Princess at Sea (16 page)

“Which tack do you think the bastards took, Captain?” a familiar voice asked, and my pulse raced. It was Captain Borlett, his gravelly voice tight in anger. I didn't look at him, afraid of what I'd see. I pointed to where the pirate's island lay, and panic slid through me as I recognized Jeck's more elaborate uniform upon my arm that wasn't mine.
Am I dead? Am I a ghost sent to guide Jeck to find us so my soul could rest?

By all that is holy!
I felt in my thoughts, the scent of Jeck's leather jerkin cascading through me.
Tess? You're alive?

I jerked upon hearing my name in my thoughts said by someone else.
I was in Jeck. Heaven help me, I was in Jeck's mind!

Jeck spasmed, spilling his drink. He pressed it into Captain Borlett's hands and staggered to the aft hatch. I felt the smooth wood against Jeck's hand, and the blackness under the deck blinded my sun-struck eyes.

A sudden, real pain shocked me from my dream. I clenched, hearing a thin groan of agony. My heart raced, and my muscles cramped with a mind-numbing agony.

“No, Tess,” Duncan's voice intruded, real and insistent, full of a sympathetic regret. “You're alive,” he whispered. “I'm sorry. I know it hurts, but I have to loosen your bandage again—just for a moment—or you might lose your arm.”

It had been the overwhelming pain that pulled me from my dream. I reached for the nothing of unconsciousness, finding it taken from me. Hearing my breath rasping and ugly, I opened my eyes to find Duncan kneeling beside me.

I was in a hut, the light dim and the air stale. His hands were pressed against a bandage atop my shoulder where the cat had bitten me. I tried, but I couldn't speak. The pain from my shoulder took everything from me. His eyes pinched in apology, Duncan loosened his grip. My blood became fire. I managed a gasping moan, my eyes closing in misery, and I shook.

“I'm sorry, Tess . . .” he whispered, as my body started to jerk. I couldn't feel my arm or fingers. I instinctively fell into the breathing pattern Kavenlow taught me when I had been building up my resistance to the venom so many years ago. It made no difference. The agony was too much and lasted too long for my mind to endure. I was going to pass out.

I fixed my blurring gaze to Duncan, wanting to tell him I was sorry for not trusting him. I wanted my last sight—should I not wake up—to be of him. It was with an overwhelming feeling of relief and a tinge of guilt that the blackness overtook me, and the pain vanished.

Between one struggling breath and the next, I was back in a dream, my mind seizing the release from pain though I knew it lurked nearby, waiting to claim me. I was on a horse again, back in the same woods, the icy cold bite of melted snow replacing the stink of my sweat and fear of dying. The slow thuds of hoofbeats were soothing, like the pace my heart should be. The track was soft and damp, giving easily under the animal's pace. It came as no surprise that it was Jy I rode.

This time my cheeks were dry and my hands unburned. But Jeck was still behind me, giving me the impression of a wall with his heavy muscles hardened by long practice with a sword and the quiet demeanor that hid his intelligence.

Anything was better than the agony of my reality, so I eased back into his warmth.
It is only a dream,
I told myself and, allowing myself a small fantasy, breathed deeply, taking in the delicious scent of horse and leather. I was hurt and in pain; I would take my comfort where I could. And there was little that could instill more security than a pair of masculine arms about oneself, even if it was a dream. The memory of his backhanded compliment over dinner intruded, setting my thoughts to a softer bent. Jeck's front was warm, and I molded myself to him further, feeling his grip about me gentle.

Shoulders easing, I paid more attention to the thick woods than Jeck's arm wrapped comfortably about me. It was early, just past sunrise, cold and smelling of rain recently fallen. I was mildly curious to realize I was sitting far up upon Jy's withers, my feet politely on one side of him—I usually rode like a man. There was no saddle, making everything unreasonably difficult. The scent and creak of well-oiled leather was comforting, even if it stemmed from Jeck and not Duncan.

My thoughts flashed back to my cheat, the worry and fear in his eyes as he loosened my bandage and sent pain through me to save my life. I wanted to be angry with him since it had been his idea to put me in the pit with the punta, but he couldn't have known what it was, and he had seen me do amazing things in the past. And he had looked so worried as he tended me. The heartache that had filled me the first time I rode through this dream woods seemed to swell, pushing all else out. “I should have told you,” I whispered. “I'm sorry. If I could have done anything different, I would have told you.”

“Told me what?” Jeck said, his masculine voice echoing up through me where my back met his chest.

Surprised he had spoken, I twisted. The keen awareness of his eyes from under his parade hat decked with black feathers jerked me straight. His presence in my dream was as eerily aware and comprehending as mine. I would have fallen off Jy if the man hadn't tightened his grip on me. Suddenly, the warmth and comfort from him became a lie.

“Let go!” I shouted, squirming to get down, though it was my horse.

He pressed his lips, hiding them behind his neatly trimmed, jet-black beard and mustache. Annoyance flickered in his brown eyes. Muscles bunched in his shoulders, and he bodily lifted me and set me back atop Jy. The horse nickered, shying.

Undeterred, I swung the flat of my hand at him. He caught it, gripping my wrist where the ropes had burned them and sending new tendrils of dream-pain up my arm.

“Stop it,” he said calmly, bringing to mind the first time we had shared a horse. He had swooped down out of nowhere and abducted me, riding off with me across his horse's shoulders.

“Then get off my horse!” I demanded, pulse fast.

“I can't,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Believe me, if I could, I would.”

The surprise of that stopped me cold. “You can't?” I asked, and he released my wrist.

“This is your prophetic dream, not mine—I think. It would be better to play it out and try to learn something rather than to give in to your natural tendencies to hit me and run away.”

“I wouldn't run away,” I said while I rubbed my wrists, though I probably would have. I didn't trust him, and he knew it.

Jeck said nothing, not even a sigh, and I shifted atop my horse to try to find a more comfortable position. Immediately I slid back into Jeck as his hands were no longer around me. We walked through a patch of early-morning sun that had found its way through the canopy, and I watched the glimmer of light upon his quiet face, reading nothing but a tired worry.

“Prophetic dream?” I asked. “Is that why everything is so real?”

“What the hell is Kavenlow teaching you? How to crochet doilies?” he muttered.

It was condescending, prompting a quick, “He said I shouldn't trust prophetic dreams. That they could be manipulated by your unconscious to give you false truths. What the chu pits are you doing in my dream, anyway?” It was rougher than I had intended, but I let the emotion stand without any softening. I was thoroughly embarrassed. I had been snuggled up to him as if I enjoyed it. Well, I had, but that wasn't the point. He was a rival player. Not only was it inappropriate, but it could get me killed.

Jeck searched the underside of the canopy with his eyes, reaching to keep his elaborate dress hat atop his head. I knew he hated the black-and-gold monstrosity with the drooping feathers across his back even as he wore it without fail to official functions. “I have no idea why I'm here,” he finally said, not meeting my eyes. “But he's right. Unless you know what you're doing, a prophetic dream will do more harm than good. It's possible to make some use of them if you handle them properly.”

“How do you handle them?” I asked, thinking it was only a boast.

“Are you my apprentice?” he shot back.

Embarrassment turned to an old anger. “Never mind.” Peeved, I stared ahead, slipping backwards into him inch by inch as Jy plodded forward. I'd ask Kavenlow. If I survived. But if this was a prophetic dream, than it seemed likely I'd live past my punta bite. Somehow.

Jeck was silent, then slowly offered, “The skill lies in interacting as little as possible. Behave as if you're an observer, not part of it. Letting things happen and doing what feels right, even if it's something you normally wouldn't do. You can't partake of the future properly with only the memories of today.”

I didn't understand, and I wondered if he was being nebulous with the intent to make me feel stupid. Hearing my silence, he added, “What I mean is we started this with my arm about your waist, holding you. If you won't hit me, I'll put my hand back, and we'll be closer to the true future than we are now.”

My eyes narrowed, but it was hard to stay on Jy without a proper saddle, so I nodded. The memory of how I had curved my body to fit his rose high, and I recalled the sensation of protection I had felt.
And it had all been in my mind,
I thought.

His arm went about me hesitantly, with an imprisoning strength equal to that when he had abducted me. I looked at his hand, its tanned length holding me firmly. There was a flash of rightness, then it faded. “Not so tight,” I whispered, only some of my nervousness due to the fact that I was starting to understand what he meant. The rest stemmed from his holding me at all.

“I thought so, too,” he breathed, and his fingers loosened. The lighter grip imparted an uncomfortable feeling of intimacy. Even worse was that I could feel the rightness of it, almost like bolts sliding into place. I knew if I leaned back into him, setting my head against his cheek, that it would feel even more right, but I wasn't going to do it.

Instead, I handed Jeck the reins though I didn't want to. “Yes,” he said softly, the one arm of his clean uniform reaching past me. “That's better.”

“What else?” I asked softly so he wouldn't hear my voice tremble. I felt sick, my emotions conflicting horribly as I was experiencing both my real feelings of unease and fear and my dream emotions of a bitter anger, betrayal, and recrimination. I wondered if Jeck was suffering through the same thing.

“I don't know,” he answered. “We won't get the conversation right, but this?” He took a slow breath, his chest pressing into me for an instant before he pulled back. “This will happen.”

He sounded as unhappy as I felt, and I was glad the brief flash of the raft with my hands bound before me had been wholly my experience and not his as well. As least I thought it was only my vision; the Jeck aboard the raft lacked the awareness that this one had. But the voice in my head aboard the
Sandpiper
had been his.

“The dream aboard the
Sandpiper
?” I prompted hesitantly.

“That wasn't a dream,” he said, tension lacing his deep voice. “That is now.”

“But it's not possible to share thoughts,” I stammered, wondering if my frequent use of him as a subject to follow emotions had sensitized me to him more than was prudent.

I turned to face him, but he wouldn't look up from the leaves, the muscles of his square jaw tightening and relaxing as his thoughts shifted. “No, it isn't,” he finally said.

“We're sharing them now,” I protested.

Jeck's eyes flicked to mine and away. “As soon as I realized what was going on, I went belowdecks and dosed myself to my limit on venom,” he said, his voice soft and carrying a new, unfamiliar vulnerability and reluctance. “Just how much venom did you give yourself trying to find me? You're a fool. You know that, don't you?”

Now it was my turn to look away, though I thought I heard a sliver of astonished admiration in his words. “I wasn't trying to find you,” I said, barely above a whisper. “The pirates threw me into a pit with a punta. It bit me before I got it out.”

Jeck's breath audibly caught, and his grip about me tensed.

“I think I'm dying,” I said in a small voice. “I don't know why I'm still alive, except that Duncan has wrapped my shoulder and is slowly loosening it to release the venom in doses that I might survive.”

The clop of Jy's hooves grew hard for a moment as we passed over a rockslide, then became soft again. “That's not enough alone to save you,” Jeck said, his voice flat. “You were bitten in your shoulder?”

Fear stabbed through me, and my stomach churned.
I am alive,
I thought.
I am still alive.
“It scratched me, too.” I reached up to it, surprised to find a small bandage and dull ache under my dress. Surprised, I fixed upon his eyes.

“It looks like you survived,” he said, his face showing no emotion. “Let me see it. I want to know how long it's been healing.”

“No,” I said, afraid. I didn't want Jeck to know when he would capture me, ending the game my teacher had started.
I am alive. I will survive. The punta didn't kill me.

Jeck shook the reins harshly. With no warning, he reached out and yanked my dress from my shoulder.

Gasping, I awkwardly backhanded him. The flat of my hand met his cheek, shocking through me, but even as I hit him, the cold spring air of the coast touched upon my new skin as he yanked the bandage aside. Glancing at my shoulder, he pulled the wrap back up to hide it.

Heart pounding, I sat on my horse, furious, as his hand gripped my waist again. “You touch me again, and I swear, I'll dart you in your sleep!” I shouted, incensed. There was a faint reddening beside his eye where my hand had hit him.