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Cassie awoke with a start at the sound of a low moan. She shook the sleep from her mind, pulled her dressing gown about her, and sped to the earl’s bed. Dull shafts of early morning light shone through the narrow windows, bathing the cabin in soft gray.
She laid her hand on his forehead, and gave a sigh of relief. There was as yet no fever. She gasped in surprise when his fingers closed over her wrist.
“Cassandra.” His voice was low and slurred from the effect of laudanum.
“I am here, my lord.”
For a long moment, his dark eyes searched her face. A ghost of a smile flitted across his mouth. “You must wash the salt from your hair.”
“Is it so important that your whore be to your liking at all times?”
“Whore is your term, cara. I thought we had established you are a madwoman, and yet I will still take you to wife. It is my English honor, I suppose.”
He closed his eyes, and his forehead furrowed in pain.
“You are in no condition to bandy words, my lord. Do you wish more laudanum?”
“How strange you are, Cassandra,” he said, his eyes still closed over his pain. “Young English ladies are not bred to have such a fondness for pistols. Nor, I suppose, are they likely to be such strong swimmers. Although your skill with a pistol hasn’t done me much good, I am relieved that you are a good swimmer. A good swimmer and a good actress. After your performance with Khar El-Din, I am almost tempted to forgive your other quite believable lie.”
“Your wits are obviously addled, my lord,” she snapped. “I have no notion what you are talking about.”
“Do you not, my love? ’Twas our first night together. If I consider Khar El-Din a gullible fool for believing you mad, then I must say that I was no better. You really shook me, you know, when you told me you were pregnant with Edward Lyndhurst’s child.”
He heard her draw in a sharp breath. “I did not want to force you, Cassandra, but I knew of no other way.”
“As you have said, my lord, it has not been a question of anything at all after that first night. Even if I still do not possess the skill of a whore, I seem to have the soul of one.”
He chuckled, and if he had not been lying helpless, she would have struck him. “I marvel at your recriminations. I should not leave you alone, cara, your mind is too fanciful, and the conclusions you draw about your own character really quite unfounded. The truth of the matter is that I am a very desirable man and an excellent lover, most skilled at bringing a woman to pleasure. Curse me, Cassandra, for your awakened woman’s passions, not yourself.”
“Just as you have given Zabetta pleasure?” She drew back, aghast at the venom in her voice, but his fingers tightened about her wrist.
“Just so,” he said softly. “But with such a fiercely loyal and jealous wife, you need never fear that I will again fall into old habits.”
“I am not jealous and I shall never wed you. If you fancy otherwise, my lord, I fear you will know disappointment until the end of your miserable life.”
The door suddenly opened, and Scargill entered. The earl released her wrist, and she backed away from the bed.
Scargill took in her flushed and angry face and said sharply, “I hope ye have had the good sense not to arouse his lordship, madonna.”
“She has tried, Scargill, but alas, I fear I am not up to it. I hope you have brought me some breakfast. If left to her own devices, I fear that my nurse would starve me.”
“I think ye’ll do, my lord.” Scargill nodded his approval as he studied his master’s face. He saw pain darken the earl’s eyes but knew enough not to say so. “Afore ye eat, my lord, I must see to the wound. Madonna, ye’ll help me, if ye please.”
As Scargill pulled the earl forward, Cassie unwrapped the thick bandages. She felt herself go white at the sight of his shoulder. The wound was sewn with black thread. It looked obscene. She felt him tense as Scargill gently probed the area.
“Ye’ll be at the helm in a day or two, my lord,” Scargill announced as he straightened. “But I’ll not allow ye any wine, for it’s said to bring on a fever. I’ll bind ye tighter this time, my lord, so yer flesh will grow together more quickly.”
“Just be done with it,” the earl said in a low voice.
Cassie felt her forehead damp with perspiration by the time the earl fell into a drugged sleep. He had made no sound, and she wondered if she could have been as stoic.
She spent the rest of the morning in the copper bathtub, letting the hot water relax her. She washed the salty grit from her hair. She pulled up a chair near the bed and quietly brushed her damp hair. Every few minutes, she found that she looked at him, her eyes alert to any signs of fever. But he lay quietly, his breathing even, his chest rising and falling gently in sleep.
“I do not know why I should care,” she said. But she did care, and the admission surprised her. “Please do not die, Anthony.”
She sighed deeply, shaking her head. Tendrils of hair touched her cheeks. She thought again of her attempt to escape him and felt a shaft of fear slice through her. Even if she had succeeded, she would never have reached the English settlement. She would have become Khar El-Din’s captive, to do with as he pleased.
The earl moaned softly, and Cassie laid her palm gently on his forehead. He was cool to the touch. She studied him, the sculptured contours of his face, the proud straight nose, the thick black-arched eyebrows, and the hard line of his jaw. He suddenly lurched toward his side, then fell again onto his back.
