by Fiona Monroe
"There's no reason why they should."
"I say we should find a cove shy of Aberdeen and drop anchor there."
"Then we really would look like smugglers. Stirling, these waters are patrolled, you saw that for yourself just this morning. They won't be expecting pirates in Scotland, but they are always on the look-out for other kinds of miscreants. Our best hope of avoiding notice or arrest is to act as if we are innocent, and sail openly into port as if we have nothing to hide."
"But we havenae got papers," said Stirling stubbornly.
"We haven't got... false papers. Perhaps though, we might have something better."
He could not believe that it hadn't occurred to him before. He had been so preoccupied with trying not to think about what would happen when they reached Scotland, partly because that meant he would have to part with Elspeth, that he had not allowed himself to form any sensible plan. That had almost been his undoing that very morning, when they had been boarded by the Navy, and he really had been at a loss for what to say to the naval Captain. He knew very well that Elspeth had saved them, and that was why he had been so angry with her.
It was time to face up to matters, and put his wits to work again.
He couldn't believe that he hadn't thought of it before. He had spent weeks living amongst the abandoned effects of poor gallant Captain Cardrew—even sleeping between his sheets, for he was not overly fastidious after twenty years at sea—and he had never bothered to investigate his sea chest. When they had first captured the ship he had ordered his men to loot the cabins, and his erstwhile crew were nothing if not an experienced, thorough band of brigands; he knew they would have emptied the Captain's quarters in particular of anything remotely valuable. All that remained were a few battered books, sea-stained clothes and worthless trinkets such as a shell-covered keepsake box containing the miniature silhouette of a girl fashioned in black paper.
Under the bunk, Roderick found a small wooden locker that had already been roughly prised open. For a moment he was afraid that he would find it empty, but it was still almost full of papers that the men in their hasty search had evidently judged worthless. Or more probably, had been unable to read. Most of the crew could recognise an expensive book by its leather binding, but had no way of judging the value of a written document.
On top were some letters in a lady's hand, which seemed to concern the purchase of plum damask for new drawing room curtains and the progress of little Kitty's sore throat, and an impressive-looking document with a seal and ribbon, which looked promising but turned out to be nothing but Cardrew's notice of commission to the rank of captain. Underneath this was, unaccountably, a folded copy of the Times newspaper from January 1816, the year before. Roderick could see why the men had decided at a glance that there was nothing to be gained from the contents of this box. But underneath the old newspaper, he found just what he had been looking for. Folded up in an oilskin wrapper were the papers which officially identified the ship as the merchant vessel Heron, listing its capacity, construction, port of origin and owner—a Mr Warburton—and the year it had last been inspected for insurance purposes with Lloyds Register.
Roderick sat back on his heels and let out a long breath of relief. He was not even going to have to change the name painted on the hull. By the time any questions were raised about the failure of the Heron to arrive at Bridgetown with its cargo of one aristocratic bride, or back at Portsmouth with several hundredweight of mahogany logs, he could be halfway back across the Atlantic. Mr Warburton and his underwriters at Lloyds might be greatly puzzled when they eventually learned that the missing ship had docked briefly at Aberdeen, but by then he would be gone and beyond pursuit. As long as the Heron was not already posted as missing, he could safely present these genuine papers at Aberdeen. He could even, if challenged, adopt the character of Captain Cardrew. He had his letter of commission, after all. And what were the chances of a minor official in Aberdeen knowing personally a merchant captain who was based out of Portsmouth, hundreds and hundreds of miles away?
He raked through the rest of the box, in the vague hope of finding something else useful. There was another letter in the same hand, filled with more domestic trivia. Having briefly skimmed through further news of the poultry yard being raided by a fox, and little Henry losing a front tooth in a tumble, Roderick was on the point of concluding that there was nothing of else of interest in the box when, at the bottom, his eye fell on a folded and sealed letter with the direction uppermost. It was the distinctive crest stamped into the red wax seal which caught his attention. On closer inspection, it proved to be that of the Marquess of Crieff, and the letter was addressed in a spidery, straggling gentleman's hand to Mr Isaac Crowther, Crowther Estates, Barbados.
Roderick hesitated, turning the letter over in his hands. Clearly, this was a letter written by someone at Dunwoodie House, intended for Lady Elspeth's future husband and carried not by Elspeth herself, but by Captain Cardrew. He had to conclude that it had not been meant for her ladyship's eyes.
Pirate he might be, but he was still a gentleman. It took a certain amount of determination to overcome his reluctance to break the seal on an unopened private letter and read its contents. But he mastered his scruples, though in the event he almost wished he had not.
After reading the letter through twice, he folded it up again and tucked it carefully into the pocket on the inside of his jacket. This was not going to make what he had to do any easier.
Why had she thought it would be a fine adventure, an act of defiance, to take an hour of passion with a man of her choice before she settled to a life with a suitable husband? It had not brought her satisfaction, it did not make her feel good about herself. It had instead broken her open, made her skin as sensitive as a newborn's, bound her body and soul to a man who had turned from her and locked the door on her; figuratively, and literally.
Two brief nights and two long days passed, and Elspeth spent most of the time lying listlessly on her bunk, scarcely touching the food that the cook brought to her, and forming no more plans for escape. Whenever she drifted off into an uneasy doze, her sleep was rent with shockingly vivid dreams of him on top of her, kissing her neck and shoulders so intently that she could see the bruises still all over her throat, plunging relentlessly inside her with a force that made her tender still. And the moment when he had brought her, breathless and dizzy, to such a pitch of sweet joy that she thought she would faint with delight.
And then she would wake, alone, in a locked room, shivering.
On the third morning she woke with the familiar sense that something was different, something was happening. She peered out of the porthole and saw a confusion of ships' masts and, with a lurch of her heart, grey granite walls and windows glittering in the early morning sun.
Roderick had never in his life been to Aberdeen, so it was an unfamiliar homecoming. He remembered hearing it spoken of as the 'Silver City', and as the crew steered the Heron into the small, busy harbour—crowded with much smaller fishing boats, the salty reek of their cargo strong on the air—he understood why that was. The buildings on the shorefront were built from slabs of granite rock, which caught the morning sunlight in some magical way and glittered white as crystal. Next moment, as his view passed into the shade, they became grey and forbidding.
The arrival of what was clearly a trading vessel, and not another fishing boat returning with its catch, had already alerted interest on shore. Roderick saw a little crowd of labouring types, who would be hovering in the hope of getting work helping to unload the cargo, and a couple of better-dressed men who were undoubtedly representatives of the harbour office, come to check their credentials and search for contraband.
He had spent some time before the mirror in his cabin, trying to make himself look as respectable as possible. He had no wig, only his own unruly curling dark hair, but then wigs had seemed to be going out of style when he had left Scotland and by now might be worn only by old men. Nonetheless, he was not so sure
that he did not now qualify as an old man himself. He smoothed down his curls as best he could with nothing but his own fingers, dismayed again to notice the grey amidst the black, and jammed them under his one good hat. At least he had never been one for loading the lobes of his ears with a dozen gold and silver rings, and he had luckily avoided visible scars. There was nothing of the pirate marked indelibly upon his outward person.
Before he could suppress the thought of her, he wondered what Elspeth was thinking and feeling now that they had docked. The urge to go belowdecks and see her for himself, to reassure her that this would soon be over, was almost overwhelming. He hesitated for a few moments at the top of the steps that led down towards the guest cabin, but then he pulled his jacket straight and strode out on deck to meet the officials.
"So... let me see... you have come directly from Barbados?"
The harbour-master was a tall, thin, elderly man, who did in fact sport a magnificent old-fashioned wig, and had very grubby hands and fingernails. He peered at the ship's papers through a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and made notes with a pencil in a small leather-bound pad.
"Yes, sir," said Roderick confidently. "We put into São Miguel for supplies, but otherwise, directly from Barbados."
"And you have no cargo?"
"No, sir. I intend to purchase goods at several ports around Great Britain and take them back to Barbados to trade there. I also have commissions from several wealthy customers on Barbados for particular items."
"Hmm. Well, these papers appear to be in order, but you will forgive me, Captain Cardrew, if my men conduct a search of your hold for anything untoward."
"By all means, sir. I have nothing to hide, I assure you."
Which was, he reflected, entirely untrue. He forced himself to stride along the dock beside the old harbour-master back towards the boarding plank in a relaxed and unconcerned way, and watched while two younger men boarded his ship with the officious, invasive attitude of licensed agents. There was nothing Roderick could do but stand and watch, with the Venezuelan sailors looking on and muttering and picking their teeth and generally appearing disreputable, while the custom thugs disappeared into the interior of the ship.
The ship, where Lady Elspeth was still.
Suddenly, Roderick could bear it no longer. He could not stay out here while Elspeth was locked up alone in her cabin, with strange men tramping about inside. Without so much as a word to the harbour-master, he bounded across the plank.
He could hear the two custom officers banging about in the hold below, moving boxes and barrels he assumed. He wasn't interested in what they were doing, since there really was nothing to find down there other than a few rats and the odd cat, but they might soon extend their search to other rooms in the ship where smaller contraband might be hidden. He reached Elspeth's door and saw that the padlock on the outside was still securely in place.
He put his ear against it. There was no sound from within.
"Lady Elspeth," he said urgently, and as loudly as he dared.
There more silence, then a sudden outrush of breath and a thump that vibrated the whole of the door against his cheek. "Let me out!"
Her sweet voice, tinged with tears, muffled but inches away. Roderick closed his eyes. "I cannot let you out. There are custom officers searching the ship."
"Then you must let me out. If they find me locked in here, they will know I am a prisoner."
He knew this to be true, but still he hesitated. There was a chance that the officers would not look further than the hold, and would be safely on their way within minutes. Whereas if he removed the padlock from the door and released Elspeth, there was nothing short of violence that he could do to stop her running through the ship screaming to the customs men and the harbour-master for aid.
And also, if he opened this door, he would see her beautiful face again.
He could almost feel her breath on his face, through the thin wood panel. With a sudden exclamation, he fumbled out the key from where he had been keeping it safe on a chain around his neck, sprang open the padlock, and removed it from the crude latch bolted to the doorframe. A moment after he had slipped the padlock into his trouser pocket, he heard a heavy tread on the ladder leading up from the hold.
The door flew open and Elspeth stood before him, her hair in glorious golden disarray around her face and shoulders, her eyes sparkling with tears and fury. She was wearing nothing but her cotton nightgown.
"You trust me?" she whispered. "You trust me, at last?"
For a moment they looked at each other, then without any conscious thought or power to resist he pulled her to him and kissed her hard. She was gloriously, wonderfully soft and yielding.
A soft cough brought him to his senses. He turned to see one of the custom inspectors, a solid seedy-looking man with the air of a dishonourably discharged soldier, watching from the top of the entrance to the hold.
Roderick kept his arms around Elspeth, and glared at the man. "Have you seen enough?"
"Aye, Captain." The man seemed to suppress a grin, and made a slight, mocking tip of his hat. "Begging your pardon, sir. We'll be on our way. MacCrimmon!" He called to his colleague, a stouter man who made the ladder creak as he mounted it, and the pair of them headed off the ship without a backwards glance.
"Get dressed," Roderick murmured to Elspeth, letting her go and backing away from her again. Without looking at her, he bounded up to the deck.
The customs inspectors were back on the dockside, conferring with the harbour-master, who was nodding gravely and scribbling something into his notebook. Roderick joined them.
"I trust that is all in order now, sir?" he said, brusquely.
"Docking fees are payable in advance," said the harbour-master, handing back the package of ship's papers and tucking his notepad back into his jacket. "How long do you intend to be here?"
"Not above a week, if my business goes well." He handed over a week's dues from his sadly diminishing supply of coin.
The harbour master turned over the Spanish-minted silver thoughtfully, but did not reject it. "I'll remind you, Captain, that you are in Scotland. We take a dim view of drinking liquor on the Sabbath, and indeed other immoral behaviours at any time, so see that you control these men."
Roderick replied with a stiff bow, and with a curt nod of his head the harbour-master turned on his heel and strode away. The knot of men who had been hanging about hoping to pick up casual work, and who had been idly watching and listening to see if anything exciting was about to happen—whether the British ship with the crew of foreign ruffians was going to be impounded for smuggling—began to disperse, since it was clear that neither unloading nor arrests were likely. In most ports there would have been a welcoming chorus of gaily-arraigned women, too, eager to peddle solace to men starved for weeks of feminine company. In the Silver City, under the dour eye of the harbour-master, there was not a skirt in sight.
Roderick was just pondering upon the peculiarities of a homeland which now felt austere and foreign to him, a powerful relief expanding in his breast as he watched the bewigged figure of the harbour-master disappear into one of the buildings along the shorefront, when a voice said almost in his ear, "I would have said you were well enough acquainted with immoral behaviours yourself, brother."
He froze, and turned his head with difficulty.
He seemed to have appeared from nowhere, but he must have been lurking unseen behind the crowd of dock workers. A slight man, a gentleman, expensively but somewhat carelessly dressed in mud-spattered riding boots and greatcoat. A crop in one hand completed the impression that he had only just jumped off a horse, though the animal was nowhere to be seen. Roderick locked eyes with him, and saw his own face—younger, paler, sharper—imperfectly reflected back.
It was twenty years since he had last set eyes on a scrawny wee tangle-haired boy with a reedy voice and black, sharp eyes; but even without his greeting he would have known this man for his little brother, Dunca
n.
Chapter Seventeen
"Not exactly what I would have imagined," said his brother, striding into the cabin and gazing all around at the rich and modish decor and fittings. "Looks like a New Town drawing room."
He seemed completely at his ease, which Roderick most certainly was not. Roderick had a vague feeling that their sensations ought to be reversed, as it was he, Roderick, who had been supposed drowned these twenty years. Duncan did not look like someone whose brother had just been resurrected from the grave.
Roderick had, almost without thinking in the first jarring shock of their meeting, whisked his brother aboard the ship and out of sight into the cabin. He had already issued a general order to the men to take shore leave, and he could hear their happy shouts and thumps as they disembarked. He hoped that not many of them had seen, or taken note, of the travel-stained gentleman he had just brought on board.
"It is comfortable enough," he said, stupidly. "Ships are far better appointed than they once were."
What was he doing, discussing modern maritime conveniences with a brother he had last seen half a lifetime ago? He watched as Duncan wandered around the small space, tweaking the coverlet on the bed, picking up an ornate silver inkpot, pulling out one of the little drawers on the writing cabinet.
"No doubt. But where's the cutlass? Where's the treasure chest full of Spanish doubloons? I'm disappointed, Roddie." He examined the spine of a volume of the terrible novel Elspeth had been reading out, tossed it aside onto the bed, then without invitation took possession of Captain Cardrew's padded leather desk chair. "After all," he added, looking up at him with a sudden wicked grin, the same sly smile that Roderick remembered from long ago, "according to every crofter's wife in Gleann a'Chaistaill, if you didn't drown when you ran away to sea, you became a pirate."
