Red flames leapt all around Hope. Crackling, sizzling, blazing. She bolted to her feet. Fiery talons snapped at her, nipped at her gown, fingered her hair. Sweat slid into her eyes. She blinked and ran the sleeve of her gown across her forehead, then spun around. The flames blurred in a flickering circle of red and orange.
The hut was on fire.
Her mouth was parched, as dry as sand. Her heart crashed against her ribs. Where was Abigail?
“Abigail!” Hope screamed. “Abigail, Mr. Mason!” Searing pain spiraled through her, starting at her feet, then cinching around her stomach and storming into her head. She tossed her hands to her ears to drown out the hammering ferocity of it.
Beyond the fire, the gray silhouette of a man shifted in the darkness. “Mr. Mason?”
The shape took form: eyes, nose, lips, hair, and clothing dropped onto the figure as he approached. The man stepped through the flames and halted before her. He stared at her—yet through her.
“Arthur.” Hope’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the man she’d once thought she loved with all her heart.
The fire disappeared and the bulkheads of a ship’s cabin formed around them.
“I tell you, Captain, I don’t know the woman.” Lord Falkland’s handsome lips flattened, and he turned to face another man who materialized from the darkness.
Captain Brenham doffed his plumed tricorn and tossed it onto his desk. “Then perhaps ye can explain t’me why she insists ye are her betrothed?”
“Preposterous!” A woman’s voice screeched from a dark corner. She emerged to stand beside Lord Falkland, annoyance marring her comely features. “My Arthur cannot be engaged when he already has a wife.” She waved a silk fan over her elegant coiffure, sending tiny curls dancing about her neck. “Why, look at her. She is no doubt a fortune-hunting strumpet.” She eyed Hope with disdain and tossed her nose in the air.
“How dare you!” Hope charged toward her, but Lord Falkland held up his cane, barring her passage. Halting, she faced him. Fear and desperation coalesced in a burning lump in her throat. “Arthur, why are you doing this? Tell them who I am. Who is this woman?” Placing her hand on his gold-trimmed coat, she searched his eyes for a hint of affection, a hint of the love she’d grown to expect, the love she’d risked everything to possess.
He would not meet her gaze. He thudded his cane onto the deck and yanked his arm from beneath her touch.
“As I have told you, Captain. I’ve never seen this delusional woman before.” He patted the other woman’s hand and placed a kiss upon it as he used to kiss Hope’s.
Blinking, Hope reeled back. Memories danced through her mind like jesters, taunting her—memories of the tender love she and Arthur had shared, of sweet promises whispered in the middle of the night, memories of being loved, cherished, cared for.
“What d’ye intend I do wit’ her?” The captain cocked his head and studied Hope as if she were a chest of gold.
Lord Falkland shrugged. “Why should I care?”
“Because you love me! You promised to marry me!” Throwing all propriety aside, Hope clung to him with both hands. The lavender scent he doused himself with snaked around her, making her dizzy. “What are you doing?” Her heart thumped wildly. Her knees shook. Tears poured down her cheeks.
“Madam, control yourself.” Arthur attempted to tug his sleeves from her grasp.
“Release my husband at once.” The woman clawed at Hope’s hand, prying it from Arthur’s arm, then shoved her back. “Captain, I protest. Must we continue to endure this humiliation?” Panting, she pointed her fan in Hope’s direction. “The woman is deranged.”
Hope fell to the deck, splinters piercing her skin. Heat surged through her, and the floor began to spin.
Captain Brenham clamped his massive fingers onto Hope’s arm and jerked her to her feet. Stabs of pain shot into her shoulder. “Me apologies, Lady Falkland. By all means, take yer leave. I’ll be more ‘n happy to deal wit’ her.”
“Very well, then.” Casting one last repugnant look toward Hope, Lady Falkland turned and pulled Arthur along behind her.
Lord Falkland glanced over his shoulder, and for the first time, his gaze met Hope’s. Through her tear-blurred vision, Hope thought she glimpsed a flicker of remorse cross his features. Then he was gone.
Along with all of Hope’s dreams.
Greed glinted in the captain’s eyes. “Aye, I know jest what t’ do wit’ ye.”
Flames shot up around her again, suffocating her and consuming all her remaining strength.
Something touched her forehead. Soft and cool. “She’s dreaming,” a muffled voice said.
“Seems more like a nightmare.” A deep male tone responded. Nathaniel’s voice.
Had he come to save her? Hope tried to pry her eyes open, but someone seemed to have sewn them shut. She lifted a hand to her face, groping for the cause, and found naught but moist, simmering skin. Thrusting out her arms, she probed for the source of those wonderful voices.
A large, calloused hand gripped hers and held it tight. “’Tis us, Miss Hope. We are here.” She clung to it with what little strength she could muster, drawing comfort from the caring touch of another human being.
Thrashing her head, she tried to make sense out of her jumbled thoughts. “He left me. He lied to me.”
“Shhh … Hope, you have a fever.” Abigail’s soft voice caressed her like the cool cloth brushing over her forehead. A spark of joy assuaged her grief. Her friends had not perished in the flames.
“The hut is on fire.” The words squeaked from Hope’s dry throat.
“No, you are safe. Nothing is on fire,” Nathaniel said. Was he caressing her hand? And what was that infernal pounding in her head?
She rubbed her eyes and managed to pry them open, but only blurry mirages met her gaze. “Where am I?”
“You are in our hut.” Abigail’s hazy figure leaned over her and dabbed a cloth on her neck.
Hope shifted her gaze to Nathaniel. The slight wave of his brown hair came into focus, then his dark eyes that reminded Hope of the coffee her sister Faith liked to drink. He shifted his jaw, dusted with black stubble. But it was the look in his eyes that drew her attention. Concern, fear, and something else. Such a different look from the one she had just seen in Arthur’s eyes.
“Lord Falkland was here.” She shook her head, trying to jar loose the tangled web in her mind.
“It was only a dream.”
“Only a dream,” she repeated. An unrelenting heaviness pressed upon her eyes, and no longer able to fight it, she closed them and faded into darkness.
Nathaniel released Hope’s hand with a sigh and rubbed his aching eyes. The hint of dawn glowed through the leaves of the hut as the crickets hushed to silence. After Hope had collapsed in his arms on the beach, he and Abigail had attended her through the remainder of the day and all through the night. But despite their continual ministrations, she had remained unconscious, save for the brief moment when she’d just awoken. Regardless, her fever still soared, and Nathaniel feared the worst. “At least she awakened.”
Abigail smiled as she dabbed the wet cloth over Hope’s face, pink with fever. “’Tis a good sign.” But her unsteady voice stole conviction from her statement. “Who is Lord Falkland?”
“The man who abandoned her in St. Kitts.” Nathaniel flexed his jaw, but pity soon eased his taut muscles. From the few intelligible words Hope had uttered, he gleaned her memory of Lord Falkland’s betrayal had been quite traumatic—and quite painful.
“Ah, no wonder she has nightmares about him.” Abigail sank back, folding her legs beneath her, and dropped the cloth into the bucket. “Her fever is far too high.”
Nathaniel grimaced and sat on a barrel on the other side of Hope. “Do you know the cause?”
Abigail swallowed, her hazel eyes stricken. “I fear it is marsh fever. I saw much of it on Antigua when I worked with my parents.”
Marsh fever. Nathaniel’s stomach coiled in a knot. “But isn’t that …” He didn’t want to say the word fatal aloud, couldn’t bear to think it, let alone hear it.
“Yes. It can be.” Abigail’s eyes swam, and she stood, wiping sand and leaves from her skirt. “I’m going in search of Indian fever bark. I believe I saw some in the woods.” She headed for the flap of sailcloth that served as a door. “I can make some tea from it. It’s all I know to do.”
“Ask Kreggs to accompany you. I heard him up earlier.”
She nodded, pushed aside the cloth, and left the hut.
Several hours later, Nathaniel shielded his eyes from the sun as he emerged from the tiny shack. He stretched his cramped legs and stared at the breakers glistening in white, foamy bands across the blue sea. Their beauty held no allure for him today. Gavin stood knee deep among the incoming waves, spear in hand, and battled to keep from falling. When he saw Nathaniel, he plowed through the water and onto the shore.
Hanson entered the camp, his arms full of firewood, as Gavin rushed toward Nathaniel.
“How is she? What news?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “Abigail … Miss Sheldon and I gave her some tea, but I don’t know how much she swallowed. She’s resting now.”
Hanson dropped the load of wood onto the sand and scratched his chest, eyeing the hut nervously.
Panic sparked across Gavin’s boyish face. “And the fever?”
“It hasn’t broken.” Truth be told, the fever had only worsened. Nathaniel’s gut hardened into a ball of lead.
“I must see her.” Gavin tossed down the spear and started for the hut.
Nathaniel held up a hand. “I’m told it is contagious. Miss Sheldon and I have already been exposed. No sense in putting yourself in danger.”
Hanson’s eyes widened. “I’ll jest go find some fruit.” He darted from the clearing.
“But if there’s something I can do,” Gavin said. “Some comfort I can give her.” Nathaniel had seen evidence of Gavin’s affection for Hope, but the stark clarity of the desperation on the man’s face hit him like a punch in the stomach.
Shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling, he released a heavy sigh. “She’s not conscious. We can do nothing now but pray.”
“Pray?” Gavin snickered. “A desperate measure for weak men.”
“Or a powerful measure for courageous men,” Nathaniel responded with authority, even as he wondered where the words had come from. For he felt weak and desperate as Gavin had said. But perchance the answer had come through his own lips—from God’s heart. He needed to pray—and pray hard.
Gavin gave him a look of derision, then shook his head.
Hoping to alleviate the tension, Nathaniel pointed to a flounder lying on a bed of leaves near Gavin’s spear. “I see you’ve caught a fish.”
“Only one in two hours.” Gavin’s boyish smile returned. “And a tiny one, as you can see. I’m afraid I don’t possess your skills.” He raised his brows in an invitation. “We could use some fish for supper.”
“I need some rest first.” Nathaniel hated spending even a few hours away from his vigil, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be much use for anything.
He headed toward his hut, but a red and white figure storming toward him caught the corner of his eye. Major Paine. Nathaniel groaned.
Drawing up to his full height, the major gripped the hilt of his sword. “What has happened to Miss Hope?”
“She is sick with fever, Major.” Nathaniel rubbed his eyes, willing the man to disappear.
“Fever? Egad, I knew you couldn’t take care of her.” He brushed past Nathaniel, leaving the stench of sweat and moldy clothes in his wake. “I shall take her back to our camp where she can be tended to properly.”
Nathaniel turned “Be my guest, Major. Perhaps you have discovered a cure for marsh fever?”
The major stopped in mid-stride. “Marsh fever, you say?” He faced Nathaniel, his ruddy face faded to white. He adjusted the torn black cravat at his throat. “Miss Sheldon attends to her?”
Nathaniel nodded.
“Then ’Tis best not to disturb her.” He stretched his neck. “But be advised, Mr. Mason, I shall return to check on her soon.”
“I cannot wait.” Nathaniel bowed, an unavoidable grin on his lips.
With a snort, the major sauntered off to where the sailors still hammered away on a raft that was beginning to take shape.
But Nathaniel had neither the time nor the inclination to worry about that now. The totality of his thoughts and his heart focused on the lady burning up with fever not five yards away. As he plodded toward his hut, memories twisted through his mind, setting off a blaze of panic. His mother had been deathly ill, eaten alive by some unnamed disease. Her vocation and poverty kept all doctors at bay, and even the priests would not set foot in her house. Nathaniel had been only eleven years old, but he had done the only thing he could think to do. He prayed. But his prayers had fallen lifeless before God’s throne, leaving him an orphan.
Staggering into his hut, he fell to his knees and clutched a fistful of palm fronds and squeezed until the sharp edges stung his skin. “God, if You answer just one of my prayers, please let it be this one.”