Ghosts of Culloden Moor 18 - Watson Read online

  Two men hauled the lass into the vessel, then turned to him with groping hands. Their sudden attention was unsettling. After so many years of being invisible to the mortal eye, he felt as if he were naked to their view—then he realized how true it was. He wore nothing more than his long shirt, having dropped the rest of his clothes and gear before jumping ship…

  In the old days, he’d never have worried over his state of undress. After all, the lass was unconscious, and the men wouldn’t care. But after centuries of watching others grow more and more self-conscious, the paranoia must have rubbed off on him. And, thanks to his long-tailed shirt, at least his arse was covered when they helped him over the side.

  While he caught his breath, he watched the lass. Her chest rose and fell. Still breathing, thanks be to God.

  The largest of the men took up the oars and turned the wee boat around. A man with a single braid of red hair narrowed his eyes at Trem and cocked his head.

  “Miss Campbell is a passenger,” he said. “But where the devil did ye come from?” He shook his head in warning. “And dinna say ye’ve jumped from another ship, for I heard ye clear as day when ye shouted man overboard.”

  Trem nodded, still gasping for breath, stalling while his mind raced for a believable answer. Sailors were notoriously superstitious, and it wouldn’t do to tell the man he was a ghost newly resurrected from the moors of Culloden. But the answer came easily enough.

  “I’m Watson,” he said. “Tremayne Watson. A doctor.”

  Since he didn’t trust the year, he assumed no one aboard the ship had ever heard of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, so he was free to take on whatever persona necessary to keep from being fed to the sharks. And though the role of a doctor wouldn’t gain much respect until the twentieth century, it should afford him a bit of hubris.

  “I’ve been caring for a sick passenger most of the journey, aye? I’ve seen verra few faces.”

  The redhead’s mouth twisted while he considered, then he nodded. “Foin. That’s foin.” He said it like a judge passing sentence. For now, the man would take his word. But he’d be watching, Trem was certain.

  He set about trying to look the part of a doctor. Judging from the authenticity of the ship he’d jumped from, it had to be the 18th century or earlier. So he assumed the sailors could be fooled by a few things he’d learned from cinema—and by simply watching mankind advance across the moors along with the rising and setting of the sun. Changing, learning, progressing.

  It couldn’t hurt to play the part of Doctor Watson, side-kick to the notorious Sherlock Holmes. In fact, if he hoped to help the woman lying at his feet in the bottom of the boat, he might need to do a bit of sleuthing, more like the fictional Sherlock than the good doctor.

  Unfortunately, he was neither, and the lass was in dire need of a 21st century hospital. What if she never awoke? If there were a doctor on board the ship, would they know how to help her? Or would they bleed her?

  A hated Campbell or not, just the thought of an ill-educated doctor or pirate surgeon getting his hands on her, sent Trem into action. He bent down and lifted her into his arms, prepared to defend her from any mistreatment. It might take a bit of bravado, but he wouldn’t allow anyone to examine her, let alone diagnose her.

  If I were a real doctor, what would I do?

  He lifted her by the arms and then tucked his shoulder into her middle and bounced her higher. Her head and shoulders hung down his back and she coughed.

  The big man stopped rowing and used his oars to steady the boat.

  “What are ye thinkin’, mon?” The other man reached for the lass’ hips, then thought better of it.

  “Water in her lungs puts her in danger of pneumonia. I need her to expel as much as she is able, aye?”

  The other two nodded. He gave her a quick, firm squeeze and was pleased when she coughed up more water in spite of her unconscious state. And though he worried he might make her sore, he repeated the maneuver until she had nothing more to give. Then he lowered her onto his lap and held her there while they made their tedious journey back to the ship. Every now and again, the redhead would shout, and the ship’s bell would clang in response, keeping them on course.

  Her expression was peaceful, almost child-like. Her dark blond brows were a smooth line interrupted by a tiny peak in the center. Her cheeks seemed a bit hollow, her eyes shadowed, but that might have been due to her near-drowning. A pretty enough lass, but even more bonnie when her eyes were open.

  Please, lass, open yer eyes.

  The massive bulk of a galleon emerged from the mist and the relief of their rescue was suddenly gone. For there, in the shadows above them, waited a would-be killer.

  Pushed, she’d said, obviously explaining how she’d gone overboard. And if she had been pushed, the question was, did she know the person who’d done the pushing? She would obviously need Trem’s protection while unconscious, to keep the villain from finishing her off. But would he be allowed to remain at her side?

  It would help him considerably to know the place and time he’d been thrust into, but judging by the ship alone, the virtue of women wasn’t taken lightly. So he would have to insist that, as a doctor, he must simply be trusted.

  For the lass’ sake, he hoped she would recover quickly. But what if she didn’t? What if she never woke? It wasn’t unusual for drowning victims to never wake again, but he consoled himself with the fact she had roused enough to speak.

  A swing was lowered, and the lass didn’t so much as twitch while she was jostled about, then secured onto it. Trem climbed a rope and remained within reach of her as a precaution. Once they were both helped over the side, a pair of women hurried forward to help remove her from the swing, which he allowed only because he was able to watch their every movement. A sailor produced a stretcher of sorts and laid it on the deck. Then, with Trem at her shoulders and the other man at her feet, they moved the lifeless lass onto it.

  While a number of ladies gave up their shawls to cover her dripping body and make a pillow for her head, Trem had a good look at the souls aboard. Any one of them could be the culprit. A jealous woman? A rebuffed suitor? A sailor guilty of taking liberties with a helpless, companionless passenger? A thief?

  Or was it a twisted and habitual killer, unable to help himself when he’d found the lass alone on deck with a mist that would conceal his devilry?

  Trem suppressed any sign of the excitement he felt for the opportunity to solve a true mystery. But he was immediately contrite when his gaze fell again to the lass at his feet. He yearned to see those eyes open and fall upon him again. He’d give up the game in a trice if he could only take back what had befallen her.

  Poor thing. So relieved when he’d come for her, so terrified she’d been left behind.

  Trem had known horrors of his own, both living and in spirit form. And now he had an inkling of how Soncerae must have felt when she’d come to him and his comrades, only weeks ago, wishing she could undo the wrongs done to them.

  The warning from Wickham repeated in his ears. Try to remember, the past cannot truly be changed. Little had he expected to find his quest in the actual past…

  Couldn’t be changed? Perhaps not. But remedied? Surely.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The ship’s captain, William Titus, was surprised when he discovered for whom he’d been forced to stop his ship. His impatient scowl was immediately replaced with relief, then worry.

  “Miss Campbell.” He looked at Trem. “Did she jump?”

  Trem shook his head. “She was pushed.”

  The scowl returned. Titus ordered everyone to go about their business, but the onlookers didn’t go far, and no pretense was made to ignore their conversation.

  Finally, the captain gave up trying to intimidate them. “Did you see who pushed her?”

  “No. She only told me she was pushed, then lost consciousness. And until she can name her attacker, I must insist that no one else be allowed near her. I have no doubt they’ll try a
gain, aye? And probably soon, before she can wake and accuse them.”

  The captain waved a young laddie to him. “Take my personal things out of my cabin and move them to the quartermaster’s.” To Trem he said, “She may recover in my quarters. But pray, sir, who are you? You cannot be a husband, so why should I allow you to guard over her? For all I know, you pushed her, then fell in after. Perhaps there was a struggle?” He glanced pointedly at Trem’s exposed knees just as one of the crew members came forward with Trem’s plaid and weapons filling his arms, and his boot strings hanging from his fingers. The round silver handle of his dirk winked brightly from the pile.

  Trem nodded to the lot of it. “Those are mine. M’ kilt would have dragged me straight to Davey Jones’ Locker, so I left it on the deck.”

  Titus nodded. “That explains your bare knees, but what makes you think I’ll leave you alone with the woman? She is en route to meet her bridegroom, sir. And I doubt she or her future husband would thank me for leaving her alone with another man, regardless of other dangers.”

  A tall, well-polished young man shouldered his way through the tightly packed crowd and hurried forward. He knelt on the wet planks and plucked up the sleeping lass’ hand. “Mary! Oh, Mary!” He glowered at Trem, his attention dropped to his bare knees, then back to his face. “Just who are you, sir?”

  The captain gave an impatient roll of his eyes. “The man saved Miss Campbell’s life, Mr. Mawbury. Someone pushed her overboard, and he went in after her.”

  The fellow seemed unimpressed. “Then he has my thanks…so long as he wasn’t the one to push her in.”

  Trem narrowed his eyes at the slight, but let it pass. For a long moment, the two of them stared at one another, assessing. He had some idea of what Mr. Mawbury thought of him, considering his state of undress. But he didn’t much care, so long as the man didn’t get in his way.

  He turned to the captain. “Since the lass is en route to her future husband, I assume Mr. Mawbury has no claim to her.”

  “We are friends,” the fellow said, as if it were all the license he needed to pat the lass’ hand, and continue patting—a medieval version of CPR.

  Trem ignored him. “Ye asked why I should be allowed to guard over her personally.” He extracted his dirk from the bundled plaid, then turned the blade back and forth while he spoke. “I’ll give ye two reasons, Captain. First of all, I’m a doctor—Tremayne Watson, at yer service—and Miss Campbell needs doctoring much more than she needs some lady in waiting safeguarding her virtue, aye? And secondly, I’ve plucked her out of the sea, and I vow I will not leave her side when someone on board yer ship is determined to toss her back into it.” He twirled the handle and the spinning blade drew all attention to it. “As a doctor, of course, I’d hate to have to open someone’s gullet…when I’ll be duty-bound to sew it shut again…”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed. “I remember no doctor listed among my passengers, sir.”

  The redhead stomped up beside Trem and stuck out his chest. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Captain. The doc, here, has been tending to a sick passenger. We’ve none of us…seen much of him.” A slight tap of the man’s boot against Trem’s was no doubt a warning he’d be expecting some sort of reward for helping a fellow Scot.

  “That’s right,” Trem said. “I hadn’t planned to make the journey, but I was too busy with m’ patient to realize ye’d left the harbor. I intend to pay for my passage, of course.” It was a mystery how he could do so, however, with only a shilling in his sporran, assuming it had made the trip with him. But he dared not check the pouch while he had an audience.

  “I insist you do,” the captain replied. “But first, I will know the name of this ill passenger, and why I was not informed that someone in such dire condition was allowed on my ship to begin with.”

  He was caught.

  He’d hoped the man wouldn’t wish to be bothered with such details, but Trem’s luck was at an end. He’d danced his way into a corner with no way out. If he admitted to being a stowaway, he might as well pick up the lass and jump back over the side with her. For, depending on the year, stowaways were likely put in chains or tossed overboard. And without his protection, the lass wouldn’t live long either.

  “I’m afraid your issue is with me, Captain Titus.”

  An older gentleman shuffled forward with the help of an ornate cane. His head was covered with a large black wig that had lost most of its powder, which, oddly enough, made him look much younger than he’d probably intended. His burgundy, gold-buttoned frock coat went to his knees, and if his clothing was true to the time, Trem had likely been dropped somewhen in the late 18th century.

  “I assure you none of my ailments are catching in any way.” The man tapped his cane against his shoe. “Like my gout, here. Then, on top of it all, I was instantly sea sick the moment I hobbled on board. So it was my fault the good doctor was trapped. I’ll pay his portion, naturally.” He offered Trem a deep bow. The look in his eye promised that he, too, would expect compensation for saving the day, only Trem suspected the price would not be agreeable.

  “Make way!” A short, stout, female servant muscled her way between sailors and came to stand beside the older gentleman, her eyes on the young woman. “That’s Miss Campbell, all right.” She looked at the captain, then at Trem. “Is she dead?”

  Trem watched the woman carefully. “Not…yet,” he said.

  She nodded, as if she’d just been told to put the kettle on. No relief on her face at all. In fact, she appeared slightly disappointed.

  Trem noted the woman’s well-padded arms and made a mental note of the fact that a great deal of muscle might be hiding beneath the soft surface—muscle enough to push a lighter woman over the rail. And since it was more likely the lass was attacked by someone who knew her, rather than some stranger with no motivation at all, he decided to put the woman at the top of his list of suspects.

  She waved her kerchief at two crew members. “Can’t just leave her here, now. The pair of you, bring her along.” She turned and began shooing people out of the way.

  “One moment,” Trem said, and the woman faced him with an impatient pucker to her lips. “Who are ye to this woman?”

  “Mrs. Fredrick, her…” she lifted her chin, “companion.”

  Trem shook his head and gave her blue gown and pinafore the once-over. “I dinna think so. A servant, perhaps?”

  “What does it matter?” She frowned at the two who had yet to pick up the unconscious lass. “Bring her!”

  The men looked at the captain, who nodded. “To my quarters.” Then to the woman he said, “You will make yourself available to the doctor,” he gestured to Trem, “and abide by his orders.”

  She gaped at Trem. “Doctor!” Her gaze raked him from head to bare foot. “If he’s the doctor, she’ll be dead by morning. Mark my words.”

  Trem gathered his things from the other man and tilted his head at her. “Madam, I promise ye I will mark yer words. And if the lass is dead come mornin’, we’ll suspect ye had a hand in it.”

  “A hand—” The rest of her words were lost in a bluster of indignation, then she put her nose in the air and marched away.

  The captain turned to one of his men and nodded for him to follow after her. “She’ll wait on you, Doctor Watson. You can be assured of it.”

  Trem inclined his head. “Thank ye, Captain.”

  The man gave him a wry look. “At the very least, you should make Mrs. Fredrick taste your food.” He laid a finger aside his nose, then headed to the quarter deck.

  The two crewmen lifted the wood handles of the stretcher, then waited for Trem to lead the way. The older gentleman inclined his head as they passed. “Until later, then, Doctor.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The large, bulky chap who had manned the oars of the dingy appeared and led the small parade to the captain’s cabin. The sailors placed the stretcher on top of the bed—a substantial-sized frame that hung from the ceiling on ropes—then hurried out the
door as if they feared they might be saddled with a long list of errands.

  The big man stepped close to the bed and hovered over the lass. Trem had to step around him to see what he was about. The fellow patted the lass’ cheeks, first one, then the other. Then he waited a moment for a reaction that never came.

  “Not pretending, then,” he mumbled.

  “No. I only wish she were.”

  “You’re certain, are you, that she didn’t jump?”

  “Quite certain.”

  The man nodded, then stood, looking awkwardly around the room. Trem realized he was waiting for instructions, unlike his comrades.

  “I need plenty of hot water, and I need her maid to bring dry clothes.”

  Once the big man was gone, Trem made certain the lass’ eyes were still closed before he slipped his wet shirt over his head and lied down upon his warm, dry plaid in order to properly wrap it around his body. Once his belt was in place, he stood and draped the thick, loose end of it over his shoulder and tucked it in at the waist. Bare-chested, he looked a wee medieval himself, but at least he’d be better able to care for the lass without catching his own death from a wet shirt.

  He chuckled at the unlikely chance that a virus would have time to do him in before his two days of life were spent.

  Moving to the bed, he tried to remain business-like as he began undressing the woman. Though he’d taken no healer’s oath, he’d claimed the role of doctor, so he felt it only right that he act with honor and detachment. He reckoned that would best be accomplished by ignoring the woman’s face while he bent to his task.

  There was no time to waste. If she were half so chilled as he’d been, once he’d removed his shirt, she would be suffering from hypothermia soon, in spite of the shawls covering her. He had to get her dry and warm, and quickly. Waiting for fussy females to see to it would cost time she couldn’t afford. Besides, other females would expect him to leave the room while they dried and dressed her, and that wouldn’t do at all.