Page 86 of The Rebellious Countess
Your Eminence,
I am en route to Rome with Cardinal Jean-Frédéric Linguet. I found him in remarkably good health considering the ordeal he has suffered. No doubt it was his faith and the blessing of the Lord that kept him healthy while many others in the community suffered a grave illness. I am told Pope Pius VII has continued his travels through the Continent as the guest of Napoleon.
Your servant,
Abbé Charles-Michel de Moidrey Mill, France
—A letter from Father Charles at Moidrey Mill, France, to French Cardinal Andre Cattaneo, who continued to defy Napoleon and refused to legitimize the emperor’s second marriage to Marie Louise. Pope Pius VII would remain in forced exile in France until 1814.
Astley did not die. Not that night or the next. Not on the dangerous journey to Carnac where they boarded her husband’s—Elias’s ship, theMaribelle, in the dead of night. Nor did he die during the voyage back to Scotland, but a piece of Máira did.
Especially when Elias did not come to his cabin. Instead, she shared it with Aventine and Astley. It would have been unseemly if anyone of thetonknew of their circumstances. An earl sleeping in the same room as two ladies, one of questionable reputation and the other with a reputation ruined beyond repair. Aventine merely shrugged, and Máira couldn’t raise up enough emotion to care. The distance of her separation from Elias had never been greater than the door in which he did not enter and she did not exit. She poured all her energy into Astley’s care. The ship’s cook and doctor had set several of Astley’s broken bones, his arm and collar bone, his left calf and ankle, and had rewrapped his broken ribs. His pinky had healed incorrectly and would forever look disfigured; the others would hopefully heal. She marveled at how he’d pushed his body up the wall as she’d grappled with the very bones the French had broken.
Máira had washed old wounds on his face and torso that should have been stitched, including a nasty gash in his left eyebrow that seemed to split it in two. The same eye was so badly swollen, Cook had instructed her to lance the festering wound on his eyelid to drain it to heal. Cook couldn’t determine if Astley would lose the eye or not.
Máira prayed he did not; it was his one feature she and her sisters had agreed upon—Simon’s eyes were the color of rich, dark, island coffee, full of a vibrant shot of life that would make any woman feel a jolt of heat in her blood. He had used that charm at the first breakfast he’d shared with the Blair sisters at the duke’s London townhome prior to Ross marrying her sister. Simon’s charisma and dreamy eyes had stunned them into silence.
Breakfast after breakfast he’d enthralled and flirted with every one of them, or rather all of them except Caillen. She had promptly ignored the earl after their very first meeting. Even her admission about his eyes being “somewhat exceptional” hadbeen given grudgingly. Every other Blair sister had lost a piece of her heart to the untamable bachelor.
Tears bleared her vision as Máira gazed upon the sleeping earl, who seemed nothing like that carefree invincible man at the breakfast table. She wasn’t sure how he had survived his rescue to this point or if he would continue to live once upon shore, but the fact that he still breathed after the depravity of his captivity was a miracle.
During the journey home, she’d busied herself spoon-feeding Simon broth, cleaning his wounds, and wiping his forehead and body with cool cloths to keep his fever at bay. Elias had insisted she not be the one to tend to her “betrothed’s” morepersonalneeds, and when she’d protested that they would expose more of the crew to Astley's illness if he or another member of the crew tended to him, Elias’s anger spewed forth in French—giving her hope that he did care. He wouldn’t be angry if he were not jealous, would he?
But Sébastien had stepped forward and said he had survived the sickness and had been tending to Astley’s needs for over a month. That nearly caused her heart to stop.
What her sisters had once described as glorious cheekbones accentuating his strong jaw, were now so prominent, Máira was certain she could determine what Astley’s skull would look like years after his death. The cardinal may have escaped the prison without catching the ague that had killed so many, but Astley had not.
Aventine had then stepped up and told Sébastien that it would not do for him to be in closed quarters with a man and his intended. She would take care of Astley, and Sébastien could assist the duke with his injuries. The duke had scoffed, Sébastien scowled, but both relented when during one of his few moments of consciousness, Astley had heard the conversation and agreed with Aventine. “Do as the ladies bade, Sébastien. It does not payfor a man to argue with a woman.” Then Astley had winked with his one good eye that momentarily sparkled with merriment. It was the first sign of hope they’d all been praying for.
During the voyage Máira found herself becoming more and more comfortable with Aventine, and found it ironic that only after she was no longer to be her mother-in-law, did she not fear the woman. Several times Aventine had told her to take a break and go on deck to get some fresh air, but the one-time Máira had, Elias had refused to look at her. He didn’t demand she get below deck despite the angry clouds rolling in on the turbulent seas. He had looked right through her as if her appearance meant less than an errant rat risking death by falling overboard. No, she had not gone above since. His lack of concern cut too deep.
Yelling woke her when she hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep. She looked up from her pallet on the floor to see Aventine looking out the small cabin window.
“Are we in port already?” she asked, as her damaged heart went into palpitations.
“Yes.” Aventine turned toward the earl. “I need to prepare Astley to disembark.”
She had to see Elias…panic nearly seized her as she jumped to her feet. In the early morning hours Elias would be on deck, especially as they arrived in port. Frantically she wrapped Astley’s battered body in blankets, and when the knock came on their door, she ran her hands through her messy hair and tried to flatten out the wrinkles in her shirt and trousers before she opened it.
Peter greeted her. “Mornin’, me lady. The captain wanted me to give you and Hag—I mean Mrs. Drake, these dresses to wear. He said you would need proper attire.”
Her smile faltered as she looked past the first mate. Elias wasn’t there. Only two members of the crew carrying a stretcherstood outside the captain’s quarters with the first mate. She took the packages from Peter’s outstretched hands and laid them over the desk as numbness began to wrap around her heart.
“We also need to gather the patient to take him ashore.”
“He’s almost ready,” Aventine said over her shoulder, as she began gathering some of the bedding to cover Astley, who began another coughing fit that hurt his ribs, his shoulder, his lungs. The spasm lasted until he seemed to pass out from the pain and exertion, and Máira said a silent prayer that he recovered.
Peter stood with his hat in his hand. “Miss, again I’d like to offer me apologies for not delivering you to The Happy Hag.”
“You should be groveling at her feet, Peter.” Aventine added, as she wiped Astley’s brow.
“If’n that be what you want, Miss?—”
“No, Peter. You have apologized enough. Thank you.” She squeezed his arm in reassurance. “Most ladies only dream of such an adventure. I get to tell my children about the time I was kidnapped by pirates?—”
“Privateers,” the three pirates corrected.
She smiled and nodded. “Of course. Privateers, and then I helped rescue a lord from Napoleon himself.”
