When he fell silent, she whispered, “What can you see?”
“Beyond the storm, beyond the flash of blades… nothing.” Suddenly focusing, his gaze shifted to her face. “But I know they were after something I had. That was why they wanted me dead, so they could take…” He paused, then, face and voice hardening, continued, “The only thing of potential value I had on me at the time. They must have been after the wooden cylinder.”
He tensed to stand.
Slapping her hands on his shoulders, she held him down. “No! The cylinder is where we left it. You can get it in a minute, but first I need to finish checking these stitches, then I need to wash, dry, and rebandage. With stitches you can’t go out without a bandage yet.”
The look he bent on her should have withered steel, but she was adamant and gave not an inch.
With a disgusted humph, he settled back on the bench.
Logan let her finish tending his wound while he struggled to make sense of what he’d remembered. The facts were sketchy, disjointed, some visual memories, others just random bits of knowing .
When he added them up… his blood ran cold. He didn’t know who his opponents were, or why they wanted the cylinder, but of their viciousness, their utter disregard for life, their callousness, their unrelenting evil, he had not a shred of doubt.
He might not remember who they were, but he knew what they were.
The thought that such evil might have followed him there, might even now be tracking him to this isolated, windswept, and so beautifully complete little corner of the world-Linnet’s corner, her domain-shook him.
“I need to leave.” He met Linnet’s eyes as she turned from setting a washcloth aside. “They might follow me here.”
“Nonsense.” She frowned at him. “You heard the old seadogs-if they didn’t wash up in our coves, then they almost certainly perished.”
He frowned, shifted as she dabbed along his damp side with a towel. “Others might have been waiting ahead and now be searching-they might hear there was a survivor and come looking here.”
Linnet blew out a dismissive breath. “If they’re waiting ahead, then they’re either somewhere in England, or somewhere even farther away-we assumed your ship was heading north, but it might just as well have been going the other way.” Opening a pot of salve, she dabbed two fingers in, then-trying not to notice whose chest she was tending, or indeed anything about that chest at all-she smeared Muriel’s potent cream down the still red, but healing, wound.
“And,” she continued, doggedly stroking, “no one other than locals knows you’re here. How could anyone-especially off-island-learn you’re here?”
She glanced up, saw his jaw clench. Setting aside the salve, she reached for the roll of clean bandage she’d left ready.
“Matt and Young Henry went to the market with the cabbages the second day I was here-they would have mentioned it to someone.”
“No, they wouldn’t. Trust me-they know better than to gossip about something like that.” As she shifted around him, bandaging his chest again, she looked into his face, saw his disbelief. “If you need more reassuring on that point, both lads are ex-buccaneer brats. They know to keep their mouths shut about anything that washes in from the sea.”
Logan gave up arguing. He didn’t have enough facts to win, or even to make sense of his burgeoning fear. His pursuers were people any wise commander would fear-of that much he was now sure. And in that vein, the fear he felt wasn’t personal. All his fear was for her and hers.
He didn’t know why-couldn’t formulate a rational argument-but he knew what he felt.
Later, standing before the sideboard in the parlor and turning the wooden cylinder over and over in his hands, he still couldn’t say why he felt so strongly, but the premonition of danger, of impending threat, was impossible to deny.
After dinner, he sat on the parlor floor with the children and taught them another card game.
Linnet sat in her armchair and watched, not the children but him.
She could almost see the connections forming, the intangible links. Brandon and Chester he’d held in the palm of his hand from the moment he’d opened his eyes, but Willard-Will-was both older and more wary. Although friendly, Will had initially held back, hesitated to commit to the near hero-worship the younger boys had so enthusiastically embraced. But Will was now a convert, too.
All three asked questions-about this, that, male-type questions-all of which Logan either answered or used to gently steer their thoughts in a more appropriate direction.
The girls, too, Jen and Gilly, enjoyed his company, and while they didn’t take the same advantage of his presence, they, too, were benefiting simply from having a large, strong, adult male about with whom they could interact freely, and trust implicitly to care and watch over them.
Children knew. Her children-her wards-certainly knew. She, Muriel, and Buttons hadn’t raised them to be anything but quick and bright. Enough to be wary of strangers, ready to be suspicious, ready to react to any even minor detail that wasn’t quite right.
All of them had looked at Logan, looked at him and seen, and known he was trustworthy.
And in that they were correct. He was good with them, instinctively knowing when to be firm, when to laugh and tease. When to be kind. He was good with them in ways neither Edgar nor John, both of whom were fond of the children, could emulate. Where the older men struggled to find the ways, Logan simply knew.
She doubted he was even aware of it; his reactions to the children were immediate, innate. It occurred to her that while he might still be wrestling with what sort of man he was, she and her brood could fill in many traits-all the important ones, certainly.
He was good, kind, considerate without being overwhelming. He was commanding, yes, but only in spheres in which he was experienced. He was trustworthy, caring, strong, able, and, after his response to his latest recollection, she could throw loyal and protective-highly protective-into the mix.
She also suspected he could be recklessly brave.
And on that note, she decided she would stop-she was making him sound like a saint, and he was definitely not that.
Underneath his protectiveness and caring lay a dictatorial possessiveness she recognized all too well; she carried the same trait. That was one reason he and she would never be compatible beyond a certain point. For a few days, even a few weeks, they could brush along well enough, but eventually the inevitable clash would come-and she would win. She always did, and then he’d leave-if he hadn’t remembered and left already.
“Time for bed.” Pushing out of the armchair, she rose, let her skirts fall straight as she fixed the children with a direct look that slew their protests before they uttered them.
Edgar and John had already retired. Buttons was struggling to stifle her yawns. Muriel looked up from her knitting and smiled over the top of her spectacles. “Indeed. It’s grown late.”
Within minutes, Linnet was alone with Logan in the parlor, with only a single candle burning and the sound of footsteps retreating up the stairs. She arched a brow at him, wordlessly asking why he’d remained.
“I recall last night you said something about ‘doing the rounds.’ ”
She might have known. “I check all the doors and windows on the ground floor-a habit my father instilled in me.” Shielding the candle flame, she started for the back door, smiling wryly when Logan fell in behind her. “At one time, pirates, then later buccaneers, used to lurk in the southern reaches of Roquaine Bay.”
“I’d always heard that folk from the Isles were descended from pirates.”
“You heard aright-we are.”
“Are there any pirates-or, for that matter, buccaneers-remaining in these parts?”
She smiled. “Nearer than you might suppose. But they’re no threat to you, much less to this household.”