Castaway Dreams

  CASTAWAY DREAMS

  by

  DARLENE MARSHALL

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  Castaway Dreams

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.AmberQuill.com

  http://www.AmberHeat.com

  http://www.AmberAllure.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2012 by Darlene Marshall

  ISBN 978-1-61124-274-4

  Cover Art © 2012 Trace Edward Zaber

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by Darlene Marshall

  The Bride And The Buccaneer

  Captain Sinister's Lady

  Pirate's Price

  Sea Change

  Smuggler's Bride

  Dedication

  To all the medical personnel--MDs, EMTs, RNs--who read various scenes and said I didn't screw it up. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.

  To Ms. Erin Speer for checking my geometry info. Math teachers rock! Kids, listen to your teachers! They're right, you will need this stuff someday.

  To Raphi, who complained about my burdensome requests, but did translate one line of French for me.

  The librarians at the Alachua County Library District.

  Compuserve Books and Writers Community. After all these years, still the best.

  Thank you to my beta readers: Connie, Janice, Amarilis and Jayne, and to my editor, Catherine.

  Love, as always, to Raphi (even though he wouldn't read my geometry scene), Micah (who played banjo when I needed a boost), and of course, to Howard. Happily ever after doesn't just happen in fairy tales. Thanks, guys!

  Chapter 1

  1817

  Alexander Murray spent his lifetime dissecting bodies, trephining skulls, and seeing gray matter splattered across the decks of warships. He knew one could not exist without a brain. Nonetheless, Miss Daphne Farnham appeared to be the living, breathing example of a brainless existence.

  Perhaps he'd write a paper on it for the medical journals, he mused as he poured himself more coffee.

  He was unsure why he found Miss Farnham so irritating. It wasn't their being in close quarters. If anything, the Magpie was roomier than the Caeneus. Maybe it was simply after living for years at sea, higher-pitched voices grated on his nerves.

  No, that wasn't it, he thought as he sipped the harsh brew and listened with half an ear to the conversation around him. Some of the warrant officers had their wives aboard ship, and it was not as if he disdained the company of women. No, it was purely about Miss Farnham, a fellow passenger traveling from Jamaica to England.

  Just now at luncheon she asked Mr. Carr if he had in his possession the latest issues of La Belle Assemblée. She desperately needed to know if her Oldenburg bonnet was still fashionable enough to wear while walking along the Serpentine.

  The war was finally over, England was at peace, and the best thing this woman could find to talk about was hats.

  Alex looked at the others through the steam rising from his cup. The gentlemen at the table didn't mind Miss Farnham's breathy little voice and fatuous conversation. They weighed in with their opinions, all of them agreeing, naturally, that she would look lovely no matter what bonnet she wore. Mrs. Bertha Cowper, Miss Farnham's companion, ignored the byplay and continued to shovel plum duff into her mouth, her florid coloring not helped by the heat.

  Miss Farnham looked as fresh and winsome as if she'd just stepped off the pages of her journal of fashion. She sat across from him, giving him an opportunity to observe her whether he wanted to or not. Her dog sat on her lap, his beady black eyes glaring at Alexander over the edge of the table. The cur had a rose-colored ribbon tied around its neck, a ribbon that exactly matched the one threaded through Miss Farnham's curls, curls glowing a sunshined gold in the dim cabin light. Her large eyes twinkled at a comment from her shipboard swains, eyes one crewman swore were violet, while another said they were the blue of bluebells washed in the dew. Her dainty mouth was bracketed by two deep dimples highlighting her white and even teeth when she smiled, and her nose was exactly the complement needed to her other features--not too long, not too short. Her form was all that could be desired, the men swore, slim where a woman should be slim, rounded where it mattered.

  The first mate, Mr. Carr, was bright enough to recognize an opportunity when it was dangled in front of him and now did his best to make a positive impression. Alexander had seen women flock to him in Jamaica, drawn by his smooth conversation, well-tailored coats, and vapid handsomeness.

  But he was a competent mate, which was all that mattered on a voyage like this. Besides, Carr's interest in their passenger was no concern of Alexander's.

  "It is all about the blunt the girl will bring with her," Carr said over breakfast that morning, where none of the passengers were about and it was only the senior officers and the surgeon.

  "Tyndale's bad luck could be my good fortune, Mr. Murray," Carr smirked. "With her reputation in tatters and Tyndale dead, it's a grand opportunity for me."

  "Her father's a nabob," Captain Franklin said repressively, reaching for the plum jam. "He'll be looking to buy a title for her, boy, not wanting to marry her off to a sailor. There will be some lord with pockets to let or gambling debts who will take her, you mark my words. Farnham's money can cover all of her sins, especially with her looks!"

  The only child of a gentleman who'd made a fortune in India, Miss Daphne Farnham would make someone an acceptable wife, save for two things, and Alexander acknowledged only one of those mattered to most of his peers.

  George Tyndale ran off with her to Jamaica, then like so many other Englishmen newly arrived in the tropics up and died of yellow fever. Even Alexander heard the rumors and questions about whether Tyndale had indeed married the young lady.

  The fact that everyone continued to refer to her as Miss Farnham, rather than Mrs. Tyndale gave credence to these rumors, and Miss Farnham did nothing to correct that impression. Perhaps the captain was correct. Enough gold could buy an understanding husband and return one to society. It was only poor women like Janet Murray and her bastard son who had to suffer the indignities of life on the fringes of the community.

  The other problem with Miss Farnham apparently was only an issue to Alexander. Her purpose in life, as far as he could determine, was to be ornamental. Even her most common fashion accessory was ornamental rather than useful. There was no place aboard ship for little dogs unless they were ratters, and any proper ship's rat would sneer at Miss Farnham's white puffball of a bichon.

  That animal was another source of irritation, and had been ever since the first day he'd come aboard with his mistress. Within an hour of sailing, Miss Farnham was frantically knocking at Alexander's cabin door.

  "There is something wrong with Pompom, Dr. Murray!"

  The dog shivered, its tail tucked between its legs. Before Alexander could share with Miss Farnham the most obvious conclusion, she thrust the animal into his arms. He immediately pushed the heaving dog at arm's length, but it was too late. The little beast cast up his accounts all over the front of Alex's coat. Pleased he didn't drop the creature to the deck, Alex set him down, whereupon the dog vomited again, this time on his boot. However, he did
look more chipper after purging his system, and Miss Farnham swept him up into her arms.

  "Oh, Pompom, you had an upset tum-tum! But now my puppy-wuppy's all better, isn't he?"

  Miss Farnham looked at him, her brilliant blue eyes filled with admiration.

  "You are the best doctor. You cured my precious Pompom."

  "Your animal is seasick, Miss Farnham. Feed him dry biscuit and water for a few days, and keep him away from me."

  Miss Farnham had appeared startled that Alexander didn't find her odious little animal as adorable as she did.

  "Come, my darling. Dr. Murray is being a big old grumpy-wumpy." She'd stuck her retrousse nose into the air, and turned on her heel, offering the surgeon a flash of a neat ankle before exiting his cabin.

  Now back in that cabin after luncheon, Alexander was engrossed in one of the many journals he'd accumulated during his tenure on the Caeneus but had not had time to read. The war brought advances in surgery and medical techniques, some he'd experienced firsthand, but it was time to catch up on those other innovations uncovered by his brother surgeons. He hoped to observe them in London, but study now would prepare him to discuss them.

  So when there was a timid knock at his cabin door he was less than pleased at the interruption and set the journal aside with a sigh. His fiercely negotiated passage to England included being available to the crew of the Magpie should they need his services. When he was not feeling put out by interruptions, he had to agree staying busy at his craft was better than boredom.

  On the other hand, boredom could be better than more time spent in the company of Miss Farnham. But there she was, standing in his doorway, clutching the front of her dress. Her animal was not with her, so maybe this time she would not need veterinary services.

  "Yes?"

  "Oh, Dr. Murray, I am having trouble breathing!"

  "Come in," he said to her. He looked down the passageway but did not see her chaperone.

  "Where is Mrs. Cowper?"

  "She wanted a 'lie down' after luncheon. She says it helps her digestion."

  With as much wine as Mrs. Cowper consumed at lunch, it was a wonder she hadn't fallen down the companionway head-first to have her "lie down."

  "Sit down, please, Miss Farnham," he said, gesturing at his bunk. "Now, tell me what the problem is."

  "When I climb the ladder it feels like I am choking and not breathing enough air!"

  Her slim hand fluttered to her shapely bosom and he studied her critically.

  "Does this happen if you loosen your stays so they are not too tight?"

  "Dr. Murray! Such a thing would never occur to me, to loosen my stays."

  "It should occur to you, Miss Farnham," he said mildly. "I have seen this before with so-called ladies of fashion--and a few men as well. You are so tightly laced that you cannot give your lungs enough room to expand. I will demonstrate."

  He pulled her to her feet by that slim hand and instructed her, "Now, take a deep breath, as deep as you can."

  She tried, but it was obvious to his eye that her corset constricted her to the point where it was impossible for her to fully pull air into her lungs.

  He grunted.

  "My prescription is this, Miss Farnham: loosen your stays and give your body room to do what it is meant to do. Nature did not intend for you to be swaddled like an Egyptian mummy."

  She stared at him.

  "I cannot loosen my stays, Dr. Murray. If I do that my clothing will not fit properly."

  "I am a surgeon, not a man-milliner, Miss Farnham. You asked for my medical advice, I gave it to you. What you do at this point is entirely up to you."

  He opened the door for her to leave so he could return to his reading, but she paused in the doorway.

  "Thank you, Dr. Murray, I will consider what you said, even though it sounds like silliness to me."

  "I am addressed as Mr. Murray, Miss Farnham."

  "But the sailors call you 'doctor.'"

  "Aboard ship a surgeon also acts as a physician and an apothecary, so some sailors and seaman have that habit."

  "I believe I will call you Dr. Murray also. Someone of your many years of experience deserves a more exalted title than an ordinary 'mister.'"

  "Someone of my many years?"

  She nodded vigorously, golden curls bouncing, and other parts of her bounced as well, which distracted him for a few seconds from the bizarre conversation.

  "You cured my lovely little Pompom when his tummy was upset, and now you cured me, so you must be a truly talented medical man! After all, you just said you are experienced at physicking people, maybe even more than my physician at home. And you look like you have been doing this just forever and ever."

  "There are days, Miss Farnham, when I feel I have been dealing with the minor complaints of silly people for, as you say, forever. Good day to you, ma'am."

  Alexander was still mulling over Miss Farnham's fatuous remark about his age as he strolled the decks after supper. He knew his strong feelings about Miss Farnham would stun his former crewmates. More than one ship's officer and seaman claimed Alexander Murray was the most phlegmatic, abstemious and least passionate individual ever to serve in the Royal Navy.

  "In the middle of a hurricane, you would find him calmly taking notes between patching up men hit by tackle or thrown to the deck by the force of the waves," Captain Thomas Doyle of the Caeneus had remarked at the farewell dinner for Alexander in Jamaica. "We were all praying like Jonah's heathen shipmates, and Murray could be down below, sleeping like Jonah, oblivious to it all. I know, because I have seen him do it,"

  He hadn't thought much about how people viewed him during his service with the navy, but now with his changed circumstances he found himself doing more self-evaluation. The weather across the Atlantic had been so cold and miserable this past summer of 1816 that he stayed a year longer in the islands. But the letter tucked into the back of his journal called him home, and this voyage gave him time for introspection.

  He paused when he heard his name mentioned as he stood in the shadows, the speakers unaware of him.

  "Mr. Carr, when Dr. Murray fixes those grim eyes of his upon me, I feel I am standing in front of St. Peter awaiting admission to heaven! What makes him act so dour and disapproving? Does he never smile?"

  Maybe Miss Farnham was not so foolish after all, Alexander thought, if she could assess his character so well based on her brief interaction with him.

  "I have never seen Murray smile, Miss Farnham, but do not fret your pretty little head over that old stick," said the Magpie's mate. "And you should not worry about being allowed into heaven, for I vow, you are the veriest angel!" her young gallant swore.

  Naturally, the very vapid Miss Farnham giggled at this bold declaration. It was a noise that had the exact effect of putting Alexander's teeth on edge.

  He stepped out and observed the couple. Their heads were close together as they talked, and Miss Farnham's chaperone was nowhere in sight. Feeling every bit the elder they thought him, he cleared his throat.

  Of course they jumped apart as though he'd caught them in Carr's bunk together. Carr mumbled something and hurried off, leaving poor Miss Farnham to face him, alone and unprotected.

  She surprised him then. Instead of running after her swain, she only watched him go, then turned back to Alexander. He could swear he saw a rueful gleam of humor in her eye, but the light was poor in the evening dusk.

  "Dr. Murray," she said in her light voice. "How do you find the weather this evening?"

  He gave the chit points for daring to strike up a conversation with dour, judgmental Dr. Murray, even if it was only banal niceties regarding atmospheric conditions.

  He took a step closer and she almost flinched back, but held her ground. He never suspected he had a propensity for trying to terrify young women, which just went to show one could learn something new about oneself every day.

  "The weather, Miss Farnham, is warm. And wet. Just as it is most days in the tropics."
<
br />   "La, Dr. Murray, I am aware of that." She reached up to pat the hair elaborately arranged over her shell-like ears. "I vow, this wet air makes my hair just curl and curl until I cannot do a thing with it!"

  She stood there, a silly smile on her face, no doubt waiting for him to make a comment on her bountiful curls. Perhaps comparing them to buttercups or golden coins or sunshine or something equally nonsensical.

  "It is well known, Miss Farnham, that wet air makes hair curl. You are no different from many other people in that regard," he said repressively.

  She stared at him a moment, then those large eyes blinked. He couldn't help but notice her eyes were shielded by thick and dark lashes, a setting contributing to their attraction. To other men, certainly not to him. It took more than eyes like sapphire velvet to affect him.

  "Why do you dislike me, Dr. Murray? You do not even know me."

  If he felt a twinge of discomfort at being put on the spot by this chit, he repressed it. It was an honest question, so the least he could offer was an honest answer.

  "I am not sure, Miss Farnham," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose it is because I spent most of my life surrounded by people who are useful. On a frigate boys as young as eight years old carry powder in the midst of battle. I have never known anyone whose existence was without purpose. You, however, seem to me not a very useful person."

  Alexander regretted his honesty and his blunt words as soon as they left his mouth. It was not the girl's fault she didn't have two thoughts rattling about in her head. She could not help it, and at least she had her beauty--and wealth--to compensate for it.