Lord Of The Privateers. Stephanie Laurens

Isobel’s lids fell, and her head tipped back, and she started to crumple—

      With a muttered oath, he caught her. It took a second for him to register that she truly had fainted, that she was limp and unconscious. He’d never known her to faint before—panic spiked and swirled into the cauldron of emotions surging through him.

      He juggled her, then hoisted her into his arms and straightened.

      He felt as if he was swaying, but the sensation owed nothing to the motion of his ship.

      A rush of footsteps neared. “What did you do to her?” The boy skidded to a halt an arm’s length away. He looked up at Royd, sparks and daggers flashing from eyes that were all Isobel, his young face pale—Isobel-pale—but his jaw setting in a way Royd recognized. Fists clenching, the boy glared up at him. “Let her go.”

      The command thrumming in the words was recognizable, too.

      Royd dragged in a breath. Looking into a face so like his own was only adding to his disorientation. “She fainted.” At present, that was the most critical issue. He hefted her more securely against his chest. “We should lay her down.”

      The boy’s glare barely eased. “Oh.” He glanced around. “Where?”

      “The bed.” Royd nodded to the bed hidden behind its hangings. “Draw back the curtains.”

      The boy rushed to do so; he grabbed handfuls of the heavy tapestry fabric and hauled the curtains to the bed’s head and foot, revealing the sumptuously plump mattress and large pillows.

      Royd knelt on the bed and laid Isobel down with her head and shoulders on the pillows. He’d never dealt with a fainted female before, and that it was Isobel only added to his near panic. He undid the ribbon holding her bonnet in place, then raised her head, pulled the now-crushed bonnet from under her, and flung it aside. He eased her back to the pillows, loosened the ties of her cape, then smoothed her hair back from her face.

      She didn’t wake.

      The boy scrambled up from the foot of the bed and crawled to kneel on her other side. He peered at her face. “Mama?”

      Royd sat on the side of the bed. He picked up her hand, drew off her glove, then chafed her hand between his; he’d seen someone do that somewhere.

      The boy studied what Royd was doing, then picked up Isobel’s other hand, tugged off her glove, and roughly rubbed her hand between his own. His gaze locked on her face as if willing her to wake.

      Royd found his gaze drawn to the boy’s face, his profile, but the strangeness of looking at himself at an earlier age was too confounding. He forced his gaze to Isobel. He frowned. “Does she often faint?”

      The boy’s lips set. He shook his head. “I’ve never seen her do this before. And the grandmothers have never said anything, and they yammer about such things all the time.”

      Grandmothers, plural. Royd made a mental note to investigate that later.

      “Will she be all right?” The boy’s quiet words held a wealth of anxiety.

      Royd wanted to reassure him, but wasn’t sure what he should say. Or do. After flailing through the clouds of distraction in his mind, he reached for Isobel’s wrist, checked her pulse, and found it steady and strong. Relief flooded him. “Her heartbeat’s steady. I doubt there’s anything seriously wrong.”

      The boy had watched what he’d done, but wasn’t sure...

      “Here. Let me show you.” Royd reached across and lifted Isobel’s hand from the boy’s. He traced the vein showing through her fine skin. “Put your fingertips just there. Press a little and you’ll be able to feel her heart beating.”

      He waited while the boy tried; the lad’s face cleared as he felt the reassuring thud of his mother’s heart. “What’s your name?”

      The boy glanced briefly his way. “Duncan.”

      Royd forced himself to nod as if that wasn’t an earth-shattering revelation. The firstborn sons of the Frobishers bore one of three names in rotation—Fergus, Murgatroyd, and Duncan.

      He let his gaze skate over the lad—all long skinny limbs and knobbly knees, gangly like a colt. He’d been the same; so had Isobel. “How old are you?”

      “I’ll be eight in October.”

      He could have guessed that, too.

      He looked at Isobel’s still-unresponsive face. He had so many questions for her, he could barely think of where to start. But first...what did one do to revive a woman who had fainted? “I don’t have any smelling salts.” Bellamy might have some somewhere, but Isobel would hate the crew learning of such uncharacteristic weakness. “A cold cloth on her forehead might help.” He rose, crossed to the washstand, and dipped a small towel in the pitcher. After wringing most of the water from the cloth, he returned to the bed. Duncan helped him drape the cold compress across Isobel’s brow.

      Royd stood back and watched. Duncan sat back on his ankles, waiting expectantly.

      Isobel didn’t stir.

      “Let’s try raising her feet.” Royd grabbed two of the extra pillows and handed them to Duncan. “I’ll lift her ankles—you push those underneath.”

      Once that was done, they waited another minute, but Isobel remained comatose.

      Royd frowned. “I’m certain she’s only fainted.” She’d been so stunned, so shocked, to find Duncan there. He looked at the boy. “She’s safe here—she can’t roll out of the bed.” It was a ship’s bed; it had raised sides. “I suggest we leave her to recover in peace. Meanwhile, we can get some air.”

      He needed to breathe. Deeply. He needed to feel the wind in his face, to let it blow the fog from his mind.

      Then he needed to grapple with the reality of the son he hadn’t known he had.

      At the mention of getting some air, Duncan’s attention had deflected to him. “You mean go up on deck?”

      Royd held his son’s gaze—so much like Isobel’s. “You’re too young to go into the rigging, so yes—on deck.”

      For a second, Duncan wavered; he looked at Isobel again, then he shuffled back down the bed and hopped off. He straightened and tugged the short jacket he wore into place.

      After one last glance at Isobel, Royd led the way to the door.

      Duncan trailed after him.

      When he reached the door, Royd glanced around and saw Duncan staring back at the bed.

      “She will be all right, won’t she?” he asked.

      “Is she often ill?” Royd would have wagered on the answer being no.

      “Hardly ever.”

      “Well, then.” He opened the door and led the way out. “Let’s leave her to rest.” More quietly, he added, “Perhaps she needs it.”

      She was going to need to be very wide awake when next he got her alone.

      * * *

      Fifteen minutes later, among other startling revelations, Royd had learned that this was Duncan’s maiden voyage. Small wonder he was so eager to see and try everything. Royd had taken him up to the stern deck and reclaimed the wheel, to Duncan’s transparent delight. He clung to the forward railing, peering down the deck and peppering Royd with questions.

      Then the companionway hatch flung back and Isobel emerged.

      Erupted from the depths was nearer the mark. Royd had seen her “wild” many times before, but he’d never seen her this...frenzied.

      Her gaze landed on him and Duncan, then, her expression curiously blank, she strode for the ladder. Despite her skirts, she was up in a blink. She stepped onto the deck, her gaze already locked on Duncan.

      Royd