by L. L. Muir
His attention flew back to her, he picked up both her hands in spite of his injury, then he bent over her. “Ye’re not going to die, lass. And any soreness ye feel is likely my fault. I was a bit rough with ye, yesterday, when I tried to force the water out of ye, aye?”
“Oh,” she said quietly, wishing she had more to ask so he might remain where he was and never let go of her hands. If his hand on her forehead had been a comfort, having him hover over her like a protective bird, was doubly so.
And though he seemed to have nothing else to say on the matter, he seemed in no hurry to step back. In fact, it appeared he’d taken a great interest in her lips. And in the time it took her to blink, his face had come even closer.
He glanced into her eyes, as if asking permission. And though she couldn’t imagine how she’d granted it, he lowered his mouth to hers.
She’d never before been close enough to a man to hear and feel his breathing, smell his skin, or know every minor movement of his head. It was a heady thing—a sudden feeling of oneness with another human being, a connection of more than just their lips—it was a promise that, for the moment, she was not alone in this world.
The emotions were so unexpected, so overwhelming, they brought a tear to her eye.
The Scot pulled back to look at her. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “It’s been a great long while since I’ve been in such close proximity to a bonnie lass, let alone wanted to kiss one.”
She felt her face flush. “Ye’ve wanted to kiss me?”
“Auch, aye. Ye dinna see anyone holding a pistol to me head.” He chuckled. “Besides, it’s a pleasant way to check for a fever, aye?”
Suddenly breathless and light headed, she had to ask, “And do I have a fever?”
He frowned at her forehead. “Looks as if ye might at that.”
She closed her eyes and waited for another kiss, but his lips didn’t land on her mouth, but on her brow, where they lingered warm and soft, as was his breath against her skin.
He pulled back with a grin. “No fever. Just a wee blush is all.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed him away. He laughed and turned toward the door, where a figure stood with mouth agape and nose wrinkled.
“Glad I’m not a doctor,” said wee Robert, “if that’s what you have to do.”
~
The Scot sat in the captain’s chair and called the boy close. In all sobriety, he gestured toward the bed. “No one can know that the lass has awakened, Robert.”
“Why not?”
“Because whoever tried to kill her before, will try to kill her again. If they believe she’s still asleep, they might believe she’ll die on her own, and leave her be. Do ye understand?”
The boy nodded.
Esme waved for the laddie to come to her. “Dinna worry, Robert. I will not kiss ye.” The boy looked relieved to hear it and came nearer, though beyond her reach. “Ye must pretend, Robert, that when ye came in here just now, I was still asleep. Can ye pretend?”
“Oh, sure. I can pretend just fine, but…”
She smiled encouragingly. “But what?”
“But everyone already kens ye’re awake.”
“They do?”
The boy nodded quickly and pointed to the window. “Red Mac, the Bosun’s Mate, has been watching through the window.”
Esme couldn’t see much without twisting around, but she didn’t want to see, either. Instead, she watched the Scot. He looked to the back of the room and his features twisted with outrage. After a heartbeat or two, he swallowed and calmed, then faced her.
“He’s right. Hanging in the Bosun’s swing, though he’s scrambling to get out of sight now. The glass is thick, though. I don’t believe he’s heard much.”
But Esme wasn’t worried about what the man had heard. She was trying to remember if she’d seen some shadow when she’d emptied the chamber pot!
“Robert,” the Scot said, “I have a bottle of wine I need ye to take to Mr. Peebles. Will ye do that for me? Tell him I said to make it last, aye? And be careful not to drop it. I’m not sure he would forgive ye.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll take it. But I must hurry. That ornery Mrs. Fredrick will be coming with your morning meal.”
“Auch, laddie. Mr. Peebles will make that woman seem a lamb if ye drop the wine.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The unpleasant woman arrived with breakfast when Trem opened the door to let out Robert and his precious cargo. Unfortunately, there were others behind her intent on making a morning call as well. Since none of them mentioned a Miss Forsyth by name, Trem was reasonably sure Red Mac hadn’t been able to hear anything of importance.
However, the way Mr. Mawbury was fisting and unfisting his hands, the Bosun’s Mate hadn’t kept what he’d seen to himself.
“Mrs. Fredrick, please place the tray on the table. I’ll be with ye directly. Captain? Please join us. Mr. Mawbury, if ye wish to make yerself useful, I suppose ye can play the part of Royal Taster, and allow Mrs. Fredrick a reprieve…”
The man blanched.
“No? Well, then, perhaps ye should come back later then.”
The coward stomped off. Trem then address the bosun, who appeared in time to take Mawbury’s place. “Mr. Nunn? Is there something I can do for ye?”
The man glanced inside the cabin, then shook his head. “Nothing sir. Just…just wanted to see for myself that Miss Campbell has recovered.” He didn’t appear too cheered by the fact, even though his voice was rattled with emotion.
Trem dismissed the man’s sober demeanor. Since he didn’t know Nunn well, he couldn’t guess if his lack of facial expression was simply his normal way. Instead, he believed the man was, indeed, happy the woman had survived. He had no proof other than his gut feeling, but for the time being, he would remove Nunn’s name from his list.
Trem stepped inside the cabin to catch the captain and Mrs. Fredrick in a silent conversation. The woman’s expression darkened when she noticed him.
“Go ahead,” Trem told her. “Taste it all, but leave a bit for us, this time, would you?”
The captain renewed his glower. She refused to be cowed and lifted a bite of porridge, tasted, then cleaned the spoon. While she took a small bite of the cheese and dried currants, Trem waited for signs of distress and realized what a barbaric thing it was to force someone to taste food that might be poisoned.
One glance at the lass on the bed, however, toughened him right up again. If someone was going to be poisoned on that ship, he certainly had the right taster for the job. Considering the look she gave the captain, knowing it was Titus’ idea to use her thusly, she certainly fit Mr. Nunn’s description of a firkin of soured suet.
Something interesting happened, however, while the woman tasted the broth the cook had included on the tray—she fairly snarled at Miss Forsyth as if her predicament was entirely the lass’ fault.
Esme, bless her, turned her face to the far wall to escape the vitriol. But Trem wouldn’t stand for it.
“Tell me, Mrs. Fredrick,” he said. “Just how does a servant like yerself risk yer employer’s ire by treating her so vilely?”
Esme gasped and pulled herself up on her elbows, but as she prepared to protest, Trem gave her a sharp look and shook his head.
The maid pointed at her and sneered. “She’s not my employer. Lord Angus Campbell pays my wages.”
“Ye mean, her father.”
The woman caught herself and smoothed her features. “Yes. Of course. Her father. But she knows… I didn’t want to take this journey. I have family, you know. But I was given no choice. And now I’ll have to survive another journey just to get home again.”
“And if she complains to her father?”
The woman snorted. “She won’t. She knows…what I’ve had to sacrifice for her.”
Trem turned to Esme. He had hoped she would speak up for herself, but instead of arguing, she was glaring at him.
He was being thick, he realized. Esme worried that Mrs. F
ranklin would out her as a fraud, just as he’d wanted to do, only for different reasons. And there he was, provoking the nasty woman to do it.
“Forgive me,” Trem said quickly, and smiled at the maid so she would believe he was apologizing to her. “It’s not my place to interfere. And if ye’ve tasted everything, Mrs. Fredrick, you may go along yer way.”
She glanced at the food on the tray with a hint of regret, pushed the lot away from her, and flounced out the door.
“Good God,” the captain hissed, once she was gone. “My apologies, Miss Campbell, for being saddled with such a maid.” His brows quirked. “Is there any chance the wrong woman was pushed overboard, do you think?”
Together, the three of them enjoyed a hearty laugh, and it was a treat to see Esme’s heart lightened, if only for a moment.
Titus stroked the carved arms of his chair briefly, then stood and bowed toward the bed. “I came to apologize for the man you saw outside your window.”
“Red Mac.” Trem folded his arms and waited for the rest.
“Red Mac, yes. I take full responsibility for his spying. And I assure you, it will not happen again.” The slight lift to the corner of his mouth convinced Trem the man had heard about the kiss.
“We have nothing to hide,” Trem assured him. “But a lady needs privacy, even on a full ship.” He nodded at Titus’ hand that rubbed the corner of his chair once more, as if it couldn’t quite part with it. “Or have ye come to take possession of yer cabin again, sir?”
The man realized what he was doing and laughed. “No, Doctor. I am comfortable enough where I am until we reach port. The cabin is yours—well, Miss Campbell’s at least—until then. If you need another place to sleep, now that she is conscious again…”
“Sorry, Captain. I’ll not leave her side until the villain is found. Whether she wills it or not.”
Esme shrugged her shoulder as if she didn’t believe herself capable of getting rid of him, and that suit him just fine. It made Titus laugh.
“Well, make merry while ye can, aye?” He gave Esme a wink. “And if ye need to walk about the deck this evening, I can have everyone sent below, but for a skeleton crew.”
“Perhaps.” Trem answered for her. He was nearly reluctant to see the man go, for he knew, as soon as he was alone with the lass again, she was going to rip off his head and spit down the hole.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Scot followed the captain to the door, lowered the bar, and spoke before turning to face her, the coward.
“First things first, lass. And ye’ll eat and drink yer fill before we discuss a bloody thing, is that clear?”
She swung her feet off the bed and padded to the table. After scooting the tray to the edge, she sat in the elaborate chair without saying a word. She was right starved, she was. And if he so much as looked at the food, she was afraid she might just growl.
A fair half of the porridge went first. She felt so hollow she wanted the stuff sticking to her ribs for a moment before washing it down. The cheese was strong and tangy, but her stomach rebelled at the smell alone, so she set it aside. She eventually drank a good portion of the broth, then picked at the dried currants while she looked her protector over.
The man stood at ease while she looked him up and down, as if the attention pleased him. She wondered if he was often ignored, so she asked him, but felt immediately contrite.
“Forgive me, Mr. Watson. Eating like an animal has suddenly turned me into a rude creature. Please forget I asked—”
His bark of laughter cut off the rest of her apology. “Nay, lass. Dinna think twice about it. As a matter of strict fact, I have been…let’s say, invisible…for a long while, though it’s never bothered me much. I’ve learned that people who are important to ye, see ye just fine.” He took up his earlier perch on the side of the table and plucked up the cheese. “And I’d rather ye call me Tremayne, or Trem, in private. After all…” He gestured to the bed, to remind her of the kiss.
“Tremayne, then.” A deluge of porridge hit her stomach all at once and she instantly regretted her greed.
“Are ye ill?”
“Ate too quickly. Ye can finish the rest.”
He placed the remaining half of the cheese on the tray. “We’ll save this for Robert.” And while he ate the rest of the porridge, with a bit more glee than she expected, she couldn’t keep her attention off his mouth.
Would he ever have reason to kiss her again? If she was no longer in danger from a fever, would he have no excuse to touch her?
He caught her looking, and laughed. “I thought ye were full.”
She nodded. “I am.”
His gaze flared and he was suddenly the one watching her mouth. The way her blood reacted, she thought it wise to distract them both, and she knew just how to do it.
“I will have yer promise, Tremayne, that ye’ll not tell a soul who I am, or who I am not. And I’ll have yer promise that ye won’t trick Mrs. Fredrick into revealing me either.”
He sighed and put the empty bowl back on the tray. He drank a bit of broth, then took a swig of the water ration before he pushed the tray to the far side of the table. He took his time, gathering his thoughts.
Finally, he faced her. “It’s a simple thing, lass. Ye can save yer own life here, if ye’ll but explain it to the captain. He can spread the news in a trice. The killer will leave ye be.”
“And I’ve already explained why I will not allow it, aye? It’s a simple thing,” she threw his words back at him. “My father’s honor—”
He suddenly rose and loomed over her. “Once a man dishonors himself, lass, it is up to him to purchase it back, not his son, nor his daughter. I learned this the hard way. I wish ye could simply trust me in this.”
She watched him closely as he began pacing the room, back and forth on the far side of the table, over to the windows, and back again.
“The hard way?” she said. “Tell me.”
A crowd of men on the quarter deck, above their heads, broke out in laughter and she and Tremayne both looked up, listening. When her gaze fell, she found him already watching her.
“I was born on the Isle of Mull,” he said. “When Bonnie Prince Charlie came to the Isles and asked us to fight beside him, my father refused. He didn’t wish to get involved. He wouldn’t take sides. When I argued that not taking Charlie’s side was, indeed, taking the side of the Hanoverians, he denied it.” He shrugged his shoulders and wandered back to the windows. “So I felt it was my duty to save his honor, and the honor of my family, by leaving Mull and following Charlie without him. But in the end, I was fighting for no one’s honor but my own.”
Esme hadn’t known the Scot for long, but it was time enough to know when the man was lying. And she believed he was telling the truth. Only the truth made no sense at all.
She got to her feet and found her knees shaking. Her entire body trembled so violently, the breath moving in and out of her lungs rattled. “Tremayne?”
He heard her whisper and turned. Whatever he saw on her face alarmed him and he started toward her, then stopped suddenly. “Oh, Esme! Forgive me!” He put his hands on the sides of his head. “Oh, I’m thick, I am! I never meant to tell ye—”
She heard nothing more, collapsing into a sea of darkness that was all too familiar.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
She wasn’t naïve. She hadn’t lived in an abbey all her life. At twenty years old now, she’d been out in society. Then, after her father had died, she’d been shown the greedy side of mankind as one by one her father’s creditors had come calling. It had been a speedy education to say the least. But until that day, Esme had never met anyone who was well and truly insane.
At least she hoped Tremayne Watson was insane. Because, if he wasn’t, then she was.
“Lass? Lass.” She felt him patting her cheeks like a rain of hailstones, and she had to open her eyes to get him to cease.
She blinked at him, but held her tongue. Once again, she was on the swinging pal
let. Once again, he was hovering over her. But now she was afraid to allow him to kiss her. As much as she’d loved the touch of his lips before, she now worried what he might do if she rebuffed him. But what choice did she have? To encourage a madman was…madness.
“Esme Forsyth,” he chided. “I can see what ye’re thinking, plain as day. And no, I have not lost my wits. Nor are ye in danger. And it hurts me that ye would think it.” Suddenly, he was gone and she had to sit up and twist around fully to find him, staring out the windows again.
“Ye haven’t lost yer wits?”
“Nay,” he said quietly.
“Ye believe ye met Bonnie Prince Charlie in the flesh?”
“Aye.”
“The man who died three years ago, in Rome?”
“Three? Then it’s 1791?”
She remembered his question the night before, when he’d wondered about the day and age. Had he not known the year?
“Aye,” she said. “The Year of Our Lord, Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-one. And yer all of thirty years?”
“Twenty-four.” He looked older. “And when I met Charles Stuart…I was all of twenty-three.”
She laughed, then. “I’m sorry to say, laddie, that if ye met Charles Stuart in the Isles, a year ago, someone was taking a tug on yer leg.”
“I met Charles Stuart two-hundred and seventy years ago, Esme. And the next year, at Culloden, I died for wanting to save my father’s honor. I died for wanting to prove Charlie’s right to the throne. And when one more day has passed before my eyes, I will meet the blackguard again. And I will beat him bloody for dishonoring us all.” He turned back to the window. “So no, I will not keep yer secret, so that ye may die to prove yer own father’s honor. For I have done the same, and it meant nothing in the end.”
He glanced past her to the door, then at her. And before she could get her toes on the ground, he was already lifting the bar. She hurried to him, ignoring the swirling of the room around her, and forced her way between himself and the latch.
“I’ll not let ye out of this room, Tremayne, unless ye promise ye’ll keep my secret.”
