by L. L. Muir
He took the tray. “Ye’re a great many things, Mrs. Fredrick. Foolish, aye. But not stupid.”
With her usual glower, she nodded to Esme and hurried off, ducking away from thick lines of rain seeping through the boards overhead.
Trem held the tray in one hand and barred the door with the other, then turned to face her with wide eyes. “Find the smelling salts lass, Mrs. Fredrick was almost pleasant!”
Esme laughed and shook her head. “She only wanted to get out of the rain.” She climbed up onto the bed in order to leave the chair for him, but we was eyeing the bed as well. “Don’t ye dare think it, Doctor Watson. Yer place is in the chair, aye?”
He gave a sigh and took the tray to the table. “I only thought ye should have a turn in the chair, is all, but I’m afraid the bed might not hold me, since the rope’s been damaged, aye?”
Shamefully, she was disappointed he hadn’t been thinking of something else—like an agreeable way to pass the time while they waited for word of Red Mac.
He brought her a bannock and a suspiciously colorless slice of dried meat and leaned his legs against hers.
“Esme.”
The low rumble of his voice sent a delicious chill through her. “Yes?”
“This attraction between us, we mustn’t take it lightly, aye?” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Much more kissing wouldn’t be wise when ye still mean to marry another. That is… Ye still mean to marry this American—”
“I haven’t changed my mind, Tremayne. I cannot change my mind. Unless…” She couldn’t finish. She shouldn’t have said as much as she had. The man had done so much for her already, it wasn’t right that she should make him feel responsible for her after their voyage was done.
“I regret, more than ye can know, that I cannot make ye a better offer, lass. But I’ll be gone soon enough, so yer future course is yers to plot. I shan’t interfere.”
She closed her eyes, forced a smile, and nodded. She didn’t want him to see the disappointment engulfing her, so she lowered her head and began nibbling on the bannock. After a moment’s pause, he stepped back.
They ate in relative silence but for the rain pelting the ship and the occasional clap of thunder. Keeping her balance while the vessel rolled to and fro was an easy thing while she hung from the ceiling. And when she glanced toward the table, to see how he was faring, he seemed oblivious too it all.
He stared off into the far corner, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as if whatever he imagined was causing him pain.
“Tremayne?”
He swallowed and turned. His forced smile couldn’t disguise the wet shine of his eyes, and she fairly flew to his side and knelt before him.
“Dinna fash for me,” she whispered. “Ye owe me nothing, laddie.” She grinned. “But when the time comes, I’ll take a last kiss farewell, aye? To last me?”
He pretended concern. “I see what ye mean. Ye might be doomed to marry a man with no talent for it.”
With the mood brightened a bit despite the lack of sunshine, and they passed the rest of the storm in light conversation. There was no more talk of Culloden or Scottish monarchs and they chewed at their rations until their jaws grew weary. Then, in an act of self-torture, they took turns describing the meals they hoped to eat once they reached land.
She had never heard of a hamburger before and demanded Tremayne describe one. But he didn’t get far before they heard footfalls nearing the door.
He hurried to the bed and gathered her up in his arms. “Just in case,” he said, then kissed her until she had no sense of the world beyond the joining of their lips. Even the pounding on the door seemed miles away.
Eventually, he set her on her feet, made certain she could stand, and went to the door. Before he pulled it open, however, he gave her one last look that made two things clear—
First, that kiss had been his farewell. There would not be another. And second, if they were given bad news, that Red Mac was not the villain they’d been searching out, then Tremayne Watson would reveal to all and sundry that she was not Mary, the daughter of Lord Angus Campbell. There would be no wedding in Boston. There would be no erasure of her father’s debts.
And there would be no Tremayne Watson available to help her find her next step.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Captain Titus tried to suppress his smile, but failed. “Why don’t the pair of you come up on the quarterdeck and get some fresh air. The storm is over and your would-be assassin is in the brig.”
The Scot’s shoulders relaxed, but still he held tight to the open door. “Ye’re certain?”
The smile disappeared. “He confessed. He’s a bit out of sorts for sending Nunn to his death, so it was a simple thing to break him. He said a Lord Childers paid him to kill Miss Campbell before we reached Boston Harbor. Said he’d put it off as long as he dared.” The captain inclined his head in her direction. “The fool sends his apologies, Miss. He only wished he would have been caught before he was compelled to silence his friend. As do we all.”
Still, the Scot stood firm as if to block the captain from stepping inside. “Nunn recognized him then? After he tried to finish her off?”
Titus nodded. “Just as you suspected.”
Tremayne shook his head. “Forgive me for asking, Captain, but I have to know if this confession was coerced before I dare let down my guard.”
“I understand. If you’d like to question the prisoner yourself, you’re welcome to do so.”
Tremayne hesitated. He would have to leave her alone in order to speak with Red Mac, and it was still his habit to remain at her side. It appeared as if the dilemma physically pained him.
“Go,” she said. “I’ll bar the door behind ye, and I’ll scream like a banshee if anyone so much as knocks on it. But do whatever ye must to be sure, aye? For the both of us.”
He swallowed with difficulty, nodded, and stepped outside. She barred the door and blocked it with the trunk.
Alone. She was finally alone.
It was a relief to use the chamber pot without the man turning his back and pretending to ignore her. It was a relief to open the windows and find no one hanging there, watching her. And it was a relief to hope that she would soon be walking freely about the ship’s deck without worrying who wanted her dead.
All with no need for her secret to be revealed.
She paced around the room, feeling like she was missing something—something important, like an arm.
Or rather, an arm to hold onto…
There were quick footsteps, then a rap at the door.
“Dinna scream, ye wee banshee! It is I, Doctor Watson.”
She unbarred the door first and the trunk easy slid out of the way with Tremayne pushing on it.
“Clever lass,” he said, nodding at the trunk. “Where are yer shoes? Did ye not wish to take a stroll around the deck? If ye’d like me to escort ye, ye’d best move quickly.”
She played along and quickly donned the closest slippers to hand.
At the door, she paused. “He truly confessed?”
Tremayne sobered. “Aye, lass. He did. Said he spent the money before he ever left port, or he’d have given it back the minute he met ye.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “He’s always been so kind to me. Always.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps it was his conscience that made him so kind, aye? Or perhaps ye’re just too charming for anyone to resist ye.”
“Except Mrs. Fredrick,” they said in unison, then laughed while they made their way into the sunshine. The grey clouds that had harassed the ship all morning were only a shadow on the horizon. A wall of white clouds hovered to the northwest, out of their path, and the sun hung high in the sky.
As they strolled around the upper deck, the waves splashed happily against the hull. It was a welcome change to hear the clear, crisp sounds rather than the dull noises through the cabin walls. And while she was heartily grateful for the return of her freedom, and was anxious to be on so
lid, immoveable ground again, she would give it all away just to keep Tremayne Watson beside her for always.
~
Trem felt as if he were being drawn and quartered, having his attention pulled in so many different directions he wouldn’t be surprised to find his limbs go flying away to the four kingdoms of Britain.
What he wished was to concentrate on Esme Forsyth and commit to memory every step they took along the sun-warmed deck, but he knew that Soni would call him back any moment. He only wished he knew how she would do it.
Would she appear at his side, lay a hand on his arm, and whisk him away while every soul aboard the Queen of Scots looked on and questioned their sanity? Or would he blink overlong and miss the moment when he shifted from ship to battlefield? Would he fall arse over teakettle if he didn’t stand very still and prepare himself? But how could he refuse one moment of strolling with the lass holding fast to his arm, as if he were the most precious thing in the world to him?
Then, too, how could he ignore outright the niggling suspicion that something was terribly wrong? Was the lass still in danger? Or was it simply his heart balking at the idea of leaving her behind.
He’d gone to the brig and seen Red Mac for himself. So wrapped up in his private torment, the Bosun’s Mate had resembled men on the battlefield who had wrapped their bodies around their wounds and waited for an English bayonet to finish them off.
He’d coward against the far wall. “I’m right sorry, Doctor. I am. But I’ve sold my soul, and there is nothing I can do now. What’s done is done. Tell the woman… Tell her I wish I could take it all back.”
“She’s safe, then?” Trem had to hear him say it.
“Yes,” he hissed, as if in pain. “Now leave me be.” He’d shrunk down into the corner like a mouse trying to find his way out of a cage.
Trem hoped he would be capable of a bit more decorum when Soni came for him, but he didn’t hold out much hope. His heart was breaking, and damned if it didn’t cause him real pain!
So she wouldn’t be able to read it on his face, he looked away. The cloud to the Northwest was catching up with them, and depending on its speed, might overtake them as the cloud had done two days before—
A heavy gong was struck in his breast.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Trem slowed, took a gentle hold of Esme’s shoulder, and led her over to the rail for a modicum of privacy. “It’s done, Esme. And I must leave ye.”
Her brow furrowed and the corner of her mouth quirked. “I don’t ken what ye mean, Tremayne. Just how far do ye mean to go?” She nodded to the railing and the water beyond. Then she looked again. Her mouth dropped open.
Trem followed her gaze and there, just a quarter of a mile from the Queen of Scots was a Cutter, a small, single-masted ship, fore-and-aft rigged, with a couple of headsails and a bowsprit. It cut across the waves in their direction at odds with both the angle of the sails and the direction of the wind. And since he could think of no 18th century ship that could manage such a feat, without some hidden, 20th century engine, it had to be performing under the power of a Muir witch!
Captain Titus stepped up to the rail not five feet from them and lifted his lifted a telescope to his eye. He frowned and offered the glass to Trem. “Friends of yours?”
Through the lens, Trem found the bowsprit and worked his way back to the helm where a dark figure grasped the wheel. There was only one other soul visible—a young lassie dress as a pirate of all things—a very modern lassie in a decidedly Hollywood costume, all purple cloth and black feathers. Her dark hair billowed in the wind like a flag. The grin on her face revealed her bright white teeth quite out of place for the current year.
Soni was enjoying herself.
Trem was almost hurt that the young witch could show such joy even as she came to drag him away from Esme—a feat that promised to be as painful as his own death had been. And in anticipation of that pain, he imagined the pungent cloud of exploded gunpowder and sulfur in the air, the bite of hot metal and cooling blood.
“You recognize them, I see,” said Titus. “Is this how you were able to board my ship in the middle of the Atlantic? By sneaking up through the mist aboard that? They’re lucky they survived.” He cocked his head. “I never believe that tale about caring for Mr. Peebles all that time and remaining unseen for nearly five weeks. But I couldn’t come up with a plausible alternative.”
“Yes.” Trem hoped the man wouldn’t ask for more detail. “They put me aboard.”
“I’m relieved to hear it, for any other explanation would have sounded almost…” He chuckled. “Supernatural.” The captain took the glass back and looked through it again. “Why would they come to fetch you back again?”
Trem shrugged. If he could stall for a moment or two, he wouldn’t have to answer any of the captain’s questions, and the man would be left with his own disturbing mystery to solve.
His gaze settled on Esme, who appeared worried as she watched the vessel grow closer. “I’ll miss ye, lass.”
“Oh, certainly. As much as ye’ll miss salt pork and loose teeth.” Her chin trembled and she looked away to hide it.
Titus cleared his throat. “And, will Miss Forsyth be going on to Boston with us? She does have a bridegroom waiting, does she not?”
The lass shook her head so slightly the captain likely hadn’t noticed. But Trem had, so he answered for her. “Yes, sir. She’ll continue on.” He meant more than just Boston, but there was no time to explain why she would live on and he would not. And there was no sense upsetting her further.
He’d warned her he’d be leaving, and when, so she couldn’t possibly be as surprised as she seemed. But in fact, she looked downright murderous.
~
Esme took the spyglass from Tremayne and had a look for herself. She had hoped it was only her imagination, but alas, it was true. A beautiful young woman now stood on the bow—a lass Tremayne had been expecting to come for him.
Well, no wonder he had no intention of inviting her along.
Esme swallowed a lump that might have become a flood of tears had she let it rise. But she wouldn’t make a fuss. She had nothing to complain about, had she? Tremayne Watson had kept his vow.
He was watching her. She swallowed again, refusing to greet. Better to step away and leave him to her, for she certainly wouldn’t stand there and witness their happy reunion.
She turned away though she had no idea where she would go.
“Lass…” He reached for her hand, but she evaded him. “Please, Mary. Don’t for one instant believe that I wish to leave ye. If I had my druthers, ye’d be hard-pressed to be rid of me for the rest of yer life, aye?”
She faced him fully. “Is she yer young wife, then?”
He smiled. “No. Ye might say she’s the devil, and I’ve sold my soul to stay with ye this long.”
She scoffed. “To her? Ye sold yer soul to her?” She pointed at the young woman and the pretty ship that was turning to come up alongside the Queen of Scots. “It appears she’s in a fine hurry to collect it. So I’ll fare thee well now, if it’s all the same. And thank ye, sincerely, for saving my life. I’d hate to think ye’d sold yer soul for nothing, aye?”
His smile was gone. He swallowed hard, then swallowed again. “If I had another soul to sell, love…”
She shook her head, hoping he’d pity her. She could not allow herself to soften any more than she already had. As it was, she couldn’t stand up to a one-foot wave.
She had to stand strong now, so she could stand alone after he was gone. She had to forget everything she’d felt for him, every hope she’d allowed to sneak past her better judgment. She needed…distance. She needed him to be a stranger again.
“You!” she sneered. “Ye ken just what to tell a lass, like ye’ve had a great amount of practice. All the right words, to say all the wrong things. But waste no more of yer cleverness on me, Mr. Watson. Any more and my very heart will burst from yer flattery.”
Mr. Mawbury fina
lly found the courage to intrude. Glowering at the Scot, he offered his chin to the air and his elbow to her. “Come, Miss Campbell. You mustn’t overtax yourself.”
She took the offered arm allowed the silly man to lead her away, toward the port side of the ship that was nearly abandoned as the passengers and crew had a good look at the new arrivals. She couldn’t imagine anything she’d like less than to spend another minute talking to the vapid man, but with her heart shattering as it was, she needed any support she could find. Otherwise, she’d make a horrible spectacle of herself, begging Tremayne Watson not to leave her.
Clearly pleased with her cooperation, Mawbury started reminding her of everything he planned to do when he disembarked. Though he’d given her the same recitation half a dozen times before, in this telling he explained how easily she could be added to his plans, with or without her expected fiancé. But in her heart, she worried the promise of a fiancé had only been a ruse to get her aboard the ship, that no one would be waiting for her.
And what were the chances she’d ever earn enough to pay for passage home again, to prove Lord Campbell a liar?
Heaven save her, would she be wise to keep in the good graces with a simpering fool like Mawbury?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Trem couldn’t move. Though Wickham had tossed a coil of rope up over the rail, he let the ship’s crew worry about it. He only had a few moments left to be near Esme—and the woman thought those moments would be best spent with the popinjay?
He stepped to the left so he could see around the mast. Mawbury was talking her ear off, but she wasn’t listening.
Wickham shouted at him to swing down. Trem ignored him. The Muirs could wait a bloody minute more.
Titus caught his eye and gave him a nod of farewell and a two-fingered salute. Trem nodded in answer. It was time to go, but… He simply couldn’t leave her like that. And not on the arm of that fool!
Before he knew just what to do, his boots stomped around the deck with him inside them. And since he happened to be in the area, he reached for the still-chattering Mawbury, and swung him around by his elbow. In turn, the man unknowingly swung Esme around to come face to face with Trem. He wasted no words and pulled the lass into his arms. With a hand flat against her back, he pulled her against him and swallowed her gasp of surprise with an ardent kiss—a replacement kiss of sorts for the farewell kiss in the cabin. He reckoned, since the lass hadn’t been swooning at his feet, begging him to stay, he mustn’t have gotten it right the first time.
