“He’s gone.”

When Bolitho looked at her again he saw that her eyes were gleaming with tears.

She shook her head angrily. “Damn you, Captain, it is true what they say! You bewitch all those who come near! It must be the Cornish magic in you!”

“I fear the magic, as you call it, comes from others, Mrs. Pareja.”

She sat down on the bed and stirred some broth in a bowl. “My name is Catherine.” She smiled, and for an instant he saw some of the same boldness he had noticed aboard the Navarra. “But you call me Kate. I was known by that name before I married Luis.”

She lifted his head to arrange a pillow carefully and then dipped a spoon into the bowl.

He said quietly, “I am sorry about your husband.”

The spoon did not waver, and he allowed the thick soup to explore his throat, reviving him in spite of the pain.

She said, “You called out several times for Cheney. Your wife?”

He looked at her. “She is dead.”

“I know. One of your officers told me.” She wiped his lips with a clean cloth before adding, “You talked a lot, although much of it I didn’t understand. Sometimes you spoke of home and some portraits on a wall.” She studied him gravely. “But we will not speak of such things just now. You are very weak and must rest.”

Bolitho struggled to move his arm. “No. I do not want to be left.” Almost desperately he added, “Tell me of yourself!”

She sat back and smiled as if recalling some event long past. “My home was London. Do you know much of it?”

He shook his head slightly. “I have visited there.”

Surprisingly, she lifted her chin and laughed. It was a throaty, uninhibited sound, as if he had said something hilarious.

“I can see by your face you do not like London, my dear Captain. But I suspect that your London was different from mine. Where ladies danced the quadrille and hid their blushes in bouquets while the young blades made fine postures to excite their attention.” She tossed her head, so that the hair fell loosely around her throat. “It is a way of life I have tried to learn. But it now seems that my efforts were wasted.” For a moment her eyes became wistful, and then she said shortly, “Life can be cruel.”

She stood up and placed the bowl on a table, and Bolitho saw that she was wearing a different gown, of yellow silk, low cut and painstakingly embroidered around the waist. She saw his eyes and remarked, “One of the Spanish ladies here gave it to me.”

He asked, “Did you meet your husband in London?” He did not wish to disturb her memories, but somehow he needed to know.

“The first one.” She watched his puzzled expression and gave another bubbling laugh. “Oh yes, I have buried two husbands, in a manner of speaking.” She moved swiftly to the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do not look so worried. It is history. The first was a real dashing person. Together we were going to set the world ablaze. He was a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, if you like. After we were wed he took me to Spain to fight against the Frogs. But all the battles he fought were in taverns, over some woman or other. One day he must have met his match, for he was discovered dead in a ditch outside Sevilla. That was where I met Luis. He was twice my age, but seemed to need me.” She sighed. “He was a widower and had nothing but his work to sustain him.” In a quieter tone she said, “I think he was happy.”