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sting his forehead against Chloe’s, Bastien let out a long, shuddering breath. And then he pulled away.
“Let’s just go,” he said. “We can buy things on the way to the airport.”
She nodded. And ten minutes later they were speeding down the road, into the darkening night.
14
After two hours of Mahmoud puking, first into the toilet, then dry heaves into a trash bin, a towel and the rapidly emptied fruit bowl in the cabin, Isobel decided she wasn’t going to wait any longer. The storm had picked up, the huge ferry was responding to the waves with enthusiasm, and night had fallen. No sign of Killian—with luck he’d been washed overboard, leaving her stuck with Mahmoud. Even a psychopathic child soldier was preferable to her nemesis, but not one racked with nausea.
He was too weak to fight her when she scooped him up. He was nothing more than skin and bones, and she cursed Killian under her breath. If he was going to keep the damn kid with him out of some twisted form of penance, he might at least see he was properly fed.
Mahmoud tried to punch her as she juggled him in her arms. He was probably seventy-five pounds—light for a human being, damned heavy if you weren’t used to it. Isobel pumped iron, practiced yoga and ran. He was still a strain.
The nurse’s office was located on a lower deck. The few people who were out and about weren’t looking particularly happy with the rough seas, but they didn’t pay any attention as Isobel carried her small charge onto the elevator.
When the door slid open Killian was there, and she stepped out, dumping Mahmoud in his arms and stretching her shoulders. “He needs a doctor.”
Killian looked down at the bundle. “I take it he doesn’t like boats?”
“You could say that.” Mahmoud began retching again, dry sounds, and the few people who’d been waiting for the elevator got on quickly, moving out of their way.
The medical office was surprisingly empty, given the decided roll of the vessel. A woman in a white uniform was on duty, sitting behind a desk as Killian shouldered his way in. “Seasickness, I presume,” she said in English, rising.
“He’s been throwing up for the last three hours,” Isobel stated.
“You should have brought him down sooner. He might be dehydrated.” She looked them over. “Is this your son?”
“God, no,” Killian said. With a British accent that made Isobel jerk. “We’re Mary and Jack Curwen, aid workers from England, and we’re bringing this poor child to his new family there.”
“Set him down on the table.”
Mahmoud was too sick to protest. He lay on the white-sheeted cot in misery as the woman looked him over. He made a feeble attempt at batting her hand away when she felt his forehead, but a sharp word from Killian in Arabic made him deceptively docile.
“I’ll need to keep him overnight,” she said. “He is dehydrated. He’ll need an IV to replenish his fluids, and careful monitoring. Just fill out the paperwork and you can come get him in the morning.”
Isobel glanced at Killian, expecting a protest on his part, but he didn’t argue. “Fine,” he said. “You’ll call us if there’s any problem?”
“Of course.” The nurse gazed up at them, strong disapproval in her eyes. “You might at least have washed and fed the poor boy before bringing him onto the boat.”
Isobel’s sting of guilt was entirely unexpected. She was glad when Killian replied, sounding calm and reasonable. “We did feed him. Quite a bit, as a matter of fact. Which is why he’s been so ill. As for bathing him, that’s easier said than done. Feel free to attempt it—you might have more luck while he’s feeling so ill. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
Killian went over to the desk, rapidly filling in the forms with lies, then glanced at her. “Would you rather stay with the poor lad, darling?” he inquired.
In fact, she was tempted. She didn’t want to go back to that quiet little room with the double bed, where she’d be alone with him.
“Sorry, no visitors. I’ll alert you if I have any problems. We arrive at noon tomorrow—come by around ten and he should be clean and ready to go.”
“God bless you,” Killian murmured, looking saintly. “Come along, my love. Let the nurse take care of this poor boy.”
He whisked Isobel out of the cabin before she could protest, his hand under her arm, strong, almost imprisoning. At least she had several layers of clothing on and didn’t have to feel his skin against hers.
“You want something to eat?” he asked. “At least one of the restaurants is open.”
“Not particularly. Spending three hours with a vomiting child isn’t conducive to building up an appetite.”
“Then just a drink, while we get someone to clean up the room,” he said, steering her into the elevator.
There were a thousand protests she could have come up with. The ferry was far from full; it was off-season, or he wouldn’t have been able to book a room so easily. There’d be empty cabins available, as well as reclining seats for passengers who didn’t want to spend money on a room. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was go back into that tiny cabin with him.
