Intimate Strangers Affair Page 24

I sniffed. “Yeah, all right. I can’t help it. It’s a stupid girly thing.”

  “I’m glad you are a girl. I would not have you any other way.”

  “No?”

  “No. Just as you are.” He steered my face towards his. We kissed. He tasted like rum and salt and Miguel. His lips were cold, but not waxen. A good sign. There was life in him yet.

  “May I look?” I said, already lifting the edge of the blanket which covered him.

  “Go ahead.” He even smiled, which eased the lines of fatigue around his eyes and face. He was trying to stoke my confidence.

  My hands trembled. Was it that bad? I didn’t know if I could do this or not. I swallowed hard, prepared for the worst. I threw the blanket aside. His pants were completely shredded as if a hundred people had taken their daggers to it. Above his old scar was a fresh gaping gash through skin, soft tissue, a tendon. Old blood, no gushing. Relief seeped through me as I surveyed the damage. His entire leg was there. No amputation. No arteries had been severed. I made him move his foot, his knee. Everything worked. This wasn’t bad. Wasn’t bad at all.

  “Well?” he asked softly.

  “I’ll have to wash the wound. And put a few stitches.”

  His brow furrowed. “A few?”

  Ah, the discerning patient. He had my number, no doubt about it. “All right, all right. More than a few.” A lot more, I amended silently. Like ninety or so. “I’ll need to wash this out real good, and then-”

  His arm reached up and cupped the back of my head. He drew me down to him, and I felt his breath brush me, then the softness of his lips, his rough beard. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me tighter. His mouth slanted over mine. He possessed me. Totally. Ruthlessly. It was as if he was claiming me all over again, grabbing and celebrating, knowing what we might have lost.

  I broke free and gasped out loud. I blushed, aware of my brother standing nearby. “What?” Miguel kissed my ear. “When you kiss me, I don’t feel anything. No pain. It’s better than rum, better than your chloroform. Good medicine.”

  “Oh.” I blinked. Hadn’t thought of it like that. So this was for his own good. I could buy that. “Well, if you put it that way…” And I let him pull me back into his burning embrace, so that I could give him another dose.

  ***

  I held Miguel’s hand during the short voyage home, partly because I was feeling sentimental, partly because he would not let me go. I was feeling better now, almost optimistic. Finally, I felt warm and dry on the outside, wearing someone’s borrowed clothes. A shot of rum and coffee warmed me up on the inside. If Miguel was in pain, he didn’t complain. He didn’t even say anything when Claude picked up someone’s accordion and started yodeling a romantic ditty about a wandering sailor and a simple maid. No, Miguel was stoic all right. He lay there with an odd half-smile on his face, enduring those dratted lyrics, his thumb endlessly running over the tip of mine.

  I wasn’t half so reserved. That Claude! I threw a fish at my brother, who only ducked, laughed, then sang even louder.

  Soon enough, we sailed through the harbor. The busy dock drew closer by the minute. A tug chugged near, and its crew whistled at us. There were cat-calls, jeers, some rude gestures that anyone from any part of the world could understand.

  Claude sang even louder.

  My cheeks crimsoned. “Stop it. Everyone will hear you.”

  “So what?”

  “Claude! So help me…”

  “Yes?” My brother had that wide guileless smile on his face. The one he always wore right before he was going to fleece his mark. The big phony. I didn’t care if he’d just rescued us. Hero or not, I was ready to murder him.

  “What do you think about the song, Capitán? Do you think the sailor should have made an honest woman out of her?”

  For a brief moment, Miguel pursed his lips as if he were giving the matter serious thought. Then he barely shook his head. “I don’t know. I have no real appreciation for music.”

  Claude’s grin sharpened a little, his fingers still playing over the keys. “Is that so?”

  “Stop it,” I said. “You don’t have to defend my honor. Don’t be so ridiculous and antiquated.”

  My brother chuckled. “Doesn’t she slay you with those fancy-pants words?”

  “Yes. She does.” Miguel’s mouth tugged at one corner.

  What? I could hardly believe my own ears. I looked from one to the other. They were making fun of me. Both of them. The goons. What a lot of nerve. I tossed another fish at Claude and got him in his leg. I thought about throwing one at Miguel, too. A big fat one. But then I remembered that he was wounded and still technically under my care. A doctor never hit her patients with a fish. Especially a mackerel. They were large. And smelly.

  But Claude, well, that was another story all together. I had no restrictions there. I glared at my brother, who immediately resumed singing in his grand operatic voice. People on the docks stopped their work to stare. They pointed, grinned.

  “Claude Montague Arnaud! Cut it out right now!”

  “Don’t fuss, querida. He’s right.”

  “Huh?” Claude stopped abruptly, mid-lyric. The accordion fell to his lap.

  “You are right to be concerned for your sister. It speaks well of you, especially since she is so unconcerned for herself. She is thoughtless. Impulsive. But well intentioned. Generous. She gives of her heart. And today, she does me a very great honor. She has consented to become my wife.” Miguel unfolded my hand and planted a firm kiss on my palm. “We want you to be the first to know, Claude.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful news! So me and the boys won’t have to tie you behind the boat after all. I mean, being humanitarians and all, we were going to wait until after Nathalie here patched you up and you got better. But looky here. Now it’s one-hundred percent unnecessary. That’s great. I know Guido over there will be a little disappointed, but I’ll make it all right with him.” Claude paused for a moment and scratched his long jaw, looking speculative. “So there will be no…problems?”

  “None,” Miguel said firmly.

  “I see.” Claude drew back a little. Hands on hips, he matched Miguel’s stare: mocking gray met cool green. Unblinking, the men were absolutely still for a long, long time. They seemed to size each other up during the rest of the trip through the harbor as our felucca glided into port. The bow thumped gently against the pilings. Ropes were tossed, then hitched to the dockside spar. Cartwheels clanked over the pier, announcing the mongers who were already coming for the first catch of the day. The sounds of the wharf broke the spell. The men drew back, both glancing away at the same time.

  Finally, Claude said, “Well, well, well. The word of Don Miguel Cabrillo. Your word is pure gold. Or that’s what everyone says in these parts. So then, that’s…good. It’s all taken care of. Right, Nathalie?”

  Men! It seemed like they were part of some secret society, talking in some strange language known only to them. I folded my arms across my chest. “Back off, Claude. Everything’s fine.””

  I took the hand-up and climbed easily on to the dock. Xiang was already there, silent and omniscient as always. He was waiting for us with an open carriage. Claude and a fisherman lifted Miguel from his pallet and handed him over.

  “No,” Miguel said, and slithered out of Xiang’s arms. He winced when his bad leg touched the ground, then gave way. Xiang caught him in time.

  “Stop the macho act. You can’t walk on that,” I rushed to him and took one of his arms. Xiang put his arm under the other shoulder. Between the two of us, Miguel half-limped, and was half-carried to the carriage. All the movement had made him bleed again, so I rebound his leg and elevated it with a rolled up blanket. Then I sat near him, smoothing out his covers. He still looked too pale. Fluids. He needed lots of fluids.

  Leaning over the side of the carriage, Claude watched my fussing with an amused look on his face. Some of his comments were helpful. Most of them were not. Humming to himself, he drummed hi
s fingers along the quilted leather cushions. “So I’m a details man. I got a real head for specifics, data, numbers…” He winked. “When’s the date? Come on, no secrets. Spill the beans. When exactly are you going to get hitched? I want to have my evening suit pressed by then. And Catherine. She’ll be completely beside herself coming up with a whole new outfit. And a hat! You bet she’ll spend hours trying on those damn fancy things. She’ll get one with those fool feathers. Watch out! They’ll poke out your eye if you’re not careful. You better let Catherine know when the wedding is.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Can we talk about this later? We’ve got to go.”

  Claude had that bulldog expression that I knew and dreaded. He wasn’t going to let this one go. Not by a long shot. “Listen, sis—”

  “All right, all right,” I muttered, feeling more hemmed in by his persistence. I glanced at Miguel, my eyes begging him for a little help. He just looked thoughtfully at me, his lips firm and unmoving. Mister Silence. What a time for that! I was going to have to handle Claude all by myself. “Don’t be such a pest. Leave it alone for a while. We haven’t really had a chance to talk about it yet. Some time, okay?”

  “Today,” Miguel said from the cushions.

  “What?” My head whipped around. He looked lucid, but I wasn’t sure any more. He must be crazy to suggest something like that. Crazy or sick. Very possibly both. He needed medical attention. Soon. “But, Miguel, I…”

  His brows snapped together into that scary implacable line. After all he’d been through, he still managed to look stern. “Today,” he said softly.

  The Don had spoken.

  Chapter 10: Secrets Revealed

  Eventually, we compromised. It was the first time, practically a historic event. And just like any compromise, it was painful. Real painful, like passing a kidney stone. Hurts like hell in the middle of it, but feels better afterwards. Well, just barely.

  At least, Miguel said I could patch him up first. It took some doing, and by the time he finally agreed, I was just about ready to knock him out with my reflex hammer. Forget the chloroform. I was tired of haggling. I wanted him knocked out so I could just do my job before my nerves gave out. I could only steel myself so far and for so long before I would fall apart. I was so tired that the world seemed gray and fuzzy around the edges. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for a week. A week with Miguel. Door closed. World shut out. Make that two weeks. I can’t be sure, but maybe I mentioned that treatment plan to him. Maybe that’s what made him finally agree.

  Inside the surgery suite, the air smelled like chloroform and antiseptic, soap and old blood. Overhead, the newfangled carbide lights burned bright and warm, so that sweat prickled along my neck and trickled down my back. Even though it all seemed familiar, I felt ridiculously nervous. I had never felt so nervous my entire life. I was breaking in a brand new set-up. And worst of all, Miguel was the patient on my table. He was still, so utterly still that for a moment, I felt totally frightened.

  My hands clutched the scalpel. I forced myself to stare at his chest and watch its reassuring rise and fall. He was alive. And I needed to do my job while he was still out. Chloroform only gave you a short amount of time. I forced my hands to stop quivering and concentrated on the job ahead. Don’t think about it. Just do it. So I did. I pulled all the layers back together again: muscle, fascia, subcutaneous, skin. Stitch, pull, tie. Over and over. Everything back to its right place. Everything once again lashed down and secured. Soon, I wasn’t thinking at all. My fingers flew faster, sweat dripping into my eyes. Xiang mopped my forehead from time to time. By the time I had knotted the last stitch, I vowed that I would never operate on him again. God willing, there would be no other opportunity.

  Just one more snip. Snick. The scissor blades met for the last time. There. Done. I carefully set down my forceps and needle. I checked his breathing. A little faster. Every now and then, his lids fluttered. He was lightening. Soon, he’d wake up. With a little sigh, I walked to the sink and carefully washed my hands. Xiang poured more carbolic over them. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin felt raw and red. I removed every speck of Miguel’s blood until there wasn’t a single trace left. Thank God I was done. I couldn’t bear the sight of it or the feel of it any longer. It felt dirty and wrong. Shuddering, I put my clean hands on the small of my back and stretched all the kinks out. I glanced at the clock on the wall. A twenty-minute repair. The longest twenty-minutes of my life. It had felt like twenty years instead.

  Slowly I walked back to him. I took his hand and checked his pulse. Never again, mister. Never again.

  His mouth lifted at once corner as if he heard me. He sighed.

  While Miguel was still unconscious, Xiang moved him from the surgery suite into a private recovery room, which was set apart from the other infirmary beds. I watched as he slept peacefully in a comfortable four-poster. I stood next to him, caught somewhere between worry and protectiveness. My left hand gripped the bedpost so hard that the carvings cut into my palm. My other hand held up his crisp clean sheet. I felt weary and wobbly, my own legs unreliable and strange. Must be the after-effects of nerves.

  I surveyed my handiwork, feeling queer and pleased at the same time. One-hundred-and-two stitches. Some of my finest needlework. The frayed tendon had taken some finesse, but I had to admit it. I was rather proud of the results. Keep it clean, and he should mend all right. We only had to worry about infection. But I had plenty of bread mold for that, just in case.

  I carefully wrapped the bandage over his leg again. My fingers rested on his old scar that was wide and curved like his new wound. It looked like a mark left by a knife, or a…shark bite. No wonder he’d had those nightmares. And it was a wonder how brave he’d been in the sea today. My God. Facing the same thing twice. Once was enough. Thoughtfully, I covered him with the sheet, then a new star-block quilt. I smoothed down his hair. He was so different than the usual sailor who bragged about those encounters, whether or not they really happened. Everyone was eager to tell their tale, but not Miguel. He had said nothing at all. That was just like him. A secretive man until sleep had lifted the lock and the nightmares had escaped.

  Wondering, I murmured, “Have you been through this before?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, his eyelids flickering open at last. He turned his head until he found me. He barely smiled. Two faint grooves bracketed his mouth. “I was fifteen, and foolish.” He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I…learned.”

  I checked his pupils. Equal. His pulse. Slow but normalizing. Then I sat down on a chair next to the bed. “Where?”

  “Tierra Del Fuego.” His hand sought mine. Our fingers linked.

  The feel of his warm palm sliding against mine reassured me. He felt vital, alive, strong. I returned his smile. “I’ve been there too. A long time ago. We were in the same place, at different times. Too bad we just missed each other.” And somehow, when I said this, something itched the back of my mind. An annoying niggling itch. It didn’t stop. Didn’t seem right. “Just think,” I continued. “Isn’t that strange? We might have met earlier.”

  “We did.”

  “What?” I felt surprised, but not by his sudden announcement. It was my lack of surprise that surprised me. Because as soon as he said that, some part of me knew, as if I’d been expecting this moment all along. Bemused, I settled back into my chair, remembering the first time I’d seen him. On that voyage from Paris around the Horn. Even then, he had seemed so familiar. Maybe I had recognized him but I hadn’t realized it yet.

  “So we met in Tierra Del Fuego?” my mind searched, sorting, finding. James’s wharf-front clinic, those big lazy fans barely stirring the air, a hot summer. The El Niño had brought fish, and the fish had brought sharks and fleets. There’d been more attacks than usual. Many sailors lost, but some had made it. Some like Miguel. Yes, I did remember. How could I have forgotten? A red-haired angel, achingly beautiful even then. Almost too beautiful. Almost dead.

  “W
e almost lost you. The shark severed your Achilles tendon. Yes, I remember now. They said that you tried to rescue another sailor only…only he didn’t make it. And you barely did. James took care of you.”

  “And you did too. A young nurse. You were five then. Alicia’s age. Round nose, sunburned and peeling. Your hair was whiter then.”

  “From all that time outside.”

  “You wore pigtails. Tied with rope because you were always losing your ribbons.”

  That was me all right, I thought glumly. Still was. I was always losing things.

  “I remember being hot.”

  “You had a fever.”

  “So that’s why my hair was gone. I woke up and…nada. James shaved me. To cure my fever?”

  “Well, uhm…not exactly. I didn’t have anything to do with it, but I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. I never really can. He just does these things.”

  “Your brother,” Miguel said quickly.

  “Yeah, it was Claude. I mean, who else? He sold your hair. Red’s good for love potions, you see. He got eight bits for every lock.”

  “So much,” Miguel murmured. His lips quirked. “I hope I’m in no such danger now.”

  “Claude’s got other lines right now. You’re safe. At least I think you are.”

  “Hmmm.” Miguel sounded skeptical. He reached out and took my chin. Turned it to one side, then the other. “So different, and so much the same. Do you know that when I first woke up in Cape Town, I mistook you for a cherub? A sunburned cherub. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. You had a good touch. Even then. And now, even better.” He smiled suggestively, brushing his knuckles against my pink cheeks. “Will I make it now, niña?”

  “Of course, you will. What kind of talk is that? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Good.” He took both my hands and brought them to his lips. “Very good. Because we have a date to make. A very important date.”

  I straightened in my chair. “After all this? You must be joking.”

  “I never joke. And never about this. The padre is due…at six bells. He is a man of God. He’s never late.”