The Lawman's Vow

“Just a little farther,” she urged. “Come on, you can make it.”

But she was wrong. He knew it by the time he’d dragged himself a half-dozen steps. His legs wobbled; his gaze was a thickening moiré. As they passed through the gate in the fence, the blackness won the battle. His legs folded and he collapsed, carrying her down with him to the wet grass.

Sylvie felt his legs give way, but she wasn’t strong enough to hold him. Still clutching his side, she went down under his weight. The grass cushioned their fall, but she found herself spread-eagle beneath him, pinned to the ground. For a moment she lay there, damp, exhausted and breathless. His head rested against her shoulder, stubbled chin cradled against her breasts.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, hear the rasp of air in and out of his lungs. His eyes were closed, eyelids hooded by inky brows. Black Irish—the term flitted through her memory. She’d heard her father use it, and not in a complimentary way. Was this the sort of man he’d meant?

Whoever he was, he was strangely, compellingly beautiful. But even in his helpless condition Sylvie sensed an aura of danger. A man wouldn’t sail this far up the coast on a pleasure outing. What if some dark intent had brought him this far? Whatever the circumstances, she had to get him up.

Working one arm free, she jabbed a finger at his cheek. “Ishmael? Can you hear me?”

He didn’t answer. Only then did she realize his body was unusually warm beneath his damp clothes. More than warm. Heaven save her, the man was burning up.

Shoving his face away, she began to struggle. His limp frame felt as heavy as a downed elk, but she managed to roll him to one side. As she scrambled free, he sagged onto his back with a low grunt. When she pushed to her knees and bent over him she saw that his eyes were open, but fever-glazed. She’d nursed her father through a couple of bad spells and she knew the signs.

Heavy-lidded, he gazed up at her. “Whatever we were doing down here, it was nice,” he muttered groggily. “Wouldn’t mind a bit more…”

“Hush. You’re ill. We’ve got to get you to bed.” She scanned the yard. Where was her brother? Why was the little imp always disappearing at the wrong time? “Daniel!” she called.

The boy trotted around the corner of the house, followed by the young spotted goat he’d adopted as a pet. “Where have you been?” she scolded him. “I told you to wait for us.”

“Ebenezer was hungry. I was getting his breakfast.”

“Ebenezer’s big enough to eat grass. Give me the canteen. Then go and fetch the flat cart. We need to get this man in the house.”

The canteen was still slung around Daniel’s neck by its woven strap. Slipping it over his head, he tossed it toward her, then scurried off to get the two-wheeled cart their father used for hauling salvage from the cliff top to the shed.

She lifted Ishmael’s head then tilted the canteen to his lips. He drank as greedily as caution would allow, gulping the water down his throat. Lowering the canteen, Sylvie dampened her hand and brushed the moisture over his face. The coolness startled him. He jerked, blinking up at her.

“Can you get to your knees? My brother’s bringing a cart, but we can’t lift you onto it.”

“I can walk.” His voice was slurred. “Just need a little help…”

He began to struggle. Sylvie seized his hands, bracing until he could get his legs beneath his frame. He staggered to his feet, clinging to her for balance. Again she was struck by his height and size. Such a man could be formidable. But right now he was as helpless as a newborn lamb.

Until she knew more about him, it might be smart to keep him that way.

Chapter Three

Sylvie slumped on the bedside stool in her father’s room. Getting the stranger to bed had been all she could do. He’d insisted on walking, but he’d reeled like a drunkard all the way. Only her support had kept him upright. Now he sprawled on the patchwork coverlet where he’d fallen like tall timber under a lumberman’s ax. His sand-encrusted boots dangled over the foot of the too-short mattress.

Now what? Sylvie’s muscles were jelly. Sweat plastered her dress and her muslin chemise against her skin. Uncertainty gnawed at her mind. Letting this man die was out of the question. She would do everything in her power to save him. But how would she deal with him if he survived?

Like a sick and injured wolf, he was helpless now. But once he recovered there was no guarantee he wouldn’t turn on her, with no more gratitude than a wild beast.

If only her father was home. Aaron Cragun understood things that couldn’t be learned from books. He would know how to handle this situation. But until he returned, she was on her own. And her first priority was to make him well again. Worrying about protecting herself from him could wait until then.

“Is he going to die?” Daniel stood in the doorway, his small face sad and puzzled.

“Not if I can help it.” She willed herself to stand. “Keep an eye on him while I put some willow bark tea on to boil. Then we’ll get him out of his wet clothes and under the covers.”

She kept a supply of dried willow bark in an empty coffee tin. Daniel’s mother had taught her there was nothing better for fevers, and Sylvie had made good use of it over the years. Adding some bark strips to a kettle of water, she set it on the stove to boil and hurried back to the bedroom.

She found Daniel at the foot of the bed, straining to pull off one of Ishmael’s waterlogged boots. The boy was leaning backward, about to topple.

“Here, we’ll do it together.” Sylvie reached around her brother to work one stubborn boot loose, then the other. As she peeled the wet woolen stockings off his feet, Sylvie noticed the hole in one toe.

A wife would have mended it… But what was she thinking? Married or single, it was no business of hers. Right now her only concern was saving his life.

“Wash these out in the trough and hang them up where the goats won’t get them,” she said, handing the stockings to Daniel. “Then you can rinse out the boots under the pump and stick them upside down on the fence posts. Make sure they’re in the sun, all right? We don’t want them getting moldy.”

He scampered off to do her bidding. Such a happy little boy, so full of life and mischief. She would die before she let anything happen to him.

But right now there was Ishmael, half out of his mind and soaked to the skin. She needed to get him out of those wet clothes.

His teeth had begun to chatter. Sylvia darted into the kitchen to check on the willow bark. The water was just beginning to simmer. It would need to come to a full boil, then steep for a few minutes before it was strong enough to do any good. That would just give her time to get her patient undressed and under the covers.

Returning to the bedroom, she resolved to start with his shirt. Cutting it off would be the easiest way. But he would need his clothes when—she wouldn’t say if—his condition improved. He was too long of limb to wear anything of her father’s.

His eyes were closed, his breathing a shallow rumble. Pneumonia from the chilly water, most likely, but she couldn’t be sure. She only knew enough to keep him warm, dose him on willow bark and maybe steam him to clear his lungs.

That, and pray.

Her fingers shook as she freed his shirt buttons. The sun had dried the fine linen fabric on the way up the trail, but the woolen undershirt beneath was wet from seawater and sweat. He moaned incoherently, barely aware of her as she worked the garment off him, pulling it over his arms and his dark head. His pale gold skin was nicked with scars, his chest dusted with crisp black hair. But this was no time to pay attention to such things. He was shivering. She needed to get him warm.

Sylvie had left the bedclothes turned up to keep them dry. Now, with his inert body on top of the quilt, there was no easy way to cover him.

Racing into the next room, she pulled the quilted coverlet off her own bed and returned to lay it over him. His eyes were closed. His dry lips moved as if he were trying to speak.

“Don’t try to talk,” she soothed him. “You’ll be warmer soon, and I’ll get you some tea for the fever.”

The tone of her voice gave Sylvie pause. She was speaking as she might speak to Daniel. But this stranger was no child. He was a powerful male who might take advantage of a woman he saw as meek and tender. She needed to let him know who was in charge here.

And since she needed to strip him of his wet trousers and drawers, there was no time like the present.

The task she faced was a daunting one. She’d cared for Daniel since he was a baby, but she knew little about the bodies of grown men. Her father, mindful of a young girl’s sensitivities, had taken care not to expose himself. The very thought of seeing a strange man’s nakedness was enough to make Sylvie blush. But she had a plan. Under the cover of the quilt, she could work his garments down and pull them off his legs, leaving him modestly covered.

Crouching at the edge of the mattress, she steeled her resolve, reached under the quilt and began fumbling with his belt buckle.

Through a red fog of fever, Ishmael sensed that somebody was unfastening his trousers. The light touch suggested a woman’s hand. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded. But if the lady was bent on a bit of fun, why was she being so stealthy about it? Why not just wake him up and give him a chance to cooperate?

Only one thing made sense. The little slut was trying to rob him.

His hand flashed out and seized her wrist. With a cry she reeled back, struggling to pull away. But even sick, he possessed an iron grip, and he wasn’t about to release his hold.

“Let go of me!” she sputtered. “Don’t you know I’m trying to help you?”

He forced his eyes open. His vision swam, but the blurred image of her face bending over him confirmed that she was pretty. “Looks to me like you’re helping yourself to my pockets…” The words came out slurred and garbled. What was wrong with his tongue?

“You’re sick.” She sounded like a schoolmarm scolding a backward child. “I’m just trying to get you out of your wet clothes and into bed.”

“Seems t’ me you’d have better luck if you got out of your own clothes first.”

“Stop it!” she hissed. “If you weren’t out of your mind, I’d slap your face.”

“A l’il rough stuff might be fun, if that’s what you enjoy. I aim to please…” He could feel himself sinking again. It was hard to breathe, even harder to think. His fingers loosened around her wrist. He felt her pull free as the fog closed around him.

“Stay awake!” Her hand seized his jaw and gave it a firm shake. “Once I get your clothes off, you’ll need to get under the covers. After that I’ll dress your head wound and give you something for the fever.”

“Fever…?” He mouthed the word. Strange he should have a fever when his skin had shrunk to shivering goose bumps. And now the woman’s hands were fooling with his trousers again, her fingers undoing the buttons and untying the tape that held up his drawers. Not that he was in a mood to argue—the sensation was not the least bit unpleasant. But he was still uncertain whether she was a nurse, a pickpocket or a whore.

“Now!” She yanked the waist of his pants and drawers, peeling them down his body and off his feet in one wrenching motion. By the time she’d left him naked beneath the quilt she was winded from the effort. Ishmael could hear her breathy gasps from the foot of the bed. His head had begun to fog again—a good thing, that. The words his mouth was too muzzy to speak would probably have gotten his face slapped.

He heard the splat of wet clothes dropping to the floor. “I’m going to turn down the bed,” she said. “You’ll need to get up for a few seconds.”

“Try…” He could barely lift his head. He was as weak as a newborn kitten.

“Here.” She bent down and slid a hand under his bare shoulders. “You can move onto the stool by the bed. Hang on to that quilt.”

Yes, the damn quilt. It mattered to her that he stay covered, Ishmael realized. Whoever she was, she was a female of tender sensibilities. A lady? She looked too poor for that. More like an innocent, church-bred girl. He’d do well to curb his tongue.

Wisps of corn-silk hair brushed his face as she bent over him. She smelled of sea air and homemade soap, fresh and clean. How could he have misjudged such a creature?

Or was he misjudging her now? His thoughts were wandering like half-witted sheep without a herder.

Her arm was beneath his shoulders now. She was straining to lift him, but his dead weight was too much for her. Gripping the quilt with one hand, he worked his free arm underneath his body and pushed himself up. Caught off guard, she stumbled backward against the wall. Fear flashed in her startled eyes, but only for an instant. As she righted herself, her pretty face took on a look of grim determination.

“It’s all right, girl,” he mumbled. “Do what you need to. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

“And neither do you, as long as you behave yourself,” she snapped. “Now, get out of the way while I turn down the bed.”

Keeping a grip on the quilt, he hoisted himself onto the stool. Being upright made the dizziness worse. The ringing in his ears was like a howling gale. An impression flashed through his mind—crashing waves, the pitching deck, the blue-white glare of lightning on wave-slicked rocks, then blackness. Was it a memory or only a trick of the fever? Whatever it had been, it was gone.

Sylvie barely had time to throw back the covers before he slumped on the stool. She seized his shoulders, tipping him toward the bed as he fell. He crashed onto his left side, his legs trailing off the bed. The quilt slipped to the floor.

“Ishmael, can you hear me?” She leaned over him. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed. He gave no sign that he’d heard her. Averting her gaze, she boosted his legs onto the mattress and flung the blankets over his body. Then she picked up the quilt and laid it on top of him. Even that, she feared, wouldn’t be enough to keep him warm.

He’d begun to shake again. His teeth chattered as Sylvie tucked the blankets around his shoulders. From the kitchen she could hear the faint whistle as steam escaped from the boiling kettle. She raced for the stove to lift it off the heat. A few minutes of steeping and the willow bark tea would be ready. She could only pray it would help. It was the strongest thing she had.

While she waited, she would dress his head wound.

Daniel’s Mexican mother had taught her what little she knew about herbs and poultices. One of the most useful remedies was a salve made of pine tar. Sylvie kept a jar of it handy for the scrapes and bumps that befell her active little brother. But she’d never treated anything as serious as the gash on Ishmael’s head. She could only hope it wouldn’t need stitches.

After tearing strips from an old flannel nightgown, she filled a bowl with warm water and returned to the bedroom. Ishmael lay on his side with his eyes closed. His body shook with chills.

Bending over him, she sponged away the sand-encrusted blood. The wound wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, but the bruised swelling around it indicated a fearsome blow, certainly hard enough to cause memory loss.

She applied salve to the wound, then made a cold compress of raw potato slices to bring down the swelling. For the deeper damage, there was no cure but time.

She bound his head with flannel strips and took a moment to check on Daniel. By then the tea was ready. As she carried the first cupful into the bedroom she could only hope he’d be able to swallow, and that the willow bark would do its work.

She would do all she could. But in the end, Ishmael’s survival was in the hands of fate.

Breathing was torture. In spite of that, he slept, woke and slept again, drifting between fever and quaking chills. He was dimly aware of a hand supporting his head, a spoon forcing bitter-tasting liquid down his throat. At first he resisted, gagging and sputtering. But he soon discovered that his tormentor would not give up. It was less taxing to swallow than to fight.

Sometimes he dreamed—vague, murky images that floated through his mind, unconnected to any meaning. A woman took form, tall, with cerulean eyes and a glorious mane of dark curls. Draped in burgundy satin, she was laughing, singing, teasing an audience of fantastically dressed skeletons. She glanced toward him with a saucy smile, then turned away and walked offstage to melt into a swirl of darkness. Sensing some evil presence, he called to her—Catriona! But there was no answer. She was gone and he knew, somehow, that he would never see her again.

In rare, clear moments, he rose to the surface, like a swimmer coming up for air. At such times, he glimpsed the glow of candlelight and a pair of calm gray eyes gazing down at him. His mind reached toward those eyes in a way that his hands couldn’t. They were his link to awareness, beacons to steady him on his wayward course.

In other moments there were hands smoothing wetness on his face, hands spooning the hot, bitter liquid down his throat again and again, forcing him to submit. He had no idea how much time had passed. When he next resurfaced, the flickering candle and the surrounding darkness told him it was night. But was it the first night, or one night of many? He had lost all sense of time. The only things that felt real, that anchored him to reality, were those beautiful gray eyes… .

Three days later, toward dawn, the fever broke. Sylvie had sagged forward into a doze, her head resting lightly on his chest. So attuned had she become to his labored breathing that the change woke her. She sat up with a jerk. The candle had guttered out, but the fading sky, through the porthole window, cast its pewter light on Ishmael’s face. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, his jaw dark with stubble. His cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat.

He was snoring gently, his body relaxed in sleep, and when she reached out to touch him, his forehead felt cool and damp. She’d feared for his life as the fever peaked, but whether by dint of his physical strength, her own feeble nursing skills or the hand of Providence, it appeared he was going to live.

How much would he remember when he opened his eyes? Would he awaken with full recall of who he was and how he’d come here? Or would he still be Ishmael the castaway, the man with no memories?

She had little doubt the memories were there, locked away in the depths of his mind. Last night, while the fever raged, he’d called out Catriona again, not once but twice. Whoever this Catriona was, his attachment to her was strong enough to pierce the veil over his memory.

Exhausted, she rose from the stool and stretched her aching limbs. Now that he was sleeping peacefully, all she wanted was to stagger off to her own bed and fall between the sheets. But how could she leave him to wake with no recollection of where he was? In his confusion, he could wreck the house, stagger off the cliff or wander into the forest. Worse, he could harm her or Daniel.

There was no way she dared leave him to wake up alone. But after three long days and nights of nursing she was exhausted. She needed rest.

She took a moment to check on Daniel, who slept in the loft above her own room. At first he’d spent most of the time popping in and out of the sickroom, running small errands and asking endless questions. By now he was worn out. He sprawled on his pallet, eyes closed in slumber. With luck the boy would sleep on for hours.

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.