Read Online Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - Wyndmaster 1 by The Wyndmaster's Lady (Samhain) - Free Book Online

and roll of the ship—to try
    to pull it open. She crashed against the wall, almost fell to the floor twice before she managed to jerk
    open the portal. She stuck her head out and yelled for Vargas at the top of her lungs. As soon as she
    heard running feet, she stumbled her way back to the bunk.
    Vargas burst into the cabin, his hair standing on end, his eyes wild. “What?” he bellowed.
    “I need water to wash his wounds, more water to bathe him, and cooler water for him to drink,” Celeste
    ordered. “Get soft clean cloths, soap, a bottle of whiskey, and a sewing kit.”
    “A bottle of whiskey and a sewing kit?” Vargas repeated, confusion running rampant over his coarse
    features.
    “Some of those wounds need suturing,” she told him without missing a beat as she reached out a steady
    hand to touch Sierran’s stomach. “I need the whiskey to sterilize the needle and thread.”
    Only half awake, Vargas stood there trying to make sense of the woman’s orders.
    “Do what she says,” Sierran ordered through clenched teeth. He had his jaw clamped tightly shut and
    was breathing raggedly. He didn’t know what hurt more—his chest or his back.
    Without another word, Vargas spun around and sprinted out of the cabin as the girl strove not to be
    thrown onto the bunk with Sierran.
    “Sit down, wench, before you fall on top of me. I don't think I could bear that just yet,” Sierran warned.
    He wasn’t looking at her but could sense her hovering there.
    “I am not a wench,” she said. “My name is Lady Anna Celeste Allen.” Cautiously she sat down on the
    edge of the double bunk, holding on to the handhold on the wall beside the berth. “You may call me
    Celeste, if you wish,” she mumbled as she was jostled back and forth. “Formalities seem a bit
    unnecessary, given the circumstances, and we might be blown away at any moment. I don’t like storms. I
    don’t like storms.”
    Sierran couldn’t help but smile at her litany. She sounded like a little girl. Despite the agony it caused
    him, he held his hand out to her. “Come here, Celeste,” he asked.
    Celeste slipped her hand into his. “What if the ship capsizes?” she asked.
    “What if it doesn’t?” he countered and watched her brows draw together.
    “Then we’ll make land,” she replied.
    “I imagine Captain Kynth has every intention of making sure that happens,” he told her. "Don't you?"
    “You’re probably right,” she agreed.
    “He’s always right,” Vargas said as he came back with Mac in tow. “Just ask him and he’ll tell you.”
    Celeste met Sierran’s eyes. “Is that true, milord? Are you always right?” She eased her hand out of his.
    “Ninety-nine percent of the time, wench,” Sierran replied.
    “Aye and it’s that other one percent that usually gets his arse into trouble,” Mac said with a grin. “But he
    don’t count that, you see.”
    “That’s because other people do it for me,” Sierran muttered.
    Bracing himself against the bulkhead wall, Mac held a basin of water as it sloshed back and forth with
    the movement of the ship. Over his shoulder were hung strips of cloth. Vargas was carrying the whiskey
    bottle under his arm, a pitcher of water, and under his other arm, what appeared to be a sewing kit.
    “This water’s warm, milady,” Mac said. “And I’ve got a bar of chamomile soap in my pocket.”
    “Pour him some of the cool water, please,” Celeste said. She lifted Sierran’s head gently with her free
    hand and tipped the tumbler to his lips, waiting until her patient had downed an entire tumbler before
    asking Vargas to thread a needle then run the needle point over the lantern’s flame. “Is there something
    you can lay the needle and thread in to pour the whiskey over them?”
    “Seems a good waste of whiskey,” Sierran commented when Vargas told Celeste he’d brought a cup in
    which to drop the thread to sterilize it.
    “Now that your thirst has been eased, I advise you to take a few