Forgotten Fragrance Read Online Free PDF Page A

Charlotte snatched at the flagon and turned. The confines of the cabin and a seasick Marcus were far preferable to the overwhelming stench of the first mate and his foul, hot breath.
    Marcus lay on his back, his eyes closed and his sweat-soaked hair plastered around his parched face. With his skinny fingers interlaced on his chest he looked as though he belonged in the crypt at St Martin’s where she and Jamie had hidden so many times.
    She poured a small amount of water into the pewter cup. ‘I’ve brought you some water.’ Her whispered words raised nothing more than a pained groan. ‘Try and help yourself. You’ll feel better after a sip of water.’ Sliding her right hand under Marcus’ neck she attempted to lift his head.
    Marcus’ palm connected sharply with her cheekbone. Charlotte reeled backwards. The water swarmed down the front of her dress. Scuttling further back she came to rest only when the solid reassurance of the bulkhead stopped her skid and she regained her balance.
    â€˜Leave me, woman. My God will care for me as he sees fit.’ Marcus closed his eyes once more and resumed his crypt-like pose.
    Fingering the rising lump on her cheek Charlotte choked back a sob. By tomorrow she’d have a livid bruise. Without glancing in Marcus’ direction she left the cabin, closing the door quietly behind her.

Chapter 3
    Christian didn’t have to turn around. A waft of something akin to fresh flowers stirred some long buried memory, piercing for a brief moment the gloom shrouding his past, like rays from the setting sun forcing their fingers down towards the darkening ocean. Charlotte had returned to the deck.
    â€˜Catz!’
    â€˜Yes, sir!’
    â€˜Take the wheel.’
    Leaving the burly seaman standing watch he strolled across the deck. Charlotte stood windward, her body swaying with the movement of the ship. Her hand cradled her cheek, and a dark welt blossomed below her eye against the alabaster of her skin. As he drew closer a single tear escaped her brimming eyes and trailed across the mark.
    â€˜You fell. Let me see.’
    â€˜I didn’t. Mr Wainwright…he…yes. I fell.’
    Her sigh made him ache and he itched to reach out and pull her close, instead he gently lifted her hand away from her face. The patch of red angry skin displayed the stinging mark of fingers and palm. A clout delivered in a moment’s rage.
    His guts clenched and his vision narrowed honing in on the livid mark. ‘You fell?’
    â€˜Yes, against the bunk while I tended Mr Wainwright. It is nothing.’
    It didn’t look like nothing. Too many times in the past he’d received a similar blow. ‘This doesn’t look like a fall…’
    Her pleading eyes begged him not to question and he let his words die. Without the protection of her hand the welt of the palm print was evidence enough. Why would the sanctimonious oaf hit her? The last time he’d seen Wainwright he’d been clutching his belly and heading below decks. A foolish place to suffer seasickness but convincing the idiot landlubber otherwise would be a waste of time.
    Tucking Charlotte’s cloak tighter around her he led her along the deck and out of the wind. He lifted his hand wanting to pull her closer then let it fall as his pity turned to admiration. Though distressed she held her head high and refused to resort to tears. A surge of protectiveness caught him, an emotion he barely recognised. Something akin to rescuing the ship’s cat from the crew. They had flung it at the sails, laughing uproariously as the poor bedraggled animal flew through the air with claws outstretched towards the furled sails. Flying lessons, they’d called it.
    Her petite form rocked as though she found comfort in the motion of the ship. Searching for some way to soothe her pain he lowered the swabbing bucket over the side of the ship and let it fill with seawater, then heaved it