Lost Lady (James River Trilogy 2)

When she was alone with Travis, she started to work, undressing him first, which was no easy task considering the weight of Travis’s inert body. Wrapping his naked body in dry, warm blankets that she got from a trunk, she stopped to answer a knock at the door.

Sarah Trumbull stood there. “One of the sailors came to get me, told me some wild story about you tying Travis to the sail. The man said Travis was hurt and you might need help. And he sent this.”

Regan took the water she offered. “I don’t need help,” she said, her voice tight. “Maybe you can help the other passengers.” She gave a brief nod toward David’s closed door.

Sarah had only to look at the fear apparent on Regan’s face to know that something was dreadfully wrong. “You have the prayers of everyone on board,” she whispered, giving Regan’s hand a quick squeeze.

Alone again with Travis, she began to bathe his head. The cut wasn’t long, but it seemed to have been a hard knock as Travis was completely unconscious. Once he was clean and warm and he still didn’t move, she stretched out on the bed beside him and cradled him in her arms, hoping to bring him back to life by sheer force of will.

Hours later she awoke, having fallen asleep from exhaustion, and her teeth were chattering with cold. She’d been unaware that she still wore her wet clothes. Travis lay still, deathlike, his skin pale, his vitality gone.

Rising quietly, she peeled away her sodden, cold dress and noticed absently that somewhere she’d lost her new wool cape and that the muslin gown was torn in several places. Poor Travis, she thought with a smile. He was going to have to buy her a new wardrobe before the first one was even finished.

The thought sent her hand to her mouth and tears to her eyes. Perhaps Travis wouldn’t live to see her new clothes; perhaps he’d never wake up from his death-sleep. And all because of her! If she hadn’t flirted with David, the young man wouldn’t have felt compelled to show Travis that he was indeed a man. If only…she thought again but made herself stop.

Going to the chest, she pulled out a dress of heavy maroon corded silk, piped about the waist, neck, and cuffs with pink satin. Once dressed, she went to Travis again, bathing his cool face and washing the cut on his head which still seeped blood.

At midnight he began to move and thrash about on the bed, and Regan tried hard to restrain his flailing arms to keep him from hurting himself. Her strength was no match for his, so all she could do was throw herself on top of him, using her body weight to hold him.

By morning he grew tired again and seemed to fall asleep, although for the most part he kept his eyes closed. As the sun was entering through the window, Regan sat on the edge of the bed, her head on Travis’s shoulder, and fell into a deep sleep.

What woke her was Travis’s hand stroking her hair gently, calmly touching her hair and her neck. Instantly, she was fully awake, her head coming up to look at him and see if there was some lucidity in his gaze.

“Why are you dressed?” he asked hoarsely, as if that were the most important thing in the world.

She had no idea how rigidly she’d been holding her body for the last several hours, but now so much tension left her all at once that she was shaking, trembling. Great fat tears rushed to her eyes and glided down her cheeks. Not only was Travis going to get well, but his mind was unharmed.

He put a finger to her cheek, touched a tear. “The last thing I heard was the maintop breaking away. Did it hit me in the head?”

All she could do was nod, and the tears came harder. “Was that yesterday or the day before?”

“Before,” she mouthed, the lump in her throat so large she couldn’t speak.

Travis began to smile, winced once with pain, and then the smile returned. “So those tears are for me?”

Again, all she could do was nod.

His eyes closing once again, he kept smiling. “It was worth a little bump on the head to see my girl shed tears for me,” he whispered before falling asleep.

Regan put her head back down on his chest and gave herself over to tears. She cried for all her fear at seeing Travis climbing after David, at having gone after Travis herself, and for the last several hours when she hadn’t known whether he was going to live or die.

Travis was a wonderful patient, so wonderful in fact that Regan was exhausted within forty-eight hours. He took to being spoiled and pampered more easily than a new colt takes to walking. He wanted every meal spoon-fed to him by Regan, constantly needed her help in dressing, and wanted a sponge bath twice a day. Every time Regan suggested he try walking in order to regain his strength, Travis suddenly developed an even more severe headache than the one that plagued him constantly and needed Regan to run cool cloths over his forehead.

On the fourth day, when Regan was about to tell Travis she wished he had been washed overboard, she answered the door to find David Wainwright standing there.

“May I come in?” His arm was still bandaged, and there was a fading greenish bruise on his jaw.

With more strength than he’d shown in days, Travis sat up in bed. “Of course you can come in. Have a seat.”

“No,” David said quietly, not looking directly at Regan. “I came to thank you for saving my life.”

Travis studied the young man for a moment. “I only did it out of shame because you made the rest of us look like cowards.”

David’s eyes widened, and he was well aware of the way he’d been paralyzed atop the yardarm and how Travis, patient even in the midst of the storm, had gotten him down to safety. Yet he also saw that Travis had no intention of repeating the story to anyone. David’s shoulders straightened a little, and he gave a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes telling more than his words. Quickly, he left the cabin.

“How kind of you,” Regan said, bending and kissing Travis’s cheek.

His arm flew out and caught her about the waist. “Your aim’s off,” he growled, pulling her across him and kissing her on the mouth.