The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway Read Free Page A

behind the cottage, between the fruit trees. It takes me all day to tend what a farmer might in a mere hour, but I’ve nothing else to do with my time, other than wait to die. And count the raindrops every time the roof leaks.”
    A vegetable garden. Steele tilted his head to consider her. She was clearly exhausted, clearly ill —those wet, wracking coughs could not be faked—and yet, to his eye, she didn’t remotely look like she was dying. Pneumonia, he could perhaps believe. On the other hand, she’d been sick for half a year already. And a surgeon had made the diagnosis.
    A traveling surgeon, Steele reminded himself. A traveling surgeon who had examined his patient from a safe distance across the room. Which likely meant he hadn’t examined her at all.
    “When did the blood start?”
    She crossed her legs. “The what?”
    “Coughing up blood.” Steele’s parents’ eyes had gone bloodshot and puffy around the same time the blood began, and had never recovered. Once they’d become bedridden, they hadn’t left their sickroom again. “Have you been coughing up blood since November?”
    Her forehead creased. “No.”
    “When did it start?”
    “It hasn’t. Yet. I’ve all the other symptoms—fatigue, cough, chest pain, chills, weight loss. It’s just a matter of time.”
    Steele stared at her, then leapt out of the chair. He did his best thinking on his feet and he needed to come up with something. Perhaps it wasn’t just a matter of time. Perhaps there was hope.
    Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
    “Reconnaissance.” He tossed the letters into her lap and began to pace the small cottage. Was it possible? Might she not have consumption after all? Or was it wishful thinking from a man who couldn’t bear to watch anyone else die from such a disease?
    He was no doctor. Prior to turning to a life at sea, Steele had been a barrister. But success in both law and piracy required an observant eye, an infallible memory, and an analytical mind. One did not present one’s case unless one could predict every word and every reaction from both the judge and the witnesses. Likewise, one did not board an enemy ship without knowing exactly who was on board and what, precisely, awaited them.
    This, however, was a special case.
    First evidence: no blood. Granted, this was usually a later sign—once all hope truly was gone—but six months had gone by and Mrs. Halton’s cough was no worse than someone with pneumonia or lesser illnesses.
    Second evidence: Mrs. Halton was still alive. If the servants had abandoned Steele’s parents as they lay upon their sickbed, they would have died from lack of food and water. In contrast, Mrs. Halton tended a garden. Slowly, perhaps. A tiny one, yes. But she withstood the sun and she cooked her own meals and she tidied after herself. None of which was typical behavior for an invalid dying of consumption.
    Third evidence: Her symptoms. Weight loss? See: tiny garden, and forced to cook her own meals. Night chills? It was February. She had no fire. Fatigue, cough, chest pain? Pneumonia. Influenza. Asthma. Whooping cough. Any number of diseases that were uncomfortable or even dangerous, yet not life-threatening. But how could he be certain?
    He couldn’t.
    His fingers curled into fists. He hated to leave her behind. What if she worsened? She couldn’t count on any of her neighbors dropping by with milk or broth.
    On the other hand, what if the surgeon was right? What if he brought her aboard the ship only for her to start spitting up blood and infecting his entire crew while they floated in the middle of the ocean?
    Lightning flashed outside the south windows.
    Mrs. Halton dragged herself up off her chair and to the kitchen, where she gathered a collection of pots and pans and began to position them strategically throughout the cottage.
    Steele blinked. “What the devil are you doing, woman?”
    She pointed overhead. “Rotted ceiling, remember?”
    He tilted his gaze upward