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basin, she then took a
clean cloth from the stack that Maria had left there for that purpose, and
after dipping the cloth into the water, she wrung it out and returned to the
patient.  Carefully she laid the folded wet cloth onto his forehead. 
     
    Her wrist was caught in a steel grip, pulling her hand
and cloth away, and in a low, raspy and weak voice, he said, “Throw away the
damned rag, sweetheart, just touch me with your cool soft hand again.  I’m weak
as hell, but your cool touch sure feels like Heaven!”  Olivia quickly looked
down into his face, and noted his eyes were still closed, but his bruised and
battered face was grinning dreamily.  “Oh…….you……you’re awake.”  She sputtered.
     
    “Just barely, honey.”  He whispered, then, “but a
sweet kiss would sure wake me up in a hurry, it’s been many a year since.............”
     
    “Oh……”  She pulled her hand quickly away from his
grip, and breathed, “That’s it!  You insufferable lout!  You can just lie there
and die for all I care.”  Her chin tilted straight upward, and her back
stiffened as she marched from the room once again, this time slamming the door.
     
    Just as Olivia entered the small parlor of the suite,
there was a light tap on the outer door, and she quickly walked over and
angrily unlocked, then jerked open the door.  Her uncle strode in and smiled,
as he said, “I wasn’t that tired, and thought I’d stay with the patient for
awhile.”  Then noting her agitated expression, and fearing the condition of the
patient had worsened, he sobered quickly and asked, “Olivia, what’s wrong?  Has
he taken a turn for the worse?”
     
    “No!  He’s awake, and I’m glad you returned Uncle,
because now you can throw the lout overboard.”  With that she marched stiffly
into her bedroom, and slammed the door.
     
    Lord Beckford stood there staring at the slammed door,
then with raised eyebrows, a slow smile suddenly lit up his face.
     
    <><><> 
     
    The eerie blackness was receding and the pain
returning.  The blackness had been welcome and the pain more than he could
bear.  His head was killing him, along with bruised ribs, injured shoulder, and
just about every other inch of his body, but otherwise Logan was fine, just a
little bit short of dying, that is.
     
    A cool soft touch to his temple had awakened him. 
Where was he?  His head was either spinning, or he was on a moving ship, or
both.  He wasn’t sure.  He tried to turn over, but his shoulder hurt too damn much,
his ribs felt bruised, then his stomach growled.  Well, that part of his body
was working anyway, if nothing else.  Suddenly he thought, “Damn, am I back on
the ‘Red Dragon’?”  Did Devlin’s thugs recapture him, and haul him back? 
“No!”  He relaxed then, realizing he was lying on a bunk.  If he was back on
the Dragon, he would more than likely be down in the belly of the thing, lying
in stinking filthy water, or possibly tied to a mast, and beaten for jumping ship,
or hanged and dead by now.  But where was he, and who had brought him here? 
His memory was foggy, but he did remember escaping the Dragon, and staggering
through the foggy narrow streets of some town, he thought possibly London.
     
    He’d caught a glimpse of an angel’s face a few seconds
ago, or was it minutes or hours ago?  He wasn’t sure.  Logan didn’t think he’d
died, as he wouldn’t hurt so much if he had, nor have such hunger pangs.
     
    So who was the angel then?  And where was she?  Her
cool touch sure had felt good, though he felt a bite of food would possibly be
just what he needed about now, if that were at all possible.  He heard a door
open, and, turning, could just barely make out an older man, white haired, but
regal in stance, tall and stately.  A gentleman, no less.  Logan sighed, a
raspy sound, and relaxing, he felt safer than he had felt in over eight years. 
Possibly eight?  Maybe. 
     
    Lord Beckford