Page 8 of Devil of the High Seas
“Now you may sit,” she ordered.
He sat, a soft and weary sound escaping him. She leaned in to examine his wound again. While she did, he seemed to examine her back.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Josephine,” she said.
She did her best not to look at his face. It was eerie how much he looked like Griffin. But where Griffin had a polished and powerful gentleness to him, Gavin had the same power but it seemed harsher. She had felt safe in Griffin’s arms. But whenthisman touched her or looked at her the way he was doing now... it was like she was at the mercy of a raging storm. To touch this man was to risk the burn of lightning.
“Lie back. I’ll fetch some hot water and some clean cloths. We’ll need to clean your wound.”
He obeyed and lay back, closing his eyes. But it didn’t erase the sense of danger in him that filled the small room. But it wasn’t a danger that made her fear for her safety... it was something else.
“Thank you, Josephine,” he said.
“Josie—you may call me Josie,” she found herself saying, even though it was scandalous to give him the use of her family’s nickname for her.
“Josie,” he breathed.
“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, and left to find something for his wounds.
* * *
Gavin closed his eyes,drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, but even as he half slept, Josephine’s bright gray eyes filled his mind. Who was she? Why had she been sleeping in his brother’s bedchamber? He seemed to drift in a sea of unconsciousness for a long time before the pain in his shoulder pulled him back to the surface. He blinked against the flickering lamp that was too close to his face after so much darkness. He shifted, wrestling with the discomfort and pain.
“Hold still, blast you,” a feminine voice uttered in frustration.
He realized Josephine was there, cleaning his wound. “It bloody hurts.”
“I imagine it does.” She held up a bottle of scotch for him to see. “I found this in a cabinet in the billiard room.” She resumed dabbing the scotch-doused cloth against the wound in his shoulder.
Gavin stared at her while she worked. He was relieved to have such a beautiful creature to look at while in pain. Josephine was an enchanting woman, with slightly olive skin and luscious dark-brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders in waves. She had classically elegant features that held a hint of mischief about them. She intrigued him more than he wished to admit. He reached up with his good arm and coiled a lock of her hair around his finger, marveling at its silkiness.
“I cleaned it as best I can, but I think I’ll need to stitch it up.” She lifted a small sewing needle up so that he could see it and produced a spool of sturdy-looking silk thread.
“Do you know how to stitch a wound?” he asked suspiciously.
She met his gaze evenly. “I do needlepoint quite well—I can’t imagine this is much different.”
“Needlepoint?” He barked out a laugh that hurt his shoulder. “Christ, lass, this is my skin, not a cushion.” He didn’t like the idea of her poking away at him with a needle and thread. Perhaps he should slip out of the house and head for town. If he could find Ronnie and a doctor, he might be better off.
“If I don’t do this, the bleeding won’t stop. Do you trust me?” she asked.
Gavin met her gaze in the candlelight and saw the serious focus in her gray eyes. A tiny wrinkle formed between her dark brows as if she was already envisioning the task of sewing his wound closed, and something about that, her focus and intensity, made him actually trust her. He nearly smiled at the stubborn tilt of her chin as she waited for his answer.
“I suppose I have to,” he admitted.
It was that or let her find a doctor, and he could not risk that. No one in Cornwall knew he was alive. If that changed and someone realized he wasn’t dead, it would raise questions. He was wanted in the Caribbean and off the coast of the American colonies for piracy. If inquiries were made with the authorities here, the Royal Navy would know he was a pirate very soon. That meant anyone in this house who knew of his presence could be found guilty of harboring and aiding a pirate. He had only been back to this house and this room once in the past seven years when he’d thought he was ready to face the past. But he’d been wrong, so he’d stayed unseen by anyone who would have recognized him and left on the following tide, but he didn’t want to take that risk now.
“Get on with it, then,” he said. But when she reached toward him, he halted her hands. “A moment.” He retrieved the scotch bottle from beside her and downed the contents in several deep gulps. Then he set the bottle back on the floor and gave Josephine a stiff nod for her to continue.
She set to work, stitching up the cut made by Beauchamp’s blade. It hurt far worse to have it stitched than when Beauchamp had stabbed him.
The pain was sharp then dull, the thread moving through his skin, aching. He reached for that same coil of hair he’d played with earlier, and he rubbed it between his fingers, focusing on the silkiness of it, the softness, the way the dark color caught the lamplight. It soothed him while she worked and distracted him from the pain.
When Josephine was done, she once more dabbed at the wound with a clean cloth and cleared away any remaining blood.
“It appears to be clotting. I believe that’s a good thing.”
