She glanced at the fresh bandage wrapped around his abdomen. “And the wound?”
“The nanoagents have sealed the skin. I removed the stitches. As long as he does not reopen it, he should be out of danger.” The doctor paused. Though he only seemed to have one attitude—grim—Georgiana detected a hint of apology from him. “You will likely have a visit from the magistrate today.”
Because Thom had been shot, and the physician was required to report such wounds. Well, he didn’t need to be sorry for that. “I understand your duty, sir. But you might tell him to come tomorrow, after my husband has woken. I have no answers for his inquiry.”
Now surprise put a faint twist in Rasmussen’s lips. But he only nodded and wished her a good day, and had already quit the room when Georgiana realized that the doctor assumed she had shot Thom.
Which was ridiculous. Not that Thom hadn’t given her reason to shoot him, because he had. But if Georgiana had wanted to murder him, she wouldn’t have missed his heart, and she certainly wouldn’t have called on a physician to heal him. Georgiana would have buried his body in the steamcoach shed, where her digging wouldn’t be observed—though there was slim chance that someone would happen by her isolated home at the same moment she needed to conceal a body, it was better not to risk discovery.
Not that she had often pondered his murder—or anyone else’s. But planning for unexpected events was just common sense.
She hadn’t planned well for this, however. She didn’t know who might have shot him, either. On the seas, attacks could come from any direction, but salvagers like Thom weren’t usually targets for pirates or thieves. Perhaps it had been a personal matter . . . but Georgiana would not let her mind dwell on that, any more than she dwelt on how he’d obtained his new prosthetics.
Whatever the answers, they had nothing to do with her.
Georgiana set about clearing away the ice. Meltwater soaked the bed. The day maid arrived at eight o’clock full of gossip from town, of an aristocrat’s airship that had flown into Skagen’s harbor and of twin babies that had been born. Aware that Thom’s condition would soon be more fodder for wagging tongues, Georgiana only listened with half an ear while they wrestled a mattress down the stairs. On the bed, the sodden mattress was too heavy to drag off the frame. They made a pallet on the floor and, together, she and Marta transferred Thom onto dry sheets. He didn’t lie so quietly now, turning his head against the pillow and restlessly shifting his legs, as if swimming through rough dreams.
Her secretary came shortly afterward, bearing a stack of cargo receipts and inventories. The following hours were spent catching up on two days of neglected work. After lunch, Georgiana sent him back to her offices in town with the assurance that she would be in the next morning.
Perhaps with Thom in tow. She didn’t know what the terms of their separation would be, but she’d make him a fair offer for his part of her shipping business. Though to her mind, any offer would be more than fair. His involvement in her venture had begun and ended four years ago, and only comprised an envelope containing a bit of money. All of the risks and the work had been her own.
Tired, she returned to the armchair in the bedchamber. She’d barely closed her eyes when Marta came in carrying Thom’s clothing, a frown on her softly lined face.
“I patched up the holes, ma’am, but the shirt and gansey are still showing the bloodstain. Would you like me to give them another wash?”
“There’s no need. Clean will do well enough.”
Marta nodded and turned toward the wardrobe before abruptly turning back. Her fingers dipped into her apron pocket. “Before I forget and make a thief of myself—this fell out of Captain Thom’s coat.”
The maid dropped a heavy gold coin into Georgiana’s palm. Not a livre, though by weight, it must have been worth as much as one of those valuable coins. A shield was stamped on one side and a crowned rose on the reverse, with a diameter as wide as her two middle fingers together. She didn’t recognize the lettering along the edge.
“Do you suppose he found it while searching through those sunken ships, ma’am?”
Georgiana smiled. It was a lovely thought, but despite their depiction in popular adventure tales, salvagers rarely discovered anything of value that wasn’t already claimed by the ship’s owner. Most were hired to recover recent wreckage before the cargo spoiled completely. They didn’t keep any of it for themselves.
Perhaps Thom had found a single coin or it had been given to him in payment. And if he’d found more than one, they were gone now, anyway. “If this is part of a treasure, Marta, it must have been cursed.”
Because Thom’s ship must have sunk, too. He hadn’t dropped into the ocean out of the æther, and unless he’d shot himself, his ship must have come under attack. Her secretary had confirmed that Oriana hadn’t sailed into Skagen’s harbor, and Georgiana hadn’t seen the old herring buss’s familiar silhouette on the water the morning she’d found Thom on the sand. She’d spent too many days searching the horizon for Oriana to have mistaken her for any other ship.
Georgiana’s smile faded. She put the gold coin on the side table where Thom could find it when he woke up. The coin and their separation settlement would easily buy him a new ship.
Then he could be off again.
* * *
A dry whisper penetrated Georgiana’s sleep. She opened bleary eyes. Darkness had fallen outside. A blanket covered her legs, curled up in the armchair. From the adjoining kitchen, Marta’s soft hum and the scent of roasting lamb wafted through the room.
The whisper came again from the pallet on the floor. “Georgie.”
Thom.
She sat up. His eyes had opened. Not looking at her, though he repeated her name again on a rasping breath, as if through a parched throat. Unfocused, his pupils had dilated, his irises just a thin ring of dark blue.
Not truly awake. Still in the opium’s grip.
Though not lucid yet, he could take a few sips of broth. Untangling her blanket from her skirts, she rose from the chair and retrieved a small bowl from the kitchen. She sent Marta home and returned to the bedchamber. Spoon in hand, she knelt beside his left shoulder, the mattress cushioning her knees.
That dry rasp came again. “Georgie.”