for risking his crew and his life to save her. For long hours she had lain in the cabin thinking that she would have welcomed death in Robin’s stead. Lord Darton and George had brought her back to an acceptance of living. But she stared at him now, curious to know his true feelings.
“Lord Darton,” she said at last, “truly, I am not a witch.”
He smiled slightly and drank a long sip of his ale. “I believe you,” he told her, leaning slightly across the table so that his fading blue eyes seemed to touch hers. “But do not judge the law too harshly, girl, for witches do exist.”
“Do they?” Brianna asked skeptically.
“I’ve seen them,” Darton said simply. “Six months ago in Norwich we did bring to trial one Anne Gilligan. She argued with a neighbor, then told him he would die that night. The poor man did. When the warrant was sworn out, Anne Gilligan’s house was searched. She had fashioned a doll of straw and stuck numerous pins into it. She confessed to the murder and she was quite proud of her craft.”
Brianna lifted her hands helplessly. “But, Lord Darton, you tell me of one woman. I know that I am not a witch, and therefore I must believe that many are falsely accused.”
There was a sound of dry laughter beside them and Brianna smiled slightly as George slid onto the bench at her side. “Ah, Lord Darton! You should hear Captain Treveryan on this subject! He is very opinionated! Sloan says that it is not witchcraft that kills or injures, but the very fear of it.”
Darton shrugged. “Perhaps. I know little of the matter.”
“Ro—” George broke off quickly, looking at Brianna. He exhaled a long breath, then decided to speak. “Robin also had strong views on the subject. His grandfather was hanged as a warlock.”
