Castaway Dreams (11 page)

"Dr. Murray? Are you going to help me out of my clothes like you did on the
Magpie
?"

He put up his line and said, "Take off your hat and turn around, Miss Farnham."

She did, and Alexander began to undo the tapes of her dress.

"You will want to put your dress or some other garment back on when I am finished, Miss Farnham, otherwise you will be sunburned."

"My night rail has been drying in the sunshine. I could put that on."

He made a noise of assent as he worked on the corset strings, knotted and stiff from their soaking. He did not want to cut them, knowing they might need the string, so it took longer than he wanted, his fingers brushing against the fine linen of her shift, the skin beneath it warm and rosy with health. She had a tiny mole just beneath her shoulder blade, which made him wonder if there were other interesting marks on her body. At that point, the knot came unraveled and he loosened the strings while Miss Farnham took a deep breath.

"Dr. Murray, that feels so good."

She arched her back and stretched, and he looked steadfastly out to sea, trying to think of the woman with him as just another collection of skin and sinew, bone and organ, no different from any other human he'd had his hands on over the years.

It wasn't working. Here he was, in the middle of the ocean, and his unruly body was sending him urgent messages. He knew why, he'd seen it before with men after battle. When you come close to death, there is a drive to procreate, to prove yourself alive. It was not that he was attracted to Miss Farnham
per se
, simply that she was here, with him, and she was the right gender to bring his more primitive urges to the fore. That's all.

"Do you know what would be perfect, Dr. Murray?"

Yes, as a matter of fact he did, he'd seen it demonstrated at a brothel in Naples...

"If you would scratch my back, because it is so itchy."

And that wasn't it. But it was probably a better idea than what he was fantasizing about, so he said, "Lean forward and I will loosen this some more, Miss Farnham."

She did, and he pushed the sides of her corset apart, the shift beneath looking bedraggled as it clung to her skin in the tropical heat. He lifted the fabric off her back and she sighed, and then she moaned in contentment as he lightly scratched at her delicate skin.

"I wish there was something I could do for you to return the favor, Dr. Murray."

Don't say it, do not say it
, he told himself firmly.

"Thank you, Miss Farnham, but I am doing well." He'd stripped down to his shirt earlier, and she craned her head over her shoulder and said, "You men have such an easy time of it, your clothes are so simple compared to women's clothing.

"Of course, there is the dandy set," she went on. "George was like that. He would spend all morning with his valet, having his cravat tied in a style that would make a statement."

"What was the statement?"

She blinked and turned her body at an angle to look at him.

"I do not understand."

"If someone spends an entire morning on something as frivolous as tying a neckcloth to make a statement, then what is the statement he is trying to make?"

She stared at him, opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"Perhaps the statement is that clothes make the man?"

"Do they, Miss Farnham?"

"They did for George. That is what he was known for--always being properly turned out and prepared for any social situation."

"Let me ask you a question, Miss Farnham. When you die, do you want people to remember your life by saying, 'She was always properly turned out and prepared for any social situation'?"

"I never thought about it."

"No, I imagine it is not a question that would arise in your social set."

"I think being shipwrecked is making you cranky, Dr. Murray."

"It does have that effect on me, Miss Farnham. Now, I suggest you try to rest during the midday heat. I will do the same, and then we will try to catch some supper."

"We?"

"This is a joint venture, Miss Farnham. You brought the equipment, I bring the skill."

He turned around to pull the canvas into a shape where it would shelter them from the sun without stifling them, while Miss Farnham made noises behind him that indicated she was wiggling out of her corset and putting on her night rail. When he turned back to her she looked modest enough, the long sleeved garment buttoned up to her chin, but the fabric was sheer, and he could see her shift beneath it, and beneath that, shadows of two nipples that he had not had the pleasure of seeing but if he had to guess, he would say they were rosy pink, just like the rest of her.

Focus, Alexander
, he told himself. Letting his imagination run wild only made it worse.

"Give me your dress and I will put it on top of the canvas to dry out."

She passed him her dress, sadly faded and salt stained, and he spread it out to dry, pulled the canvas to the side for an impromptu awning and settled himself next to her. The dog wedged itself between them, which was probably just as well.

The heat of the day and the rocking of the boat combined with his restless night to send his eyes drifting shut. The warm body of the woman next to him, even with her cur separating them also relaxed him. Miss Farnham might not be the perfect companion in a shipwreck, but she was another soul adrift on the seas and her company was welcome. He had no desire to be like Robinson Crusoe, alone and friendless until he found his savage Friday.

"Whales."

He turned his head, and saw Miss Farnham looking out from under the canvas. Her hands were clasped across her stomach, and a slight smile hovered around her lips, deepening her dimples.

"You see whales?"

"In the clouds. See, that one up there?" She pointed. "It looks like a whale, don't you think?"

He looked where she was pointing, over the edge of their toes. Her bare feet were alongside his, hers much daintier, the nails neat and smooth. Her foot had a delicate arch to it, and the toes looked...

If Miss Farnham's toes were looking like something he would want to nibble on, he needed to be sure he caught more fish this afternoon.

"It looks like a cloud. Which it is."

She turned her head and looked at him.

"Have you never lain in a meadow and imagined what clouds resemble, Dr. Murray?"

"There is no time in my life for such foolishness."

"Never? Not even when you were a boy?"

He wanted to tell her that some children grow up working and being useful, fishing for supper, weeding the kitchen garden, snaring rabbits.

But there had been summer afternoons when he'd stretched out on the heather, looking at the blue sky above him and imagining the shapes passing overhead were ships and castles, dragons and mounted knights casting shadows on the hill.

"You have time now, Dr. Murray. What do you see in the clouds?"

He squinted and tried to remember what it felt like to see shapes up in the sky, rather than indicators of rough weather or smooth sailing.

"Sheep?"

There was a soft giggle to his right. Odd, that noise did not set his teeth on edge as it used to. It must be that he was now accustomed to it. Rather like becoming accustomed to a corn, or a callus.

"All clouds look like sheep, Doctor. Or sheep look like clouds. Surely you can do better than that."

He turned his head and looked at her. She was watching him, and her eyes were soft and dreamy, the thick lashes shading them from the bright sunlight.

Mere inches separated them, and all he would have to do is move his head slightly forward, maybe toss the dog over the side, angle his mouth over hers, and he would know if she tasted as luscious as she looked.

Madness. He was sunstruck and delirious from being out on the water to be even thinking such a thing now, with this woman.

Why the hell not?
whispered a voice in his head.
Do you truly believe you'll be rescued?

"I see a ship," he said abruptly. "A ship, in the clouds. See there? That one on the right? It looks like a sloop."

"What is a sloop? Did you serve on one?"

Instead of following his urges, Alexander told Miss Farnham stories of the ships he'd served on over the years, ever since becoming a surgeon's mate.

"So young to go to sea!"

She watched him, her head propped up on her arm.

"Was that your dream, in Scotland? To go to sea?"

"You knew I was from Scotland?"

"I can hear it every time you open your mouth, Dr. Murray. The way you roll your
rrrrr's
sounds...tasty."

Tasty--a most inappropriate word. He stopped looking at her and watched the clouds.

"My dream, Miss Farnham, was to become a physician."

"Why didn't you? You are a very clever man, Dr. Murray. I am sure you could have read all the books they would give you to read."

"It takes more than a good mind to be a physician, Miss Farnham. It takes money to pay for schooling."

The scene in Janet Murray's neat kitchen was still fresh in his mind, his mother asking Fieldhouse for funds to send Alexander to Edinburgh.

"Funds for the boy's maintenance do not include schooling him at that level, madame. He is old enough now that he can apprentice himself to a surgeon or an apothecary and learn a suitable trade."

A bastard should not try to rise above his place in the world
was the unspoken message.

"What about now, Dr. Murray? The war is over. You could go to school now and become a physician if you wished, couldn't you?"

"Aboard ship a surgeon also acts as a physician and an apothecary, through necessity. I physicked men and set their bones and dispensed drugs to them. It was my life for many years but now..." He let his eyes follow the fluffy shapes overhead, thinking that one looked like a dog chasing a ball. "Now I will set up a surgery on land."

"You sound very sure we will make it to England."

"Of course we will. It will just take longer than anticipated."

He said this firmly, and with conviction, because that was what they both needed. He had survived other shipwrecks, they would survive this one. Both of them.

"What of your dreams, Miss Farnham? Do you dream of hats and gloves and shoes?"

There was silence, and when he turned his head, Daphne Farnham was looking up at the clouds.

"No, Dr. Murray, hats and gloves and shoes are my life. They are not my dreams."

He looked at her but she had lain back down, her eyes were closed and the dog was cradled beneath her arm. He followed her example and closed his eyes, and they must have napped, for when he awoke the sunlight was coming off the canvas from a lower angle and the dog was barking.

"Look, Dr. Murray! A bird!"

Alexander sat up and saw Miss Farnham pointing over the bow. He was still muzzy headed from sleep and thought she meant a cloud, but the dog jumped up and barked again and he heard the cry of a seagull.

Seagulls meant land, and he moved so quickly the boat rocked dangerously, but he scanned the water looking for--

"There! That smudge on the horizon! Is that land, Doctor?"

"It is land, isn't it, Doctor?"

Daphne felt like laughing and clapping her hands. She was right to believe Dr. Murray would find a way to save them. He was so learned, he knew everything! Except how to find shapes in clouds. And he probably did not know how to tie his neckcloth into a Mathematical, but right now that was not as important as making it to land.

He was scanning the horizon, his hand over his eyes. A strong hand, she'd seen him bending the pins into hooks, a hand that was sure in its movements. A surgeon was like a carpenter or a cooper. He had to have capable hands and strong arms and shoulders for the work he did. The only other man she'd seen in his shirtsleeves was her late George. When she caught glimpses of his skin it had been the same pasty white as the fish pieces she'd eaten earlier, and instead of muscle there was...nothing. The idea of expending energy needed to build muscle would have made George shudder.

"Fitting into my coat in the morning is exhausting enough," he'd once said to her as he picked a minuscule piece of lint off his sleeve. "Do you have any idea, my dear Daphne, how hard it is for my valet to wedge me into it for the perfect fit?"

Daphne had sympathized since she was daily bullied by her dresser into a corset that would give her the shape gentlemen rhapsodized over. Truly, one had to suffer to be fashionable!

Dr. Murray really did not understand these things, but that was all right, because he thought about other things. Maybe there were some women who would want to be marooned with a handsome and entertaining fellow like George, but right now there was no one she would rather be with than dear old Dr. Murray. He knew how to fish with a hair net and signal with mirrors and perch off the bow of the ship. George would never have known how to do that!

Dr. Murray's face was shadowed by the growth of his beard, the hair glinting like a silvered fox's pelt in the sunlight dappling the water. It was a strong jaw beneath that stubble, and the column of his neck was as solid as the rest of him.

Daphne swallowed, and reached for her water flask. It certainly was warm during this part of the day!

Dr. Murray moved away from her toward the bow of their boat and she grabbed Pompom to keep the dog from following. He gazed out toward the dark line in the distance, following the seagull as it winged away from them.

"I believe you are correct, Miss Farnham. That looks like land."

"How will we make it there?"

He looked back at her and his eyes were glowing in the sunlight. He did not smile at her, but his face was lighter, less strained.

"The current will carry us close enough that I can put the oars to use."

Daphne sat up straight, clutching Pompom on her lap.

"Are you sure?"

He shrugged, then looked back at the horizon. Was it her imagination, or was the line larger now, darker, more clearly defined?