Castaway Dreams (4 page)

"What about my well-being?"

"I do not care about that," Captain Franklin said bluntly. "You already paid your passage, and if the girl drives you into an apoplexy, that is your problem. When it becomes my problem, I shall deal with it. As I am now."

Captain Franklin stood, putting an end to the discussion.

"Good luck, Murray. You will need it."

Alexander wanted to run to his cabin, bar the door, and not emerge until the docks were in sight. Miss Farnham was nominally an adult and could see to herself.

But then he remembered her bedraggled and lost look at breakfast. She'd reminded him of the kitten he'd brought home when he was eight or so. His mother had glanced up from the barley soup she was stirring, took one look at the ragged patch of fur clutched to her son's chest, and shook her head.

"That is all we need, Alexander, another mouth to feed. A useless one at that."

"I will take care of him, Mama," Alex promised, holding the kitten so tightly that it mewled in protest. "I will teach him to be useful. He can hunt for us."

Janet Murray put her work-roughened hands on her hips and looked down at him. Her russet hair, the same shade as her son's but liberally streaked with white, was coming down from the tight knot at the back of her head. She squatted down in front of him on the scrubbed flagstones and rubbed one finger along the kitty's head.

"A hunter, hmmm? Will he bring me a nice deer, do you think?"

Alex looked down skeptically at the gray bundle in his shirt.

"I do not think he will grow large enough to bring down a deer, Mama, but he might grow large enough to hunt mice."

One of Janet's rare smiles creased her cheeks.

"That was a jest, Alex. Such a solemn little man! You must not be so serious about everything."

Alex had just looked at her. Boys whose mothers never married, those boys knew from the first time they heard the word "bastard" that life was serious. When his father's agent brought his mother her quarterly payments for Alexander's maintenance, he knew from the remarks the oily little scrub made, the way he looked at Janet, that life was serious.

Alex set down the kitten. Janet ruffled the curls atop his head, and said, "Fetch your wee kitty a drop of milk, son. If he's going to grow up to be a hunter, he will need his strength."

The kitten grew into a fine mouser named Robby, after Robert the Bruce, of course. If such a small scrap of nothing could become useful, perhaps there was hope for Miss Farnham on this trip.

He knocked at her door and her little dog commenced yapping.

Then again, perhaps not.

She opened the cabin door without asking who was on the other side. Alex resisted the impulse to run his hand through his hair in frustration.

"Dr. Murray! What a pleasant surprise."

"Is it?"

She blinked up at him.

"That was conversation, Doctor. It is what one says..." her voice trailed off and she looked befuddled.

"We must talk, Miss Farnham."

He stepped past her into the cabin. Trunks were open, and there was an explosion of fabrics in the small cabin, festoons of feathers and lace and ruffles and ribbons, mostly in pink, every shade from the faintest blush of dawn to a deep sunset rose.

Now he was really tempted to run back to his own cabin and bar the door, but Alexander had never yet shirked his duty, no matter how unpleasant.

Something crunched under his foot as he stepped into the cabin. He bent down and retrieved a book, which to his eye looked forlorn and out of place amongst the fripperies. Miss Farnham fluttered by him, closing the door behind her. He almost told her to leave the door open, but he did not want their conversation to be overheard.

"Have a seat...oh..."

Her voice trailed off as she realized every available surface was covered with furbelows.

"It is no matter, Miss Farnham. I will stand." Alex dropped the book on her pillow and took an armful of fabric off the one chair for her to be seated. The clean fragrance of lavender floated up to him. He resisted the temptation to bury his nose in it and breathe more deeply, and piled the frocks atop another mountain on the now empty bunk where Mrs. Cowper had slept.

Miss Farnham sat, looking up at him with an inquiring expression on her face. For a moment she reminded him of Robby, but then he remembered how canny the cat was and the image was lost.

Alex pulled down the edges of his waistcoat, did not run his fingers through his hair, and gazed at his new charge.

Miss Farnham was wearing a frock that was, of course, pink, a particularly bilious shade. Or maybe it was just the circumstances. Regardless, the garment was askew and he suspected it was misfastened. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, though some attempt had been made to bring it to order, a sad attempt evidenced by the trail of pins filtering down from a spot above her ear. The dog made a final "yip" at Alexander, then settled into a pile of cloaks, watching him with its beady eyes.

"Miss Farnham, I just came from a meeting with Captain Franklin."

"Was it a pleasant meeting?"

He stared at her.

"No. No, it was not a pleasant meeting. It concerned you, Miss Farnham."

The animation drained from her face and she looked down at the deck. Alex clasped his hands behind his back, forcing himself into stillness. He refused to feel sorry for her. He was feeling sorry enough for himself. But looming over her probably wasn't helping the situation.

This time Alex swept the fabrics off of Mrs. Cowper's bunk onto the deck, and while Miss Farnham stirred, she did not protest.

"Here is the situation, Miss Farnham," Alex said bluntly. "Captain Franklin made me responsible for your welfare for the remainder of this voyage. I need not tell you that your situation is precarious, a single woman aboard a ship full of sailors. The captain believes this is the best possible solution. If you cooperate, then nothing more will be said of this when we reach England."

"Do you really believe that, Doctor?" she asked, raising her eyes from her tightly clasped hands.

"Do you have another choice, Miss Farnham? Because if you do, I would like to hear it."

Miss Farnham made a noise that in a less elegant person might be termed a snort.

"Choices. No, I do not have a choice, do I?"

There was something about her that struck him then, but the moment was lost when she looked around her at the fabric filling the small cabin and said, "Then you will need to help me out of my clothes, Dr. Murray."

All those years of listening to the ship's guns pound out their charges must have affected his hearing.

"I beg your pardon?"

She looked at him, a vapid smile on her face.

"My clothes, Doctor. They fasten in back. Ladies are dressed by their maids."

"You do not have a maid," he said stupidly.

"No. I only have you, Dr. Murray."

He realized his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it with a snap.

"That is ridicul--"

"And you must help dress my hair," she said, waving at the mess atop her head.

"See here, Miss Farnham, I cannot spend my day being your maid."

"Oh, I do not expect you to do
everything
, Doctor. I can do my own mending."

Alex wanted to refuse, but he knew enough about women's clothing to acknowledge the dress fastenings might be a problem.

"Your hair, Miss Farnham. You cannot dress it yourself?"

"We come from different worlds, Dr. Murray. All my life I have had maidservants. It was their job to be useful. I never brushed my own hair, nor have I pinned it. That was always someone else's task."

Alex knew his interaction with ladies was limited, but this woman was nothing more than a pretty parasite, living off of the efforts of others.

"Then the first thing I shall do, Miss Farnham, is teach you how to be more self-sufficient. Give me your hairbrush."

Miss Farnham was not put off by his brusque tone. She rose unhurriedly and Alex stood as well. She smoothed down her skirts and, brushing past him, located a silver-backed brush beneath a pile of hats.

"And a ribbon, Miss Farnham. Something sturdy."

"La, Doctor, I do not believe 'sturdy' and 'ribbons' are two words that go together," she simpered, but she located a pink satin length beneath some shoes and passed it to him, along with the hairbrush.

"Sit!" he ordered, and the dog barked.

"No, Pompom, I believe the nice surgeon meant me," Miss Farnham said, seating herself again.

Alex seethed as he stood behind her chair and pulled the wandering pins from her messy coiffure. This was
not
part of his arrangement with Captain Franklin, and he was tempted to storm back to the captain and allow him to manacle Alex for the duration of the voyage.

But even as he was thinking this, his mind registered the feel of the silken strands gliding between his fingers. So much of his day was spent with his hands in unpleasant or noxious substances, it was a tactile awakening, feeling the curls wrap themselves around his hands, making him itch to...

"Dr. Murray? Are you ready?"

Alexander's mind snapped back to the task. It was a job, nothing more. No different than bandaging a wound or rolling pills. He took the brush from her soft fingers. He pulled it through, starting at the crown, working his way back to the ends, gently unsnarling the inevitable tangles.

From this angle behind her he could see the rise and fall of her chest. Her dress was misbuttoned at the neck and a patch of skin at her collarbone peeked through, paler than the soft pink of her garment, and flushed with life.

Wonderful. Now he was not only in this humiliating position, but he had to step back from the chair or Miss Farnham would realize he was not in control of his body. He concentrated on the task, but it did not help. Not at all. It did not matter that she had nothing but air between her ears. She was still a young and nubile woman and he had a good imagination. He envisioned these curls loose around her shoulders. Not like now, when she was dressed in her badly fastened gown, but falling over her naked shoulders as she sat astride him, her hair curtaining her ample breasts, breasts whose form he could make out from this angle above her. She would look good riding him...

"You have done this before, Doctor."

That was exactly what he needed to bring himself back to the present. The memories her comment evoked were of a different girl, one whose brown hair was straight and long.

"Yes, I know how to brush and braid a woman's hair."

"Your wife?" Miss Farnham's voice was a touch lower and huskier.

"No. I am a bachelor, Miss Farnham. Pass me the ribbon."

He efficiently braided the mass of gold and tied off the end tightly.

"This will do for you for while aboard ship, Miss Farnham. A simple means of keeping your hair in place. Do you know how to make a braid?"

She looked up from where she was examining the rope of hair falling over her shoulder.

"I think so."

"Bring me three more ribbons. I will demonstrate."

In short order he'd braided together ribbons of pink, yellow and violet.

"Ooooh, how colorful! I believe I shall wear that braided ribbon today."

"I made that to demonstrate for you how to braid, Miss Farnham, not as an adornment."

She looked up at him, a smile dimpling her cheeks.

"But even instructional materials can be pretty, Doctor. And do you not think that now you can call me Daphne?"

"No. Stand up and I will adjust the fastenings in your garment."

She sighed, but stood, obediently as a child. But she was far from being a child. He adjusted her tapes, all the while itching to unfasten them. Purely the natural reaction of a man too long at sea, and he reluctantly saw the wisdom in Captain Franklin's arrangement. If he was tempted by the charms of Miss Farnham, how much worse would it be for the crew, who were not medical men but sailors used to women of easy virtue?

"There. Your task until suppertime, Miss Farnham, is to go through your wardrobe and find those garments most practical. Look for items that can be fastened with a minimum of effort on both our parts."

"Oh dear. I imagine this means I will not be dressing for supper."

"If it involves me, no, you will not. Stay in your clothes, Miss Farnham until I return to undress you tonight."

His words hung in the air between them, and Alexander felt heat rise up his neck.

"Of course, Dr. Murray."

Alexander gave her a stern look, but her blank face showed no understanding of the double meaning of his words.

It was all to the good, her not being very bright. If she were intelligent, she might be dangerous.

* * * *

The cabin door closed behind him and Daphne buried her face in a pillow, biting it to keep from bursting into laughter. The look on poor old Dr. Murray's face! Really, as if she would have anything to do with a stick like him!

As soon as she'd thought the words though she remembered the feel of his strong hands in her hair. The way he stroked the hairbrush through, with just the right amount of pressure and no tugging made her want to purr like a kitten--or wag her tail like Pompom.

It also made her wonder who the woman was for whom he had performed this task in the past. A sister? A lover? She could almost imagine a younger version of the curmudgeonly surgeon, one whose face was unlined and less careworn.

Almost. It was too difficult to imagine that man ever being carefree enough to enjoy brushing and braiding a woman's hair.

She fluffed the pillow, smoothing it with her hand. It was simply proximity. The man had no address at all, and must have had his sense of humor surgically removed. George, for all his faults--and dying and abandoning her in Jamaica loomed large in her mind--at least made her laugh and feel she was special. He did not care if she was "useful," beyond her ability to bring thousands of pounds with her.

Daphne shook her head, pushing back thoughts of George's betrayal. The younger son of a younger son, George had worried about how he would make his way in the world. No wonder eloping with Daphne seemed like the opportunity he'd waited for all his life.