Eternity: Immortal Witches Book 1 (The Immortal Witches) Page 5

  When he dared lift his head, ‘twas to see his friend gaping. “Duncan?”

  “I’m comin’ with you,” he said again.

  “But...but the debt you owe your father–”

  “I’ll send him what I owe as soon as I find employment in the New World. As easy to pay the debt off from there as from Scotland.”

  Samuel stared and searched Duncan’s face, concern etched on his own. And then he glanced over toward the cloaked woman and the whore, but the two were already hurrying away, around to the rear of the building.

  “What made you change your mind, Duncan?” His sharp gaze probed Duncan’s as he awaited an answer.

  Duncan only shrugged. “A feeling,” he said. “Just a feeling in my belly that ‘tis the right decision. I can explain no more than that.” He met Samuel’s gaze. “Dinna ask me to.”

  Samuel nodded, but again stared off in the direction the women had gone. “I dinna need to ask, I fear. Duncan, think! You saw the girl die.”

  “Aye. I’m not likely to forget it, Samuel.”

  Still Samuel stared at him.

  Duncan forced a smile. “‘Twas only a momentary lapse,” he said. “An’ my decision has naught to do with her. I only feel...a need to be away. To go to some shore so distant that I’ll forget the blood I saw spilled here. Forget...forget her.” But even as he said the words, he knew ‘twas impossible. He would never forget her.

  Sighing deeply, Samuel nodded. “I’ll take you at your word, for now. And be glad of it, too.” He slapped Duncan on the shoulder. “ ‘Twill be the adventure of a lifetime, Duncan Wallace. I promise you that!”

  “I have no doubt ‘twill be all of that and more,” Duncan said, but he wasn’t smiling the way Samuel was. Instead he felt physically weak, and shaky, as if a fever were coming on, and atop that was an icy chill in his heart—indeed, in his very soul.

  * * *

  He able to purchase space in a cabin for the passage to Boston Harbor in Massachusetts Bay Colony aboard the Sea Witch. He had his bag with him, the one containing all his worldly possessions, which amounted to a pathetically small bundle. He’d been planning to go on to Scotland as soon as he saw his friends off. But now his destiny seemed to be taking a sudden and unexpected turn. He was going to the New World, lured there, perhaps, by one of the very sirens he’d heard the seamen talk of. A witch. A specter. A dead woman crooked her finger, and Duncan Wallace followed. He felt foolish, too foolish to tell Samuel the truth–that he still believed he’d seen her.

  But not too foolish to make inquiries about her once he boarded the ship. He tried to be subtle, and although a few of the other passengers did indeed say they’d seen a woman such as the one he described aboard the Sea Witch, just as many denied it.

  The ship weighed anchor at dawn, just as planned. And Duncan stood at the rail and watched England—and with it an entire phase of his life—disappear into the morning mist. Before his eyes it became a part of his past.

  Except for her. She was present, in his mind, haunting him, always. In his dreams she came to him. He could not shake her image from his every thought. Duncan haunted the decks, searched every group of faces for her cream-skinned beauty, but never saw her. And finally he asked the captain himself. For if anyone would know, he would. He met the man at the helm, overseeing his navigator and manning the wheel. A stiff breeze mussed his silvery hair, but he faced it as if loving it as Duncan posed his question.

  Captain Murphy shook his head slowly. “No. Sorry, but I can’t say we’ve anyone aboard like that.”

  “Are you sure?” Duncan asked. And he knew he must sound desperate, but he’d seen her. He hadn’t imagined it or hallucinated or dreamed it. He’d seen her.

  The captain smiled. “I’m not so old I wouldn’t notice a beauty such as the one you’ve described, son. No, I tell you, she’s not aboard ship.” Then the older man frowned, searching Duncan’s face. “You don’t look well, young man. You be feeling poorly?”

  The man’s face was more than speculative, and Duncan couldn’t blame him. This ship had departed not far from a town ravaged by the plague of late. If Duncan showed signs of illness, the captain would have no choice but to put him off in a dinghy, for the protection of the passengers and the crew. And the truth was, Duncan wasn’t feeling up to snuff, and hadn’t been since boarding this vessel. And he was worried. But he was also taking great care not to touch anyone else physically, and he stayed well away from the others as he searched the decks for his mysterious beauty. He had no desire to spread illness, if indeed he were becoming ill.

  Samuel, of course, had been far too busy, in the confines of his cabin with his new wife, to notice Duncan’s behavior. All for the best.

  “I’m fine,” he told the captain. “Tired, though. An’ a wee bit seasick, I fear.”

  The captain nodded, smiling. “It will pass, once your stomach gets used to the rocking,” he said. “You haven’t told me your name, lad.”

  “My manners are lacking. I am Duncan Wallace.”

  “I thought I detected a hint of the Scot in your voice.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true.”

  “Captain Davis Murphy,” he said, extending a hand.

  Duncan couldn’t shake, for fear of making the man ill. So he pretended to lose his footing, and gripped the rail. “If you dinna mind, Captain, I’ll be goin’ back to my cabin now.”

  “Of course.”

  As he left, Duncan felt the man’s eyes on him. And he wondered if he’d fooled the captain even for a moment.

  * * *

  The journey was going to be exciting, I knew it from the moment we set sail. I spent much of my time sewing, mending my old clothes while wearing the ones the captain had sent to my cabin. I was grateful that I’d have presentable clothing to wear when I met my aunt Eleanor. But more of my time was spent on the decks of the magnificent vessel, staring out over the endless waters. I did so by night, of course, for I could not risk being recognized. But I loved the night, and always had. There was a magical quality about wandering the decks alone, with no one else about save a few crewmen doing their jobs.

  There was something about the sea that moved me. Such a magnitude of power surging beneath the tall ship. I was mesmerized by its endless rhythm, its mystery. And the wind that made those sails billow never let us down. I heard the captain remark more than once that he’d seldom seen the weather more cooperative. I only smiled to myself, and silently whispered thanks to my mother for all she’d taught me.

  But as Captain Murphy approached me one night, I saw a certain grimness in his eyes. And I frowned at him. But he merely smiled in return, easing my mind somewhat.

  “How are you enjoying the journey?” he asked me.

  “Tremendously! I saw a great fish,” I told him. “Big as a house, way off in that direction.” And I pointed.

  “Then your eyes are better than my lookout’s, mistress. He’s reported no such sighting.”

  I lifted my chin a bit. “No, neither did the crewmen I pointed it out to. I fear they didn’t believe me.”

  “Of course they did. ‘Twas a whale, dear girl. They’ve seen them before.”

  I nodded. A whale. My vision had reached a whole new level now, enabling me to see much farther than the mortals aboard. And my other senses were sharper, too. These things amazed me but troubled me, also, for they only served to remind me how very little I knew of my new nature.

  I have some news which might disturb you,” the captain said. And as I tilted my head, he went on. There’s a man aboard ship who’s been asking after you.”

  My heart froze. I swore it stopped beating as I recalled the hooded figure who’d attacked me. And the captain must have seen my reaction in my face, for he paled.

  “What man?” I asked. “What did he look like?”

  “Young, dark hair and brown eyes. Said his name was Duncan Wallace.”

  I caught my breath, but the captain was still speaking.

  There’s no need for you t
o fear him. I told him no woman such as he described was aboard. But ‘tis of no matter, at any rate. I plan to put him off soon.”

  “Put him off?” I felt my eyes widen. He mustn’t.

  The captain nodded. “I’ll wait until we reach a port, if I can, but if his symptoms continue, it will have to be sooner. I can’t risk everyone aboard for the sake of one soul.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, searching the captain’s face. “I know you to be a kind man, Captain Murphy. Why would you do such a thing?”

  The captain lowered his head. “I believe the man to be ill.”

  My eyes grew still wider. “No,” I whispered. Not him, not the man I thought of nightly, the man who visited me in dreams I knew would never be more than that. The plague?” I asked, breathlessly, thinking of my father, and little Johnny, and how helpless my mother and I had been to help either of them.

  “I can not know that. But ‘tis not a risk I can take.”

  I nodded slowly. Duncan Wallace. He was more than just a man who’d touched my soul. He was a priest, or would soon become one. A man who was associated in some way with the priest who’d murdered my mother. A man who’d tried to save us. Who’d seen us die. Was he following me? And if he was, then to what purpose? Did he know, or suspect that I lived still? Would he execute me again himself if he knew what I was? Was he working with that horrible old man? Or was there some other reason?

  I could not trust him, despite his honorable and brave actions that cold dawn. Despite the feelings his touch had brought to life inside me. I could not trust him.

  But I could not let him be put off this ship, for he would surely die. He’d tried to save my life, no matter what his intentions toward me now. I owed the man.

  “I’ve had experience with the plague, Captain Murphy,” I said quite softly. “I could easily tell by examining the man if it is that or some other illness.”

  The captain frowned at me. “You could be ill yourself, mistress. Even the ship’s physician refuses to go near the man to examine him.”

  I shook my head firmly. “I will not become ill. I’ve cared for countless victims and have never become ill.” He still looked reluctant. “Surely you’d not wish to send a man to his death needlessly?” I asked him.

  “Of course not. But, mistress, I thought you feared this Wallace.”

  I shook my head. “No, I do not fear him.” I should, I thought, but somehow, I couldn’t manage to convince myself to be afraid of the brown-eyed priest. I cleared my throat. “Nor do I trust him. Captain, if I could look on him without him seeing me....”

  The captain lowered his head, rubbing his chin whiskers in thought. “There might be a way.” Then he nodded. “Yes, I think it might work. Let me work on this now. Wait for me in your cabin. I’ll come for you when all is ready.”

  I nodded my agreement. But I was not at ease as I returned to my cabin and waited there for word from the captain. I paced, nervous and frightened. I was taking a risk, I knew it. But as I thought of Duncan, of his eyes and the feeling, that sense of connection, that had passed between us there on the gallows, I knew I had no choice. Secretly, I’d longed to see him again. To thank him for what he’d tried to do. To feel that force moving between us once more. To touch his face, his hair, the way he’d touched mine. I’d longed, but secretly. It had been a fantasy. A dream I had believed had no chance of coming true. Not ever.

  And now it seemed it would.

  A tap came at my door, and I closed my eyes and stiffened my spine. “Who’s there?”

  “Captain Murphy.”

  I opened the door and faced the man. It had been more than an hour since I’d seen him last, and I wondered what he’d been up to, but I didn’t have to wonder long.

  “We put a sleeping powder into some food and left it for him. I peered in only moments ago. He’s eaten every crumb and is resting quietly.”

  I nodded, battling a chill of foreboding. Then I’ll look in on him now. Take me to his cabin.”

  I started forward, but the captain caught my arm. “Are you sure, mistress?”

  Solemnly, I nodded. And then I moved beside him into the passage, toward the cabin of Duncan Wallace, and with every step, my heart beat a bit faster.

  Chapter 4

  Just when Duncan had decided his illness was little more than a passing case of the sniffles, his fever climbed dangerously high, giving him renewed reason for doubt. He’d taken to his bunk, pulled the covers up to his chin, and drifted in and out of sleep, alternately freezing and sweltering, shivering and sweating. Each time he woke, he felt worse than the time before.

  Damnation. He was thirsty. Terribly thirsty, and his throat felt so raw it hurt to swallow. Bleary-eyed, he reached for the pitcher beside his bunk, only to find it dry. And the flickering candle beside it was burning low. How long had he been on his back? Hours? A day? He thought he might be approaching delirium.

  The knock at his door couldn’t have come at a worse time. If anyone aboard saw him in this condition, they wouldn’t hesitate to pitch him into the sea. And he couldn’t say he would blame them. From his bed he called, “Who’s there?” in a voice gone hoarse and thready.

  “Steward, sir. The cap’n asked that I bring a meal down to you. Said you were feelin’ a mite seasick, he did.”

  Closing his eyes, Duncan prayed there would be water. Or ale. Any liquid would sooth his parched, burning throat. “Leave it by the door,” he called, softening his voice slightly because it hurt to speak any louder. I'll come for it by and by.”

  “Very well.”

  He heard nothing more and waited a good while to be sure the man was gone. He still did not believe he was sick with the plague. Miserable, feverish, aching, yes. But not dying. Not even close. Still, there was no use risking the health of others. When he felt it was safe, Duncan got to his feet, but his head began to spin the second he did so. He gripped the back of a chair, and it tipped over, toppling him to the floor along with it. Damnation. He was sicker than he’d realized. Could he not even walk on his own?

  It seemed better not to try. The ship seemed to be rocking a bit more than usual tonight. Perhaps that was the blame. He crawled on all fours to the door, opened it, and glanced quickly up and down the passage. No one was in sight, so he hauled the tray inside. A fresh pitcher of ale stood upon it, and his thirst burned anew.

  The food, the very sight of it, followed quickly by its aroma, made his stomach turn over. He dragged the tray to his bunk, managed to right the chair, and set the pitcher and cup upon it. Then he pulled himself to his feet and, leaning weakly against the wall, struggled to open the porthole. He dumped the food into the sea, eager to have it out of sight. Perhaps his stomach would settle down some, then.

  That done, he let the tin dishes fall to the floor and sank down onto his bed. It seemed he’d used every ounce of energy, all his strength, just to accomplish this one small task. He was disheartened to realize just how weak he truly was.

  He managed to pour himself a bit of the ale, slopping too much of it onto the chair as he did. His hand trembled and his wrist felt barely able to lift the pitcher. Then he drank, deeply. Hellfire, he’d never been so thirsty in his life. He struggled to fill the cup again but gave up, deciding he was wasting too much of the precious liquid. This time he grasped the pitcher in both hands and tipped it to his mouth, gulping the frothy brew, letting it numb and sooth his throat, and dull his pain. It warmed him some—eased the aches in his bones and joints.

  As a student of the priesthood, Duncan had never imbibed in ale overly much. Even that night at the docks before leaving England, he’d only sipped at a single mug, making it last the entire time he’d spent in the tavern. He’d had wine, of course, in very small doses. It had never disturbed him. But suddenly he began to feel even more light-headed and dizzy than he had before. He glanced at the empty pitcher in his hands and realized he’d drained it. The flickering candlelight made him dizzier still, so he lay back on his bed, fully clothed, and
closed his eyes. ‘Twould pass. The spinning in his head would pass, if he just lay perfectly still.

  How long he lay there, he had no notion. He drifted, dozed, woke again only to find his head still spinning. But when he blinked his eyes open this time, the candle’s weak flame cast a dim glow upon a face.

  Soft. Beautiful. Opalescent in the candle glow. The face of the woman he’d been dreaming about. The dead beauty. His witch. His enchantress. Was he still dreaming, then?

  She leaned over him, one band sliding gently over his cheek, clasping his jaw and easing his mouth wider. She lifted the candle and seemed to be looking into his mouth. But he could only stare at her. The candlelight danced in her black eyes like the very flames of passion. Her lashes were as dark and thick as if she were a gypsy girl. And that hair. That magnificent hair, cascading and tumbling over her shoulders. Shamelessly free, and uncovered.

  He moved his lips, tried to speak. “You...you’re alive.”

  Her black eyes widened and snapped toward his, seemingly surprised to see him awake and staring back at her. Quickly, with a pinch of her fingers, she doused the candle and set it on the stand. And he heard her moving away, heard her soft, nearly silent steps crossing the floor.

  “Please,” he whispered, and he reached out a weak hand toward her even though she couldn’t possibly see it. He could not let her go, let her slip away again. He had to know....

  Hinges creaked as the door moved. Her voice, the voice of his fantasies, spoke softly. “‘Tis not the plague, Captain, but merely a fever that will pass him by soon enough. If you keep everyone away, there will be no danger to the others aboard.’’

  “Are you sure?’’ The captain sounded less than certain himself. “Because unless you are, mistress—’’

  “I am certain. I would not tell you so if I were not. I owe you a great deal, Captain Murphy. I would never repay you by lying about a matter so grave.”

  The captain might have nodded, but he didn’t utter a word. Duncan’s head was swimming, and he was trembling with cold again, yet he strained to listen.