Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars by Jay Worrall Page A

going to do?” she asked through tightly clenched teeth.
    He breathed in deeply, trying to find his nerve. He knew he was about to cause her considerable pain, more than he already had, and he didn’t relish it. “I’m going to set it and then fasten a splint so it won’t move around.” He avoided her eyes.
    “Will it hurt?”
    Charles nodded. “It’s going to hurt very badly for a short time. You’re going to have to be brave and hold as still as you can. It won’t take long.”
    He noticed that she was still watching him intently, as if debating whether she could trust him. Their eyes met, hers large and round, a startling clear gray, and unwavering. Then her shoulders relaxed and she seemed to accept him, or at least she was resigned to his helping her. For a moment he took in her eyes, her clear pale skin, and the outline of her face. She had high cheekbones with a narrow nose and slightly pointed chin. Her lips were pressed together in a thin, pale line. Locks of light brown, almost blond hair escaped from her bonnet. He saw that she was not severe-looking at all.
    “You stay right here,” he said, trying to regather the composure that had suddenly left him. “I have to collect some things.” He pried a narrow slat from the side of the wagon and broke it in two over his knee. Then he went to where he’d tethered his horse. He took a pocket knife from his trousers, opened the blade, and cut one of the leather reins from the bridle. The boards and the leather strap he lay in the wagon beside her hip.
    “Ready?” he asked, standing in front of her.
    She nodded, not daring to speak.
    “All right. I’m going to pull on your arm until the bone slides back into place. That’s the part that will hurt the most,” he explained. “After that, it’ll be all with the wind on our quarter and sailing by and large.”
    She smiled thinly and nodded again.
    Charles turned his back to her and held her upper arm tightly between his own arm and his side, awkwardly aware of the fullness of her breast against his elbow. “You haven’t told me your name,” he said conversationally.
    “I’m Penelope—” She gave a sharp piercing shriek as he pulled on her wrist, felt for the break and let the bone slide back into place. “Oh, damn, oh damn !” she cried, choking back tears.
    “I’m very sorry I had to do that,” Charles said, then added, “Are you all right?” He was still holding her arm as carefully and firmly as he could between his own. He could hear her breathing in gasps and felt her chest heaving against his arm. She had courage, he’d give her that.
    “I think so,” she said in a whisper. “Art thou done?”
    “All except for the splint,” he said, relaxing his grip and turning. He reached for one of his boards and held it under her forearm. “You didn’t finish telling me your name,” he continued, placing the other on top.
    “Penelope Brown,” she said, her voice stronger. “Who art thou?”
    Charles took the leather strap and put one end between his teeth; the other he began to loop firmly around the boards, immobilizing the bones in her arm between them. “Charles Edgemont, from Tattenall,” he said as he was tying the ends of the strap together. “My friends call me Charlie, and I need your bonnet.”
    “My bonnet? Why?” she said, her hand moving to the bow under her chin as if to protect it.
    “It’s either your bonnet or one of your petticoats,” Charles said happily. “I need to make you a sling.”
    “Oh,” she said, and her face reddened. She pulled one of the long straps and the bow came undone. “The bonnet, I think.” She held it out to him as her hair slipped down around her shoulders.
    Charles placed the bonnet under her arm and tied the long straps together over her shoulder, pushing some of her hair away to do so. The soft strands felt like silken spindrift against his fingers.
    “Well, Miss Brown,” he said clumsily, “if you tell me where you live,