Treasures Lost, Treasures Found

at a cracked mast he was considering mending. “I’ll fix it. Don’t get up,” he added as he walked to the door. “You’re not strong enough yet.”
    As he went into the hall he began to swear in a low steady stream.
    Of course she wasn’t strong enough, he thought with alast vicious curse. She was pale enough to fade into the sheets she lay on. No resistance, that’s what Bailey had said. Not enough food, not enough sleep, too much strain. If he could do nothing else, Ky determined as he pulled open a kitchen cupboard, he could do something about that. She was going to eat, and lie flat on her back until the doctor said otherwise.
    He’d known she was weak, that was the worst of it. Ky dumped the contents of a can into a pot then hurled the empty container into the trash. He’d seen the strain on her face, the shadows under her eyes, he’d heard the traces of fatigue come and go in her voice, but he’d been too wrapped up in his own needs to do anything about it.
    With a flick of the wrist, he turned on the burner under the soup, then the burner under the coffee. God, he needed coffee. For a moment he simply stood with his fingers pressed against his eyes waiting for his system to settle.
    He couldn’t remember ever spending a more frantic twenty-four hours. Even after the doctor had checked and treated her, even when Ky had brought her home and she’d been fathoms deep under the drug, his nerves hadn’t eased. He’d been terrified to leave the room for more than five minutes at a time. The fever had raged through her, though she’d been unaware. Most of the night he’d sat beside her, bathing away the sweat and talking to her, though she couldn’t hear.
    Through the night he’d existed on coffee and nerves. With a half-laugh he reached for a cup. It looked like that wasn’t going to change for a while yet.
    He knew he still wanted her, knew he still felt something for her, under the bitterness and anger. But until he’d seen her lying unconscious on the deck of his boat, with her blood on his hands, he hadn’t realized that he still loved her.
    He’d known what to do about the want, even the bitterness, but now, faced with love, Ky hadn’t a clue. It didn’t seem possible for him to love someone so frail, so calm, so…different than he. Yet the emotion he’d once felt for her had grown and ripened into something so solid he couldn’t see any way around it. For now, he’d concentrate on getting her on her feet again. He poured the soup into a bowl and carried it upstairs.
    It would have been an easy matter to close her eyes and slide under again. Too easy. Willing herself to stay awake, Kate concentrated on Ky’s room. There were a number of changes here as well, she mused. He’d trimmed the windows in oak, giving them a wide sill where he’d scattered the best of his shells. A piece of satiny driftwood stood, beautiful as a piece of sculpture. There was a paneled closet door with a faceted glass knob where there’d once been a rod, a round-backed rattan chair where there’d been packing crates.
    Only the bed was the same, she mused. The wide four-poster had been his mother’s. She knew he’d given the rest of his family’s furniture to Marsh. Ky had told her once he’d felt no need or desire for it, but he kept the bed. He was born there, unexpectedly, during a night in which the island had been racked by a storm.
    And they’d made love there, Kate remembered as she ran her fingers over the sheets. The first time, and the last.
    Stopping the movement of her fingers, she looked over as Ky came back into the room. Memories had to be pushed aside. “You’ve done a lot of work in here.”
    “A bit.” He set the tray over her lap as he sat on the edge of the bed.
    As the scent of the soup reached her, Kate shut her eyes. Just the aroma seemed to be enough. “It smells wonderful.”
    “The smell won’t put any meat on you.”
    She smiled, and opened her eyes again. Then before she’d realized it, Ky had spoon-fed her the first bite. “It tastes wonderful too.” Though she reached for the spoon, he dipped it into the bowl himself then held it to her lips.
    “I can do it,” she began, then was forced to swallow more broth.
    “Just eat.” Fighting off waves of emotion he spoke briskly. “You look like hell.”
    “I’m sure I do,” she said easily. “Most people don’t look their best a couple of hours after being stung by a stingray.”
    “Twenty-four,” Ky