Intimate Strangers Affair Read online

  “I can’t wait any more.”

  “Then don’t,” I whispered against his hair. With a groan, he rolled me over and let me welcome him into the cradle of my body. My last thought before the pleasure took me and I shot into the midnight blue sky amid the stars was that I had done this before. I had known him forever.

  ***

  The only thing less predictable than playing craps is predicting the weather. Even with all the new inventions, it’s really no better than licking your finger and sticking it in the wind. Sometimes you can see weather from a long way off, but mostly it hits you before you even know it. Bam! And there you are in the middle of a storm.

  Take tonight, for instance. One moment I was all cozy, Miguel wrapped around me, then the next moment, cold air stabbed my side like a knife. Its icy breath blew down my hip and leg, to the tip of each frozen toe. Shivering, I rocked side to side. Each toss was deeper, steeper, worse than the last. This was a howler; we were in it for the long haul.

  “Strike mainsheet!” someone was shouting terse orders. Loud. Pitched to carry across the chaotic deck, over the wind’s shrieks. “Now! Batten down hatches!”

  Good Lord. Better get a good grip. Flailing in the dark, I reached out and grabbed something. It felt hard, then it curved into the smooth knob. An ankle moving, kicking off the sheets, a muscled calf with a wide scar which rippled as the leg almost danced over the mattress.

  Mattress? My fuzzy mind argued with my fingers, the contradictory information clashing like the storm overhead. Didn’t make sense. Why was I sailing on a mattress? But where else could I possibly be? I was being pitched left, right, almost over the side. And then gradually, it came to me. I wasn’t sailing in Miguel’s ship. I was lying in his bed. Not a ship. And the storm was him. Had to be. What the hell was he doing?

  My eyes flickered open, adjusting to the dim gray of the room. Miguel was standing in the middle of the bed. The sheets were twisted into a rope, and he was pulling on one end. Was he dreaming? Sometimes people walked, rode horses, did all kinds of crazy things in their sleep. But I checked his face. He seemed awake. His eyes were wide like saucers, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

  My breath caught. I had never seen such terror, and certainly never on his face. It snapped me to my knees. I reached up. Caught his arm. “Miguel.”

  His head whipped around, his horror magnified. “Nathalie! Get below! Now! Do it!”

  “But, Miguel…”

  “Now, I said now! Damn you!” he shouted in a voice I’d never heard before. He shoved backwards with his elbow.

  My head snapped back and I fell to my side. Ouch. Right in the jaw. That one was going to turn into a real beauty, I could tell already. But compresses later, it wasn’t time for comfrey and witch hazel. It wasn’t my time right now. It was time for Miguel. He needed me.

  “No,” I said stoutly, getting up again. I grabbed hold of the sheet trailing behind him. Maybe if I humored him… He looked frenzied enough as it was. Didn’t need to stir the pot more. “I’ll help. You need my help.”

  “Your help,” he muttered. “Should not…high seas. Could sweep her overboard. Protect her. Protect the ship.”

  “We can do this. We can do this together. Come on, Capitán. Save the ship.” I tugged experimentally on the sheet.

  “Si. The ship.” Quickly, he turned, wrapped the sheet around me and him, then knotted it firmly into a bowline. He turned around again, letting the sheet go slack, then heaving, releasing, heaving, over and over again.

  “I can’t see, it’s pitch black. Tell me. What do you see?” I whispered, trying to match the rhythm of my pulling to his.

  Miguel grunted. “Bad storm. Since five bells. Mast weak. Hear it, niña?”

  “Yes.” The bed frame creaked. Again and again, the old wood groaned. “It’s a bad one, all right. Happen often along this route?”

  “Every night…all night. No sleep. The men are tired…so tired.” He leaned hard to one side, and the bed groaned even louder. “Madre de Dios! The mast! It’s giving way.” He turned sideways, grabbing my waist, and jumped off the bed.

  We fell. Hard. My head smacked against the floor. Stunned, all I could do was roll over and over with him, the bed sheets cocooning around us. Tight. Then tighter.

  “Breathe,” he mumbled, trying to kick us free of the linens. “Tangled up. Waves. We’ll drown.”

  I was on the bottom. Miguel pinned me down. Why hadn’t I noticed how heavy he was before? He was squishing me. His knee pressed into my belly. Maybe I wasn’t drowning, but I sure couldn’t breathe right now. I groped around us for a loose corner of the sheet. “Got it,” I wheezed, unwrapping the end. I reached up and between his knees, jerked the sheet from underneath one leg. It pulled tighter, squeezing his calf, then snapped away.

  “Shark!” He froze for a moment, then kicked hard. Once, twice. Then settled into a strong steady flutter kick, which freed the last of the sheet. He pushed me in front of him. “Show no fear. Act strong. They only attack the weak. Keep kicking. Keep swimming.” Sweat was running off his face and his back, as he thought he was swimming, somehow staving off an attack, somehow protecting me. It was horrible to watch him; the naked fright on his face, his muscles straining with the effort. As far as he was concerned, this was all too real, swept up in some kind of waking nightmare of the mad. This had to stop. Humoring him wasn’t working at all. It was just making him worse. I had to reach him somehow.

  “Miguel.”

  “Swim, niña. Faster. Almost there.”

  “Miguel, there’s no shark.”

  “No?” He stopped mid-kick. Confusion flashed across his face.

  “No, my dear. None.” I touched his jaw, his shoulders. “Listen to me. You’re safe. We both are.”

  “Díablo! Safe. She says it is safe.” Suddenly, he rolled on to his back, one arm flung over his face. For one long minute, his chest continued to heave, the sound of his harsh gasps filling the room. Gradually, his breathing quieted. Then his mouth twisted. “Nathalie?”

  “I’m here. Stay with me.”

  “What? What…is happening?” His arm dropped to the ground, and I could see everything now that once his cool competent mask had been ripped away. Fear, confusion, a growing awareness. Then he looked terribly angry, maybe at his mind’s own betrayal. All those emotions, usually hidden, were Miguel too. Another side I had never seen before. My heart ached for him. I sat next to him, my hands holding him. He seemed to see me now.

  “Nathalie?” His shoulders dropped forward. “Where are we?”

  “Your bedroom. We’re home. Not on a ship. Home.”

  Mumbling, he repeated my word, “Home.” The sound ruffled through my hair. He sighed, almost, but not quite, relaxing. He was settling down.

  I sat back, my own muscles aching from our fall, from fighting him.

  Then he tensed again. He seemed to see something past me. He stared at it, disbelieving, struggling. Another spasm of terror crossed his face. “Behind you! The wall…no, it’s a wave. Crashing topside. We’re going down. Quick. Big breath.” He jerked upright, then leaned forward as if diving into something. His head butted into my chest.

  I pushed him down to the floor again and threw my body over his. I tried to press myself, press what was real into him. He fought me at first, but I held on to him. “Look at me.” I shook him once, twice. “Look into my eyes. Miguel, I’m here.”

  He seemed to grab on to my voice as if I were a lifeline. I kept talking to him and his struggling gradually slowed down. The fits became shorter, the periods between them longer. I held him for a long time, kneading the muscles around his neck and shoulders. He was so tight that I could almost feel each fasciculation. His gaze still seemed foggy as though clarity only peeked past the breaking patches of madness. But with each second, the clear periods lengthened until finally I looked into his eyes and saw him, all of him, again. His lids were already half-mast. All the struggling must have worn him out. He opened his mouth to speak
, but he froze. Then his half-word ended on a snore. His head rolled to one side.

  Miguel was sprawled on the floor. Asleep. Dead asleep. But peaceful at least. I didn’t want to disturb him. I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. He was far too heavy for me to move by myself. So I wearily got up and pulled the blankets off the bed. Then I lay down next to him on the floor. I covered us up and snuggled closer to him. He was like a long, tall, hot water bottle. Should have felt cozy, but it didn’t. I was too worried. His demons had been powerful indeed, had taken me totally by surprise. Turning, I watched him sleep, his eyelashes like a thick brown fringe against his cheekbones. I should have felt sleepy, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Sleep was a stranger to me that night. Almost as the strange as the green-eyed Capitán sleeping within my arms.

  ***

  Wrapped in my shawl, I sat on the floor and watched the dawn fill the bedroom with its soft lavender-gray light. I cradled Miguel’s head in my lap. He still slept, but he was shifting more and more as if he were already traveling through those lighter stages, consciousness just around the corner. Still, it was relatively peaceful compared to earlier. Now his face looked younger and relaxed, instead of the fear from before or his usual sternness. So Lin-Mei had been right after all. I hadn’t believed her, never would have guessed what demons had been lurking behind that cool, handsome face. Never in a million years.

  I’d met insane people before. They lived in their own complete worlds; some horrible, some far kinder than the world we all in lived in. But something seemed a little different here. Miguel didn’t live permanently in his crazy world of storms and waves-that-were-walls. Most of the time, he acted normally. He even seemed to know when he was slipping back into that other world. He’d been horrified by it. Did crazy people know when they’re turning crazy? Not that I remembered. The patients I’d tended in the asylums were unaware of anything else. They didn’t seem to know any better, and maybe that was a blessing in itself. Maybe it was a blessing that Miguel only briefly visited that crazy place in his head. But what if he sailed there one too many times and couldn’t return back? Marooned in his madness like his cousin Ricardo? My poor, Miguel. I hoped not. I willed it not to be so as I watched over him. He was stirring now. His lids finally opened, and his eyes were clear and direct, much to my relief. No mental fog at all. He looked oriented.

  “Buenos dias,” he said quietly.

  “Good morning. Do you know who I am?”

  His mouth tugged at one corner. “Of course, querida.”

  “And where are you?”

  He scanned my face, his own softening with wonder as if he couldn’t believe he was here within my embrace. He pressed his face against my arm like he was reassuring himself. “Heaven,” he said at last. “Must be.”

  “Good answer.” I leaned over and kissed his forehead.

  He tilted his chin up, angling for a different kiss all together. I obliged. A short diagnostic one. Hmm. Tasted just like him, nothing else. Not sweet, no ammonia smell. Both good signs. He seemed to recognize me all right, was even acting enthusiastically appropriate. But why were his pupils so large? When we stopped kissing, I looked lower. Now Miguel was frowning at me.

  Cautiously, I tried to smile. “What’s wrong?”

  “You.”

  “Don’t be silly. What about me?” Had he caught me examining him? Or maybe he was on the verge of another bout. I braced myself. Try to act normal. Calm. Reassure him. I adjusted my smile so that it looked more sincere, less forced.

  Miguel reached up and touched the bruise on my jaw. I flinched, drawing back.

  His scowl deepened. “Who did this?”

  Not for the last time, I wished that I could lie worth a damn. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t think of anything. Nothing but the truth. Aghast, I could only stare back at him.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Well, you did. Last night.”

  “Me?” Surprise filtered through his eyes. He seemed completely puzzled.

  “You hit me. It was an accident. On the bed. You thought…”

  “The ship,” he interrupted tersely, understanding clearing his face at last. His lips pursed. “Cristo. You were there. You heard me. Everything.”

  “Well, of course I did. I’m not deaf. Or dead. And where else would I be but in your bed? I couldn’t move, not after all your convincing. No one human could move after that. Total body paralysis. Not that I’m complaining, I’m not. So how much do you remember after that?”

  “I remember,” he said in a harsh soft voice. “Wish I did not, but I do.” Each word seemed to be yanked out of him like a deep painful thorn, hurting like hell to unearth it. Only afterwards, it didn’t seem to make him feel better. He looked worse. Ashamed almost. And who could blame him? Everyone got sympathy for a broken bone. But it was much harder to admit that your mind was broken. No one spoke of it. And no one could fix it.

  I wished that I could leave it alone, or at least soften it for him. But I couldn’t. I needed to get to the bottom of this. Otherwise it might fester, suppurate, even spread. Hopefully, my persistence would be a kindness in the end, no matter how much pain it might cause now. Means, ends, justifications. Where had I heard about that before? Wherever it was, it was also true for medicine. Maybe Miguel would forgive me. Eventually.

  I took a deep breath. “So you’ve been seeing things. Hearing them. How often does this happen?”

  He shrugged.

  “When did this start? Come on, Miguel. You must tell me.”

  “Since the boat docked,” he finally admitted after a long minute.

  I looked thoughtfully at him. “Same time as your liver. Interesting. Is this what Moore is really worried about?”

  Miguel glanced away. A sigh escaped. “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps nothing. I suppose you know a lot. Too much. So the major’s worried that you might accidentally give something away when you’re in this state. That would be like him. Only worried about his secrets, not about you.”

  “You worry about me,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Naturally, I’m a natural-born worrier. That’s what I do. No big deal.”

  “Is it?” He turned to me again. His hand pushed the back of my head so that we were almost nose-to-nose. Miguel searched my eyes, then lingered on my bruise. His face softened with regret. He kissed his fingertips and touched the spot.

  I caught his hand and pressed his palm flatly against my cheek. Wait. That felt strange. His hand felt cool. Surprisingly cool when the rest of his body was toasty warm. Not febrile, but warm. Any other time I might have enjoyed it more, but not now. Something was wrong.

  “Why are only your hands so cold?” Frowning, I examined his hand. His fingers were bluish-white. I pressed lightly over his blanched fingernails. No change in color. Poor capillary refill. Something was constricting his blood vessels. I checked his pulse. “It’s still fast. Not just the adrenaline, then. That doesn’t cause lousy circulation and neither does madness. Maybe it’s not the family madness after all. Maybe it’s…” I tapped a finger against my chin and looked thoughtfully at him. “Delirium. Yes. A temporary condition. Temporary, that is, if I find the cause.” I sat back, considering, my hands now resting on his chest. “You don’t have a fever, so it couldn’t be morbid sepsis. And last night you didn’t act debilitated in any way. Quite the opposite.”

  One brow lifted. “Thank you, niña,” he said gravely.

  Well, it was the truth, but I didn’t mean to be so blunt. What was it about him? I was always losing hold of my tongue, my mind gone south. Completely south. It was terrible, wonderful, and inconvenient as hell. Blushing, I cleared my throat. “Oh, never mind about that. Don’t distract me, I’m thinking. Not blood poisoning, so it’s not an infection. Unless…damn! I forgot about your reputation. You don’t have the French pox, do you?” I almost drew back in distaste. Almost, but not quite. It was an act of extreme willpower; staying there, still holding him even as a chill ran through me. How could I b
e so stupid? So irresponsible? Maybe he’d been too convincing. Maybe I’d been too weak. Stupid. I knew better than this. “Oh, God. Not Lues.”

  His mouth opened, closed. Even completely naked he managed to look magnificent and insulted. “No. There are ways to prevent disease.”

  Trust you to know, I thought sourly. I was a hypocrite. How could I enjoy the benefits of his experience and resent it all at the same time? “Sure, sure. I know about prevention. I’m a doctor, remember? Condoms. We should have used them, you know. No matter. I’ll take care of it later.”

  If Miguel looked insulted before, he looked thunderous now. Absolutely thunderous. His eyebrows were drawn together into one thick brown line of disapproval, his mouth grim. “Do not do anything without talking to me first. No self-remedies.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t mean that. So sensitive. Are you that way with all your lovers? I thought you’d like the independent worldly I-know-seventy-different-positions-type. The type like Michelle who can take care of themselves without bothering you. No complications. You can walk away whistling.”

  He seemed taken aback as if he were caught doing something new. Maybe he was surprising even himself. He shook his head. “True, but now that’s the past.”

  “You should be happy I’m not one of those weepy clingy kind. I’m responsible for myself.” I matched him stare for stare. He wanted to be stubborn? Well, fine. I had plenty in that department too. I’d show him.

  “Too independent,” he muttered.

  “Don’t try to change the subject, we were talking about you. So you say you’ve never taken the mercury. No syphilis. Okay, I’m sorry. You’re right, I should trust you.”

  He looked a little mollified. “Good.”

  “You must be telling the truth. I mean, there’s other evidence, right? You can’t have syphilis because insanity’s a late sign. Very late. And you don’t have any of the other stigmata. No ulcers, and your nose…” I reached and twisted the tip. “Still attached. Okay, now I really believe you. No, you don’t have parts of your body falling off. Lucky you. Your only other sign is that inflamed liver. There’s a known connection, but due to what? You hardly drank, and you don’t like opium. Forget needles. No seven-percent solution, you wouldn’t do that for fun. Drugs make you lose control. You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?”