The Lawman's Vow

Returning to the bedroom, Sylvie was struck by a daring idea. Ishmael was sleeping so soundly it would likely take an earthquake to rouse him. And the bed where he lay was the one her father had shared with Daniel’s mother. It was big enough for two people to lie side by side.

Her eyes measured the space between Ishmael’s body and the wall. There was just room enough for her to fit. She could lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, with the extra quilt pulled over her for warmth. Surely there could be no impropriety in that.

With the last of her strength, she crept into the narrow space and stretched out against the wall. The top quilt was just wide enough to tug over her body.

The wall side was chilly, but Ishmael’s body was warm. How would it be, she wondered, to be married to a man and sleep next to him almost every night of her life?

The question was no more than a flicker of thought. Lulled by Ishmael’s breathing, she drifted into sleep.

The first sound he heard was the crow of a rooster. Drowsy and disoriented, he blinked himself awake. Sunlight streamed through the open porthole window on the far wall.

A porthole? A rooster? Where in hell’s name was he?

He sank back onto the pillow, dredging his memory. Had he been sick? The dull ache in his head told him something was out of sorts. Seconds passed before his exploring hand discovered the wrapping and the soggy poultice beneath it. He wasn’t just sick. He’d evidently been hurt. And now he was lying naked in a strange bed.

Only when he tried to sit up did he realize he wasn’t alone. A slight body lay on top of the covers, anchoring them to the bed. Not just a body. A warm, breathing body.

Moving cautiously, he rolled onto his side and raised himself on one elbow.

His breath caught.

The girl was lying alongside him, stretched against the wall. Her eyes were closed, her sun-gold hair a mass of tangles on the pillow. In the morning light, her parted lips were a soft, dewy pink. Unlike him, she appeared to be fully clothed.

Scarcely daring to breathe, he allowed his gaze to linger. Sylvie—he remembered her name now. And he remembered her bending over him, weary-eyed, to force that god-awful concoction down his throat again and again. Whatever it was, it must have worked. He actually felt as if he was going to live.

What else could he remember? He had a vague impression of climbing a steep cliffside trail, and seeing a house made from an upside-down ship. He must be inside the house now. That would account for the porthole on the wall behind him. And before that, he remembered Sylvie helping him to his feet on the beach, telling him about the tides and christening him with the name Ishmael. But everything prior to that was blank. It was as if a dense fog had closed in, obscuring everything he’d ever known.

Lord help him, why couldn’t he remember?

Maybe the girl, Sylvie, knew more than she’d told him. In his impatience, he was tempted to wake her, seize her by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her. But she looked so innocent in her sleep. And it would be farcical to take matters into his own hands while he was as naked as a jaybird under the bedcovers.

What had the creature done with his clothes? If she was trying to keep him prisoner, she’d come up with a clever way. He couldn’t get very far stripped and barefoot, could he?

Restless, he straightened his bent legs and stretched them over the foot of the bed. He was rewarded with a hellish cramp in his left calf. Cursing under his breath, he yanked himself upright and seized the knotted muscle.

Sylvie’s eyes flew open. She sat up, clutching the quilt to her chest like a shield. “Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered.

“Hurting,” he growled.

“What’s the matter? Do you need help?”

“Blasted charley horse. Need to get up and stretch.”

“I’ll cover my eyes.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Go out and get my clothes, wherever you’ve stashed them.”

“I rinsed them, hung them to dry and put them away for you. But you don’t look strong enough to be up.”

“I’m damn well strong enough to get my clothes on. Now, go get them. Go!” With the last word, he swung his legs to the floor, turning the expanse of his bare back toward her.

“Oh!” With a gasp of indignation, she flung the quilt aside, sprang off the foot of the bed and fled the room, slamming the door behind her.

He stood and stretched the agony out of his leg. He’d been hard on the girl. Too hard, given that she’d probably saved his life. But if she thought she was going to keep him locked up and buck naked, she had a few things to learn. He was getting out of here even if he had to wrap up in the sheet like a damn Roman.

Now that he was up, the dizziness had come back. His head felt as if hammer-wielding gremlins were pounding on his skull. But he was on his feet to stay, he vowed. And he wouldn’t rest until he knew all there was to know about this place and what had happened to him.

Legs quivering, Sylvie sagged against the closed door. For someone who’d resolved to take charge, she was off to a pitiful start. All the wretched man had to do was snap at her and bare his splendid back, and she was out of the room like a scared rabbit.

But that was about to change. He wouldn’t be getting his clothes, or his breakfast, until he’d agreed to her rules.

Moving deliberately, she added kindling to the coals in the stove and put some coffee on to boil. Two nights ago she’d bundled his clean clothes and dry boots and tucked them under the bed in her own room. They were still there, hidden from sight. And she didn’t plan to give them back until she felt it was safe to do so.

After taking a moment to check on the sleeping Daniel, she returned to the closed door. From the room beyond, there was no sound. Sylvie hesitated, one hand on the latch. Was Ishmael waiting to ambush her, maybe lock her in and steal everything he could carry off? Even sick, he appeared strong enough to overpower her.

Walking to the front door, she lifted the loaded shotgun off the rack. Better safe than sorry, she told herself as she thumbed back the hammer, returned to the door and opened it.

Her breath caught in a gasp.

Ishmael lay across the bed, wrapped in the sheet and passed out cold.

Chapter Four

Fog and drizzle blended with the dank smell of the harbor. Behind him, lanterns flashed in the night. Crowds of theatergoers surged against the cordon of police officers that kept them from rushing into the narrow alley.

Recognizing him, the police had let him through at once. Now he was plunging through the murk toward a form sprawled on the grimy cobblestones. His eyes glimpsed a rumpled satin cloak trimmed in ermine, then the flutter of dark hair. A single silver kidskin slipper lay soaking up the rain…

No! Lord have mercy, no!

“Ishmael! Wake up!”

He was being shaken with a force that triggered sparks of pain. He opened his eyes to the glare of sunlight. Sylvie was bending over him. Her hands gripped his shoulders. Her gray eyes were storms of worry that cut through the remaining fog of sleep.

“What…?” He jerked himself awake.

“Thank goodness!” She drew back, releasing him. “The way you were thrashing and moaning, I was afraid you were having some sort of apoplexy.”

Sun dazzled, he raised his head. “Bad dream, that’s all. Must’ve blacked out.” His hand moved to his head. The wrapping had come loose, and the soggy poultice was threatening to slide down his face. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

She saw the problem. “Of course not. In any case, I’ll want to check that head wound. But I’ll need you sitting up.”

Pushing with his arms, he hoisted himself until the pillow was at his back. Before passing out, he’d used a bedsheet to wrap himself toga style from chest to knee. At least he was decently covered.

He sniffed the morning air. “Glory be, is that coffee I smell?”

“Hold still.” Bracing his head, she unwound the bandage and peeled off what remained of the poultice. “It’s looking better,” she said. “No festering, and the swelling’s down. But there’s no telling what’s happened underneath. Since you just fainted, I’d say you need to stay in bed for a day or two.”

“I asked you a question.”