Beyond the Next Breath
Posted by damora96 330 days ago (Story)BEYOND THE NEXT BREATH
by
Monica Danetiu-Pana
She could hear the waves slap hard against the creaking ship; large waves, getting larger by the sound of them. A familiar warning. All around her people groaned. They were damp and miserable, even though that particular clipper had more room than the usual. Poor things. Mal de mer. She had no such affliction; she was a sailor’s daughter. The sea’s roar had been her lullaby, every port her home.
Sybille Caillaud was a young woman with almond-shaped blue eyes like two pools of water, shoulder-length golden hair, and china-white skin. A challenging combination of her English mother's good looks and manners, with her French father's adventurous spirit and stubbornness. She’d spent the past five years in Paris, the city of lights and l'amour. But not for her. To her, Paris was where she'd pursued her dream to become a physician. What was so strange about that? After all, it was 1862. Practically, the twentieth century already!
But she was ahead of her time. The world hadn’t caught up with her, or her colleagues. Doctors like Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell, Marie Zakrzewska, Madeline Bres…these were her heroines, and she had joined their ranks at last. She had done it, finally done it. Lived on old bread, and studied by oil lamps until the smoky fumes, fatigue, and dimness made her eyes ache. She’d fought her way through the backwash opinions about unnatural females, and the angry voiced comments about her split-skirts. And now she felt like a new ship ready for the sea, just itching for the next adventure. Her brand new diploma from L'Ecole de Medicin and her Laënnec stethoscope were her tools, carefully stowed away in her battered gear. She had bid au revoir to Paris, heading west.
She walked to the hatch, bending her tall frame over to avoid the ceiling. She glanced over at Mrs. Feuillette, who sounded piteous and ill. Seven months along. God willing, they’d reach land before she delivered.
She clambered up the ladder, reached overhead and pushed up the hatch. Cold air immediately blasted her face. She could almost taste it…rain was coming. A storm, perhaps. She tilted her chin, her hair whipping against her cheek like a flag. The outside world seemed piercingly white, overly bright. Squinting, she climbed up the last rung and looked around her. Dark gray clouds had swallowed the rising sun, but here and there dawn had outlined their ominous shapes in gold. And the sky…crimson red, the color of fresh blood.
She was about to climb on to the deck, when she heard the soft scrape of boots behind her. She glanced around, then slowly upwards. Shiny Wellington boots, long muscled legs clad in neat leather trousers, a black wool coat whose shoulders required no padding. This was not one of the frail French boys she had grown used to, but an athlete’s body in a gentleman’s clothes. And above those plain well-tailored clothes was a chiseled jaw, unsmiling full lips, and eyes like green ice. Sin and sadness, a bleakness frozen twice over. And something underneath that she could feel, but couldn’t quite name. The sense of it touched her, making her breath catch. The cold wind seemed hot compared to those icy eyes that looked her over slowly, almost insolently, then stabbed right through her.
“Women below,” he said in a quiet commanding voice that somehow carried even over the wind.
She couldn’t place his accent. French? Spanish? She searched his face for a clue: faint weathered lines around his eyes, tanned skin, and his long brown hair sun-streaked to auburn. A man used to the outdoors, then.
“Why women, but not men?” she stepped on to the deck, watching his eyes widen a fraction as he saw her split skirt. What’s the matter? Too much ankle for you to handle? She felt strangely disappointed. Men. They were all the same.
He turned his back on her. Clearly, she had been dismissed. Not again. It infuriated her, reminding her of all the lectures she’d been barred from, and the times she’d dressed up in pants and coat just to sneak into places where she could learn. Be a good girl, she could almost hear him say aloud.
“We’re nearing Cape Horn. I want to see it.”
He turned, and pointed to the hatch. “Now,” he said.
Oh, now she understood. The silent, stubborn type. He reminded her of a malodorous tumor…deep-seeded, completely inoperable. Some people’s opinions were like that, too. Terminal and to the death, no point in fighting it. And why should she? He meant nothing to her, just a green-eyed stranger.
She wrapped her coat tighter around her and paraded right past him. She walked steadily despite the growing pitch and roll of the ship, thankful that her old sea legs didn’t shame her in front of him. She stopped at the prow, one hand resting against the rail. Beyond the bottom lip of the clouds, she could see a dark line of land curving toward them.
“Patagonia,” he said behind her.
She knew that already, didn’t need to be told. Annoyance ruffled through her, but her heart pounded a little faster. Must be the excitement. The voyage, seeing Patagonia again…
She was ten when she’d last been there with her brother Roland. Arid plains as far as you could see, then cliffs dropping into the sea. And Arcelia, the first woman to make her father smile again after her mother had died. Was Arcelia still there? She waved to the memory of her living on that tip of land. A wild, rough town. What was it called? She bit her lip, thinking harder. Memories flashed like stereoscope pictures before her eyes.
“Tierra del Fuego,” she said aloud and laughed.
“Good accent. Habla Español, señorita?”
Si. Un poco. “Just a little,” she answered startled.
Lost in her memories, she’d almost forgotten about the man standing next to her. Why was he still there? His nearness disturbed her, kind of like a morbid rash. Maybe if she ignored him and didn’t scratch, he’d go away. If only she had a solution to fix it that easy. She reached into her skirt pocket for the next best thing: her talisman, the water-stained letter from Roland. She’d read it a hundred times already. An invitation to San Francisco, where, as Roland said, the golden opportunities were like ripe apples just falling from the tree into one's hands, if one was smart and quick enough. He’d even sent her the ticket for The Silver Aura, the clipper to San Francisco, but it felt like a ticket to disaster. She could feel it sure as she felt the storm brewing around her, and the dominant presence of the man standing next to her.
“There is rough crossing ahead. Señorita, allow me.” It was a command, not a request.
His large hand closed over her elbow and pulled her away from the prow. He was spoiling everything! She’d miss it. Sybille tugged experimentally, but he was stronger than what she’d expected. She pulled backwards, throwing her whole weight into it. Pitiful results.
“No! We’re almost there. See?” Gesturing wildly, she pointed to the land’s end, not caring if she accidentally knocked his chin. “There’s Cape Horn. Magellan discovered it.”
“No. Cabrillo was the first,” the man murmured.
As the ship rounded the corner of the continent, they watched the Atlantic meet the Pacific. The turbulent oceans pushed and pulled, mixing into mighty waves that marched like roaring rows of great gray elephants. Spray hissed, heavy as rain.
“I’m not afraid,” Sybille stated.
“No, I do not think you are, but perhaps you should be. Not fearful is not the same as courageous.” His eyes studied her. “You are very young.”
“Old enough,” she shot back, suddenly feeling insulted.
He didn’t reply at first, only looked down at her. The wind shrieked between them, around them, the sails snapping overhead with each wild gust.
“Perhaps,” he finally said.
“Definitely. I’m twenty-five.”
His eyes widened a little, his firm lips twitching as if he was holding something back. Did he think she was funny? Pitiful? She couldn’t tell, and that bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
“Ancient,” he agreed solemnly. He opened his mouth to continue, but Sybille never heard what he said.
There was a terrible sound, then the flapping of a loose sail. The deck lurched. He had already crossed the deck and was climbing up the rigging. Easy, sure-footed, as if the wind wasn’t batting him back and forth. He caught the loose rope, hoisted it, and looked down. The closest sailor was running toward him, but still yards away.
Sybille held up her hands, shouting, “To me! Come on, no time to waste!”
The whole ship was tilting portside groaning with each terrible second passing, as wood and rope stretched, each joint tested about to spring. Waves splashed over the rails, running like a river down the deck. Soon, they’d be taking on water. Too soon.
Sybille slipped and staggered, but she bent her knees and flung her arms wide, regaining her balance. “Come on!”
He hesitated for a second longer, then threw the rope to her. She grabbed it and pulled with all her strength, even as it burned across her palms. She gritted her teeth and pulled harder. It was like reining in wild stallions that fought back with all their strength. She could feel the storm alive and under her hands. Then his weight added to hers, and a second later, the sailor’s. Together they slowly and painfully pulled the foresail back into position, the rain pelting down on their faces. The storm had finally hit.
The man exchanged a glance with the sailor, who let loose a torrent of Spanish. It sounded apologetic, a little fearful.
“Capitán…”
Captain? Well, that explained the orders, the expected obedience, and his erect shoulders-back posture.
The man held up one hand. "Esta bien."
The sailor ended his effusive apologies, then bowed and ran off to check the other rigging.
Finally, the Captain turned to Sybille. He took her hands without asking, turning them palms up to survey the damage. The one glove she had left was ripped at the seams. He slowly peeled it away. The soft leather slid against her abused skin, soothing and stinging her palms. How many nerves in one hand? She felt them all as his finger traced the swollen bruises. Then he looked at her other hand. It was scraped raw, still oozing.
“You lost your glove.”
“I’m fine. I mean, it doesn’t hurt…well, not too bad. I will treat it. I have medicine…well, not here. Down, under deck.” Idiot. Now she was babbling like an idiot. She snapped her mouth shut before she said anything else stupid.
He made a soft sound of regret, then reached inside his pocket and produced a snowy white square of linen. She had never seen such fine cloth.
She pulled her hand back. “No. Are you crazy? I’ll ruin your handkerchief.”
He pulled her closer and gently wrapped it around her injured hand. “See the ship’s surgeon.” Another order.
Sybille jerked her hands away. “That barber! He doesn’t know a canker from a crowbar, might chop my fingers off. I’ll take care of it myself.”
His brows lifted.
Sybille tucked her hands behind her back and shrugged. “It’s taken care of. Finished.”
“No," he said softly. “Just beginning.”
***
The storm lasted for a week. They were tossed like dice around the ship by the whim of the weather, perhaps by the anger of the Almighty. Whatever the cause, the men were kept busy above deck, while Sybille was stuck below stairs with her fellow suffering passengers. Rum no longer helped them, so she used her precious stores of poppy extract to soothe the worst cases.
Mrs. Feuillette delivered early. A frail baby girl. Her head was the size of a pippin apple, fitting neatly into Sybille’s waiting hands.
In all that time Sybille hadn’t seen the Captain again. Maybe he was too busy trying to make up for all the lost time. She noticed that they were sailing faster than before, the sea rushing like liquid glass beneath the ship. The men seemed grimmer, tired from the long shifts. No more songs played on the harmonica, just the sounds of terse commands and terser replies.
Sybille listened for his voice, but didn’t hear it. She even walked the decks at all hours, hoping for a glimpse of the Captain. She felt unsettled, full of restless energy all of a sudden. Even her work didn’t satisfy her any more. Every night she lay swinging in her hammock, wide-eyed and strangely unfulfilled. She had never felt this way before, and wasn’t sure if she liked it. Maybe it was the café con chocolate she’d taken a liking to during this trip. The cinnamon richness, the cacao…yes, the drink could be stimulating ill humors. But somehow, she knew it wasn’t as simple. It never was. The etiology was far more complicated, the implications more disturbing.
One night thoughts churned through her brain like a steamboat, whipping it into rough white froth. Finally, it drove her on to the deck again.
The sky was purple-black like a new bruise, and the stars hung low over the horizon. The cold night seemed almost unnaturally still, now that they had finally passed the storm front. The night, the sea, everything felt heavy and calm. Everything, that is, except for her. She paced back and forth along the stern, as if trying to out-race her thoughts. But they seemed to follow her everywhere like a dog’s tail, persistently wagging behind her. What was wrong with her? For a while she listened to the slap and pause of the waves, but even the sea couldn’t lull her into tranquility. She leaned her elbows on the rail and watched the wake veer out into two gleaming silver lines that gradually faded into the darkness.
Something made her turn and look up. And then, she saw a tall shadow up on the bridge. It was him. Had to be. That stark profile, the broad shoulders, and slim hips could belong to no one else. The Captain seemed very remote, so high in his solitary perch above the rest of the crew and the entire ocean. He looked as if he belonged there, and the thought made Sybille a little sad. Holding a spyglass to one eye, he moved gracefully, surveying the ocean before him in one slow arc. He paused just before he completed the final sweep, lowered his spyglass, and turned deliberately around to the stern. He looked straight at her.
Caught. What was she expecting? She fought her impulse to hide behind some barrels, all of a sudden feeling foolish.
Unmoving, he watched her for a long time. So long that winter melted into spring, spring to summer, summer to fall, and then the seasons seemed to turn around again. She felt his gaze as if he touched her, heating places that she knew, but had never really known before. Strange places. Dark places. It was…unbearable, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She just stood there, still and stupid, as if her feet had been glued to the spot. She had to move, had to do something, but didn’t know what. For all her education, she was ignorant in this.
At last, she raised her hand and waved a little. She didn’t know why, but she did. He waited for a few minutes, then barely lifted his chin in acknowledgement. A slight movement. Perhaps she’d imagined it.
As the days passed, Sybille became more convinced that she’d only imagined that whole encounter. Except for that one time, she never saw the Captain again. He was nowhere, that irritating man.
By the time they reached San Francisco, she promised herself that she would forget those green eyes. Yes. Push them out of her mind. That would be the sensible thing to do…but she knew that sometimes sensibility blinds one's senses. It can make one the biggest fool of all, a fool ready for a fall.
***
The house deceived her. Totally. At first, she had mistaken it for the sprawling adobe hacienda down the path, but instead, she'd been redirected to an austere white clapboard house. It was missing the usual knobbed or rickrack gingerbread trim that was so popular, and there was no fussy flower garden or delicate lace curtains that would hint of a woman's touch. The house was…plain, and its very plainness made it seem even more unique compared to the other fancy Victorian homes in the city. The man and his home were a complete cipher to her, one of those diagnostic dilemmas she couldn't crack no matter how much time she devoted to it. She'd think she was headed in one direction, then find herself somewhere completely different. Aggravating. Fascinating. A mystery she couldn't quite leave alone.
Sybille stood on the front porch with her palms sweating inside her gloves, but it wasn't because of the heat. After a full year of playing assistant for established doctors, her services as a physician had finally been requested by one of the richest men in the city, no else.
Don Miguel Ortega, people said, was as mysterious as was rich, keeping his socializing to a bare minimum. Except for his hacienda, there were no other homes for miles. Apparently, no one had dared to squat this land. The reputation of the Don was too formidable. Any would-be squatters had been evicted. Permanently. Soon the stories spread, perhaps exaggerated, perhaps not, about the menacing phantom in the night. Quiet, deadly, efficient. Whatever the truth was, squatters decided that a home just wasn't worth the gamble. So except for the land that the Don had sold, the hacienda was still the same as it had been since the very beginning when the first five Spanish families had settled there.
Sybille stood on the front porch and looked around her. To the west rolled miles of sand dunes tufted with grass and the occasional scrub oak, and beyond that was the Pacific. She could see fishing boats riding low and heavy with their catches as they sailed back towards the harbor. There were masts of great ships and the dockside warehouses, hemmed more and more by the encroaching city. It was a spectacular view of San Francisco. She felt like a bird flying over the city, she could see everything from there.
Sighing, she picked up the polished brass doorknocker and rapped it sharply against the front door. The door opened, a tiny Oriental woman standing on the other side of the threshold.
Sybille cleared her throat. "Hello, I'm Sybille Caillaud. I'm here to see Don Ortega."
The woman bowed quickly at the waist. "Come, he expecting you."
Sybille followed her to a study room. Simple, elegant, large oak and leather furniture instead of fringed velvet nonsense.
"I tell him Missy here," the Oriental woman said. "But he probably knows." She chuckled behind one hand. "He always seems to know." She bowed again, then closed the door behind her.
Sybille set her bag on the floor and paced around the room. There were maps, account books, and correspondence. On a small table sat a model of a clipper. Clean lines, fast build…she would have liked to sail her.
"Next time," she murmured.
"Perhaps…now," said a soft voice behind her.
What? It couldn't be. Her heart suddenly stopped. She knew that voice, had heard it a million times, saying a million impossible things. Foolish things she had no business thinking about, because no sensible woman would. That voice had haunted her dreams for the past year.
She took a deep breath and slowly turned around, disbelief still rioting through her. The Capitán. He stood there just across the room from her, on land instead of sea.
Her chin tilted. "What are you doing here?"
His eyes moved to the model clipper.
"Oh, of course. You're the captain of a ship. Do you work for Don Miguel?"
"No."
"No?" Sybille hoped that he might elaborate, but he didn't. He only looked at her with a brooding intensity that made her uncomfortable.
"Then you must be one of those independent contractors running the blockade these days. High risk, high profit. The Captain of The Cunning was caught last week. They left him for the crows…to set an example, you know. Doesn't seem worth it. Too much danger."
"Danger is not a concern." No bragging, just facts. The plain, simple, severe facts of life. Of death.
"That's foolish. You don't care?"
"You care, señorita. Why do you?"
"Everybody should. If we all did, then the world wouldn't be at war all the time. And things would be much better, a better place to live. Everyone should care about everyone else. That's what makes us human."
"You believe that. So passionate," he murmured. "And very young."
So she was being dismissed once more. This time because of her age, instead of her gender.
She pointed a finger at him. "I don't know why you're here, but you better not tell Don Miguel that I was on the ship. I don't want him to think I'm some kind of greenhorn."
"Too late, señorita. He knows because he was there."
"What?"
"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Don Miguel."
"You?" she strangled on the word. "You're Don Miguel Ortega? You can't be!"
"I am," he said gravely.
"Well, you're too young."
"Old enough," he replied. "Thirty-two."
She eyed him suspiciously. "Why did you request my services as a physician? You know nothing about me."
A little light flickered in his eyes. "I know."
That irritated her. "I see. Just like that! What can you possibly know about me? We've barely even spoken."
His mouth pulled upwards. "I know everything you did on my ship. Everything. When Madam Feuillette delivered you stole warm bricks to keep the baby warm, then purged the first mate after he confronted you…"
"Harassed me, you mean. It was for a good cause. Little Sophie would have died if we didn't keep her warm. And that man was nasty. He deserved it."
For a moment Don Miguel looked like he might laugh, but he didn't. His lips only twitched a little before settling down again. "And you graduated from L'Ecole de Medicin, first in your class. Very impressive."
"For a woman, you mean."
He tilted his head slightly. "No. Just impressive. The dean wanted to rank you lower. A woman first in their class? Impossible. But your professors refused, supported you. You remained where you deserved. At the top."
"How do you know that?"
"I know."
Sybille was stumped. The man was as talkative as a rock.
She cleared her throat. "All right, I'll let it go for now. What's troubling you?"
He barely lifted one shoulder.
"Well, something must be wrong if you decided to call me."
Again, he only shrugged, apparently unconcerned.
Inwardly, Sybille groaned. Men! They either pretended nothing was wrong when they were practically bleeding to death, or they moaned over the slightest paper cut.
"Mind if I examine you?"
His brows knit together. "No one must know. You must promise."
"Of course. Patient confidentiality, you know. Everything that passes between you and me is a secret." She hoped that she sounded convincing. "So, what's going on? Are you okay?" She walked toward him and placed her hand on his shoulder.
"No," he said hoarsely.
Alarm shot through her as she watched his pupils dilate, his breath quicken. "What is it? Where does it hurt?"
His hand caught hers, and he pressed it against his chest so that she could feel the pounding of his heart. "There," he groaned. "Right there."
His pulse accelerated triple time under her sweating palm. Dear God. Was his heart seizing? Try nitrate pills, then tincture of foxglove. Good thing I'd brought my medicines.
"Niña." Suffering made his word shatter and stretch out into many syllables. His mouth worked. His eyes pleaded with her, his anguish made all the more terrible by his silence.
It was horrible to see him this way, a proud quiet man reduced to asking for help. But pity was poor medicine. He needed more than that, and she needed to keep her mind clear, her feelings uninvolved. She had to do something, anything.
"Yes. Right away."
She was about to get the medicine, when his arm suddenly wrapped around her shoulders and pulled fast, faster than lightning itself. She tumbled forward, landing breathless against his chest. Her soft against his hard, curves against angles. His hands dove into her hair. Pins flew every which way as his fingers met and locked around the back of her head like he would never let her go. And then, his mouth seized hers.
She felt hot and sizzling. Everything else faded away, because at that moment she'd gone to some terrible wild place beyond feeling. Beyond words. Beyond the next breath. A kiss? What was that? Some four-letter word. Silly, paltry, inadequate. It didn't even begin to describe what he was doing, and how he made her feel as his firm lips slid over hers. Moving, coaxing, commanding. He drew her closer to him, to the fire, as he completely devoured her.
And she kissed him back. Tentatively at first, then more boldly as she needed more, and he encouraged her with his growls to take and touch and taste. So this was his flavor…wine and spice and Miguel. She tasted some more, following the dance and retreat of his tongue, sometimes leading with a heat of her own. She was eager, curious. She wanted this now, had wanted this from the very moment he had first ordered her below the hatch. She wanted to kiss all his arrogance away, and it made no sense. Absolutely no sense at all.
His kiss deepened, hardened, as his hands swept over her again and again, touching, provoking, stirring her to even higher degrees. How hot can I get? How hot could they? Just one touch here, a kiss there, and a lifetime of rules and reason burned away.
During all this, he said nothing, but his mouth and his hands said everything. They became more eloquent by the moment. She listened, lulled, until she felt cool air wash along her back. Air? What? How? It shocked her. She let go of him and reached behind her. Her hand groped, checked, found her dress unbuttoned, the back ties of her corset loosened. When did that happen? She pulled away, but his mouth followed hers. Then her thumb pressed on the corner of his mouth to break the suction between them, and his teeth scraped gently down her finger to her very sensitive tip. She groaned. He laughed throatily, and it was that single sound of masculine triumph that extinguished the last embers of her passion.
No. This must stop. What am I doing? She jerked backwards with all her might. Chest heaving, she stared at him. His chest was moving too. His muscles retracted and bulged between his ribs as if he'd been working them too hard, running ten miles uphill. And there were other parts of him that looked overworked, too. She quickly looked elsewhere. Up at his damnable mouth. Slightly flushed and swollen, still imperious as hell. It was for chewing, swallowing, breathing, speaking. And Don Miguel sure didn't use it much for talking, but now she knew how expressive it could really be. Far too expressive and too experienced for her liking.
A cold feeling congealed deep inside her belly. How could she have lost her common sense so quickly, so completely? His kiss was like chloroform, totally knocking her out. And the side effects…the wooziness lingered no matter how much she tried to fight it. This frightened her. She fumbled with her ties, gave up, then haphazardly buttoned up her dress. She crammed her hair back into a makeshift bun. There. Forget the pins, she didn't care how it looked. At least she was covered up again. Mostly.
"Don't bother to apologize," she said sniffing.
One brow lifted. "Wasn't going to."
Sybille ignored her part in this. She had never done something like this before. It was wrong, unprofessional. She was no better than those male doctors who took advantage of their patient's vulnerability. Or maybe…she considered, her eyes narrowing. Maybe Don "Juan" Miguel had taken advantage of hers. Yes. He had. He'd used the closest weapon at hand, a lethal weapon. Him.
She pointed an accusing finger at him. "You…you were trying to seduce me."
"Only trying?"
She had to get out of there. "Later, Don Miguel. We'll finish this later." Her hand grabbed the knob and twisted.
"No. We start now, this moment. Inside this room. And you must begin by calling me Miguel."
Her lips formed his name, but it felt wrong to say it. Her mouth burned as if guilty, his name as forbidden as a kiss. Too intimate.
"Look at me, querida."
His endearment reached her from across the room. It sounded so real, so warm, that she could almost believe he meant it. Almost. And yet, some foolish part of her must have believed it, because ripples were washing over her even though she steeled herself against them. Just a word, she told herself. Just a silly word. It meant nothing. Perhaps even less than that.
"Look at me."
Sybille felt hypnotized by the sound of his voice. She obeyed him, even though she told herself not to. Her head turned slowly.
He reached toward her, palm up. "Say my name."
"Miguel," she barely whispered.
His outstretched hand suddenly fisted as if he'd caught her word. And he smiled.
***
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