Aching for Always (27 page)

Hugh jerked to a thickheaded wakefulness, burning like his limbs were afire.

A trickle of broth dribbled into his mouth. He lapped it weakly. He felt as if he were made of lead. It required the most daunting attention to swallow.

“You've been sleeping,” Roark said. “How do you feel?”

“Awful.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “What have I said?”

“Oh, a number of things. You spoke of the young lady.”

Hugh had a foggy memory of Joss reaching for him, caressing his head. Had it been a dream?

“I hope I did not—”

“You did not. You said nothing to embarrass yourself or her.”

“And what else?”

“You spoke of a yellow bridge and something you called a ‘skyscraper.'”

“Oh dear.”

“You were on quite a tear,” Roark said. “Called the skyscraper
hubris
. Then there was the usual—our points on the wind, the dismal state of the chains, calling for your best glass. You did comment upon my sailing once or twice.”

“I hope not unhappily.”

“If it had been, I would hardly repeat it.”

“And that's all?” Hugh felt awash in snippets of dreams, like rats biting at his extremities. He wasn't sure what was real or imagined.

“Well, there was something about a villain named Reynolds—”

Hugh clapped an arm on Roark's sleeve. “What did I say? Was she here?”

“Do not fret yourself. She was not here. You accused Reynolds of the worst sort of mischief. I take it he's the one who . . .” He made a gesture toward Hugh's shoulder.

“She mustn't know.”

“I shall not speak of it.”

“No! Do you hear me? She must not know!”

“Aye, sir. You must rest. Your fever is getting worse.”

A knock sounded. “Roark?” Joss called. “Is Hugh awake? May I come in?”

“Send her away!” Hugh cried. “Send her away! I don't want her here.”

“Sir—”

“Not even for a moment. Only you. You or no one.”

Roark sighed. “I shall be returning her to the islet within the hour. Are you certain you don't want to say good-bye before she goes?”

“No,” Hugh said with a fevered certainty. “Get her off the ship.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR
 

“I don't understand,” Joss said, ignoring the men holding the water-crossing seat for her. “Why wouldn't he want to see me?”

“He's very feverish, m'um,” Roark said. “Do not take it ill. I'm sure he does not know what he said.”

“Then let me go to him.”

“That wouldn't be a good idea. He's resting. Please. The seat is ready. I promise I will give him your report on the map when he is better.”

Knowing her departure was imminent, she had written up her thoughts, though other than letting him know the cartouche on the Edinburgh map was identical to the cartouche on the one he'd taken from the map room, there wasn't much to tell. It would help, she thought, if she understood a little more about what Hugh was looking for and, more important, why. But lacking that knowledge, she could do no more than add her belief that the map missing from the map room shared the same cartouche as the other two. Then she sealed the note and gave it to Roark. She hoped it would help.

Roark had returned her phone, and she knew from checking it surreptitiously below that it was after five. Even if her arrival in Pittsburgh was as quick as their departure, she'd have to hightail it to the airport to make the flight to Vegas. Nonetheless, she felt very uneasy about leaving Hugh.

“Will he return?” she asked, tilting her head toward the islet and the twenty-first century beyond it.

Roark shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know the captain's plans.”

Joss stepped into the rope seat reluctantly. One of the men tightened the knots around her legs and another the one across her lap.

The surgeon appeared on deck and caught Roark's eye. A signal of some sort passed between them.

“What is it?” she said.

“If you'll excuse me,” Roark said, “there is an issue below. Mr. Vanderhaut, the ship's bosun, will oversee the transfer on this side and Mr. Ross is already on the islet to help you there. Make that a Spanish bowline, if you would, Mr. Vanderhaut. This is precious cargo.”

“What is the issue?” she demanded. “Does it involve the captain? Is the captain all right?”

“Miss O'Malley, he is in good hands. Mr. Lytle will do everything he can.”

Everything he can?

The chair jerked and suddenly Joss was aloft and moving fast. She squeezed her eyes shut automatically, trying not to let unbridled terror run rampant, but her curiosity was too great. She slitted her eyes and saw Roark's face pale as Lytle spoke to him in whispered tones.

“Take me back!” she cried to the bosun.

“You'll be fine,” he boomed. “Look at the sky.”

The sea churned beneath her, in a neat imitation of her gut as she saw Roark tear down the ship's stairs. “No, it's not the water! I want to see the captain!”

But Mr. Vanderhaut only waved.

When she was in sight of the islet, she repeated her demand. Ross, however, seemed far too busy working the pulleys to respond. When she was on steady ground—the adjective “safe” being out of the question on the windy, sea-swept rock—Ross began to release her from the seat.

“Don't know what sort of Merry-Andrew show these contacts of yours think they're running,” the persnickety Scotsman muttered. “'Tis beyond comprehension that a ship would collect you from here rather than the safety of our deck. I hope for both your sakes you're worth the effort.”

Not exactly a man likely to grant her a favor. “I want to go back.”

“To the ship?” He hooted. “My orders are to ensure you're comfortable here, then leave as quickly as possible.” He released the final rope and stood.

“Could you at least ask them how the captain is?”

He gazed out to the ship, moored a good quarter of a football field away. “I dinna have flags, lass.”

“Is there any other way?”

He sighed and cleared his throat. “Hail!” he shouted.

The men on deck stopped, but the winds were strong.

“Hail! Report the captain's health!”

The men gazed at each other, confused, and Ross repeated his request.

There was a scuffling on deck, and Joss hoped that meant someone was consulting Roark or Lytle. Meanwhile, Ross was knotting himself into the seat. At last a flag went up, then another, then another. Three flags strung on a line.

“What does it mean?”

He pondered. “My signal reading is not as strong as it might be. The first is ‘Status.' The second . . .” He squinted, rubbed his eye and looked again. “I believe that's the signal for ‘Steady course.'”

“And the last?”

He tightened the last knot and gave the rope above his head a strong jerk. “‘Stay clear.'”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE
 

P
ITTSBURGH
, P
RESENT
D
AY

Joss landed in the alleyway with a crash, scattering some trash cans. She put a hand to her aching temple and crawled to her feet as a shower of sparks rained down on her head. She'd waited until Ross touched on deck and the rope had gone slack before making her way to the little cave, and it had been with a heavy heart that she'd watched as the men on the ship ran onto the yardarms, ready to make sail as soon as Roark or one of his appointees spotted the telltale sparks that would mark her departure.

Almost a whole day had passed since she'd left. She'd left Di waiting for her and then lied to her in order to get her to lie to Rogan. She'd left Rogan in the midst of a party when she should have been at his side. And now she'd left Hugh when he might be very ill. If she wasn't careful, she was going to end up like her father, irreparably hurting the people she loved.

And now her teetering business was at risk. If she wasn't in Vegas and prepared for the meeting with that
buyer tomorrow morning, she could kiss good-bye a sale that might pull the company from the brink.

She pulled out her phone. Thirteen messages. Great. She realized she'd left her wallet at the office, which meant she'd have to run to the USX Tower before grabbing a cab.

She broke into trot and dialed Di. Di answered in half a ring.

“Where are you?”

“I'm . . . back.”

“And?”

The ground was still shaking, and Joss could tell she was about to pass through the dome. “And I had my adventure.” Mountains of guilt lay piled on her shoulders. She hated lying to a friend. She hated lying about this.

“You slept with him?”

She stepped through the dome and the images flashed by. One, however, caught her eye, and she stopped.

“Joss?”

“What? No. We kissed.” The snippets of conversations and faces went by faster and faster. Hugh, Fiona, her.

“You were gone all night and all day.”

“We did a lot of talking.” Hugh again, then sparks and two men—no, three men on the islet with their backs to her, with a woman and her child nearby. The men were conspiring. That was the only word for the low tones and shifting eyes and—

“The way you said that sounds serious,” Di said. “Do you mean about the wedding? Are you thinking of calling off the wedding?”

“Yes—I mean, no.” Now, why would she have said yes? “I don't know. No.”

“That's a lot of answers.”

“I don't know what I'm feeling.” One of the men in the vision turned. She gasped and nearly dropped the phone. It was her father!

“Joss? What? What happened?”

“I-I have to call you back.”

Unthinking, she slid the phone into her pocket and let the images fly by. Good God! It came again and again, interspliced into dozens of other pictures, but there he was. Her father! Was the woman her mother? Was the baby
her
? Had they traveled back in time? Had he known of the alley passage? And how did Joss even know what she was seeing was the truth and not just part of someone or something else's desires?

She jerked her head back to gain a moment to think, but the lure of the images was too strong. She saw her father again, this time in contemporary clothes. He walked past the alley on William Penn Place with her mother at his side. She cast a heartbreaking look down the little street as he urged her forward, oblivious to both the alley and the glance. Then Hugh replaced her father in the images, and Joss and her mother, and then Di appeared and the three of them were walking up the street after the ill-fated visit to his shop two nights ago!

If that part was true—and she knew it was—what did it mean for truth of the other parts?

The scene grew dark, and the images slowed and drenched themselves in sepia, their edges bending and curling like ancient daguerreotypes. Mr. Lytle appeared on the deck of Hugh's ship, and Roark's face paled again and he ran. Then a hazy figure appeared at the bottom of
the alley, framed in shadows and holding a gun. Sparks flew, and the figure ran through them. She could see the empty eyes shaded by the stocking cap and the shoulders so like Rogan's.

Take off the cap. Take it off.

The head drew nearer, like a zoom to a close-up in a movie, and a hand reached for the bottom of the cap.

Joss jerked out of the dome, too afraid to look.

She didn't want to know. She didn't want to think it. It was ridiculous. The man who'd never done anything but treat her like a queen? Foolish vision. She cursed herself and started to run.

Rogan shooting Hugh? No. Why? For what purpose? She thought of those fevered ramblings and Roark's worried face. No one but a madman could have shot someone on a busy thoroughfare and then abandoned him in a pool of blood.

God, she shouldn't have left. She shouldn't have left here, and she certainly shouldn't have left Hugh. It seemed like the moment she decided to look for a Mr. Mistake, the world had come to pieces.