Free Castaway Dreams by Darlene Marshall

her whistling and humming through the rigging of the ship, the rain pounding against the hatches fastened tight against the water.
    It was a stout ship, she told herself, one which had made the Atlantic crossing many times.
    But the rain and wind continued to pound the Magpie through the day and into the night, and the ship bucked like a wild horse as it rode the waves. No one brought Daphne her supper, and she did not miss it. She was not yet sick, but the constant rolling of the vessel tested her. Clammy sweat stood out on her brow and darkened her armpits, and she clenched her teeth and thought of calm meadows and sunny days. Pompom huddled next to her, his small body shaking. He'd made a mess earlier and she had cleaned it up and disposed of it in the covered pot, making sure the cupboard was latched so it would not come rolling out across the deck. On her other side sat her valise, close at hand and giving an odd sort of comfort. If they had to leave the ship, she would not be grabbing a shoe or a hairbrush in the confusion.
    Daphne must have dozed, because she awoke to a pounding at her cabin door. She made her way carefully, the deck rolling beneath her feet. When she opened the door, clinging to the frame, Dr. Murray stood there with a flask and a cloth-wrapped parcel.
    "You have not eaten, Miss Farnham." He pushed his way past her into the cabin and Daphne released her grip on the door frame just as another swell pitched beneath her feet.
    She lost her balance and fell against Dr. Murray, and he grabbed her, his stance widening to take their weight against the storm-tossed movement of the Magpie.
    Daphne knew she should move, she wanted to move, but it felt so safe standing there in his grasp, his strong arms wrapped around her, the flask in his hand hard against her shoulder blade.
    "Oh, Doctor, please do not mention food! I have been so very careful, but you will ruin it."
    Her head came up to his neck, and she saw the pulse beating there above his collar. Odd, she thought, his neck was firm and muscled, not at all slack and wattled as was usually the case with older men. His voice rumbled in her ear when he spoke, and he made no move to remove her from his embrace.
    "On the contrary, Miss Farnham, I know best in these cases. You must eat a small amount of biscuit--just nibble at it if you like--but it will help keep you steady. This is watered wine, and it, too, will help."
    "If you say so," Daphne said in a small voice, but she made no move to push herself away. The doctor smelled minty, of oil of wintergreen, like the salve he'd been compounding earlier. Only a shameless hussy would take advantage of this serious and practical man's proximity to huddle in his arms like Pompom, but it felt so good after a day of being tossed like a cork. She knew he would not let her fall, and that reassurance warmed her as much as did his body next to hers, the rough wool of his coat scratching beneath her cheek.
    And it occurred to her as she stood there that for some reason, Dr. Murray did not seem to be in a hurry to push her away and return to his physicking.
    But as the deck slipped again beneath her feet, Daphne released her hold on the doctor and lurched to her bunk. She took the food from him and he stood there and watched her as she unwrapped the biscuit, breaking off a small piece for herself, and another small piece for the creature whose black nose stuck out from beneath the covers, sniffing the air suspiciously.
    They both chewed in silence, and Daphne washed down her bite with a sip of the water, giving Pompom a taste from her cupped hand. To her surprise, she did feel better after consuming the food.
    "Your color is returning, Miss Farnham. I will check back on you later."
    "Dr. Murray."
    He paused, looking back at her over his shoulder.
    "Thank you. I know I am a trial sometimes...and not a very useful person...but I appreciate all you are doing for me."
    He did not say "You are welcome," or "Think nothing of it,"