Watson

by L. L. Muir

  He now understood what she’d meant about him using the right words to say the wrong things. He’d vowed to protect her, but only so long as he was able. He’d called her sweeting, his love, while at the same time promising her he would leave her behind.

  At least Mawbury was a bit more constant—a constant boob, but still consistent at it.

  “You have every reason to disregard me,” he said, then kissed her again. When next he paused for breath, he explained. “To avoid using the right words to say the wrong thing, I shall use no words at all, so there can be no misunderstanding between us, aye?”

  “How dare you sir?” A slow-reacting but outraged Mawbury tried to press between them, but was stopped by Esme’s hand.

  “Doona interrupt, sir.” She gave him a delicate shove and he stepped back. To Trem, she whispered, “Take me with ye.”

  He’d gotten it right then. She was fairly swooning. But what was he to do with her? Surely Soni and her uncle would agree to take her off the ship, deliver her where she wanted to go, and give him the chance, in the meantime, to explain it all.

  He took hold of her hand and hurried to the starboard rail. Wickham was standing just below, waiting.

  “Wickham, please,” he called. “Is there a way?” He gestured to Esme and hoped the man would give him a chance to plead his case away from their attentive audience. If the Muirs had known the very moment his quest had been accomplished, surely they knew what was in his heart as well. If there were some sort of camera or recording device on board, surely they knew!

  “No,” Wickham said, his dark voice rising easily. “I’m sorry, Watson. You must come alone.”

  Even knowing Soni would have no better answer, Trem looked for her and found her manning the helm. She wasn’t smiling, she was biting her lower lip. Sunlight reflected off the tears that gathered in her eyes and streamed down both her cheeks. She hadn’t been enjoying herself after all.

  But it was Esme she was looking at. “Forgive us,” she said. The plea travelled through the gathering mist and carried clearly, easily. The thick cloud moved quickly, then, across water and began to spread, promising to engulf them all.

  “It’s time,” Wickham said, and pointed to the rope, the end of which was waiting in a sailor’s hand, the top of which was attached to a high spar of the smaller ship. Trem was expected to swing across.

  There was nothing for it. He had to go.

  He looked into Esme’s eyes, praying she would understand out of faith alone.

  She smiled in silent answer. “Godspeed, Tremayne Watson. I owe ye my life, my soul. And if ye could use it to barter yer way back to me, my soul is yers, do ye hear?”

  Their final kiss was rough, hurried. But there was no time left for gentle touches. Besides, he wanted to leave her with a memory she could feel for a wee while, and hoped he’d be allowed to do the same. It seemed only fitting that his last sensation in this earth would be her lips against his.

  “Ye have my love, lass. Every measurable drop of it. Do ye hear?”

  “Aye. And ye have mine. Enough to sail a ship on, laddie mine. Now, go on with ye, before I add too much salt back into the sea.”

  He caught his own tear on his finger, took another from her cheek, and crossed his heart with them. Then he wrapped the rope around his right arm twice and grasped tight. He remembered the slide of her fingers as he lost her, but nothing of the rope or the jump from the larger ship to the smaller. And, though he knew it would cause him real pain, he hurried to the stern to watch the dark galleon and her precious cargo slip away into the white mist.

  ~

  Once the hulking shadow was gone, Soncerae was suddenly there beside Trem, placing her wee hand over his. The large feather in her tricorn swiped across his head.

  “Easy, lass. Ye’ll push me into the water, aye?”

  “That’s Captain Lass to you, laddie.” She chuckled, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Trem. But I must say…Esme Forsyth must have been a remarkable woman to have won yer heart so quickly and decidedly.”

  “Auch, aye. She was. She is. Unless we’ve already…”

  Soni shook her head. “No. She’s still out there.”

  Trem smiled. Whether or not it was the truth, he appreciated the chance to believe it. “A charming lass.” He cleared the emotion from his throat. “With no intention to charm anyone. Not a conniving bone in her body.”

  The witch laughed. “Even though she sailed under false colors?”

  He nodded, conceded the irony with a smile. “Even though.”

  “And if she’d truly been a Campbell?”

  “Bite yer tongue.” He forced a scowl, but they both knew the lass’ clan would have meant nothing in the end.

  “Well, then. Long live Miss Forsyth.” Soni stared out into the greyness that had started to thin. Even the yellow of the sun was beginning to reach through it, but the color did nothing to cheer him. In fact, a sudden chill came over him. But he didn’t know if it had something to do with the lass he’d left, or what lay ahead of him.

  “Long live Miss Forsyth,” he whispered.

  Miss Forsyth. Miss Forsyth. It sounded so strange when someone else said her name. He’d been so careful to keep her secret in the past two days, it almost seemed as if Soni were revealing too much, even though no one heard their conversation.

  But she hadn’t been the only one to say it!

  “And, will Miss Forsyth be going on to Boston with us? She does have a bridegroom waiting, does she not?”

  Images harassed Trem like a flock of birds pecking at his head. “I put a man on the stairs… At the very least, you should make Mrs. Fredrick taste your food… I’ll be happy to take a watch…” He remembered the silent conversation he’d interrupted between Titus and the maid. And Mr. Nunn! He’d come to the cabin, possibly to share what he knew, but then he’d peeked through the door and changed his mind—not because he’d been checking on Esme, but because the captain had been there. It was the last time Trem had seen the man!

  But what of Red Mac’s confession?

  He harkened back to the conversation in the brig…

  “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?”

  “Yes,” he hissed, as if in pain. That had been the only lie—the lie he’d been forced to tell, because he’d sold his soul to the captain! No wonder he’d cowered against the wall afterward, trying to hide from his part in the lass’ sure murder!

  Trem took Soni’s hands in his and forced her to face him. “We have to go back!”

  “We do?”

  “We do!” He ran toward the stern to face Wickham, who once again manned the helm. “We have to go back.”

  “We’ll be home in a moment or two. In a hurry to see the bonnie prince, eh?”

  “No! I don’t want to see Charlie! We have to go back to the Queen of Scots! Esme is going to be murdered. I was wrong! It’s the captain!” Wickham’s brow lowered and he looked past Trem, as if he’d understood nothing. Trem grabbed the man’s arm. “There is no time. We have to turn around! Don’t you understand? He’ll murder her!”

  Wickham murmured something, but Trem couldn’t have heard him correctly.

  “What was that?”

  The man shook his head, then looked Trem in the eye. “I warned you. The past cannot be changed.”

  Trem had heard him clearly after all. Wickham wouldn’t go back.

  “Are ye saying Esme Forsythe died in the past and wasn’t supposed to be saved? I’ll tell ye straight. I don’t know whether to throw ye overboard and turn this wee ship around, or to tear ye to pieces before doing so.”

  Wickham whipped the end of a rope around a spindle, to hold the wheel steady, and lifted his hands as if in surrender. “Look, Watson. I told you to remember the rules. I’m sorry, but—if Esme lives, history will change for some people.”


  “And I say to you, devil, that if she dies, history will change for ye!” Trem’s entire body joined in to make certain that the first time he struck Wickham would be the hardest blow possible. But the man’s head jerked out of the way just when Trem’s fist should have connected with his face, and Trem ended up following his fist all the way to the rail.

  “Trem! Stop it!” By the time Trem came ‘round to try again, Soncerae stood with her back to her uncle. “I’m sure I can think of a way to appease the pair of you.”

  The uncle growled. Soni gave a giggle.

  And Trem found great hope in both.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  With the feel of Tremayne’s kiss still tingling her lips, Esme ignored Mawbury’s entreaties and made her way back to the captain’s quarters. He’d given her leave to use them until after they reached Boston, so she felt no qualms about taking advantage. They were at least two days away from their destination, and she had a good mind to spend the entire time hidden away from curious eyes and whispering gossips.

  The idea of exposing herself to any more of Mawbury’s nonsense depressed her. The idea of facing Mrs. Fredrick again made her feel downright violent. Had the woman ever been slapped, she wondered? And even if she had, she was obviously overdo for another.

  Esme giggled. Wouldn’t Trem be proud of her if she did fight back?

  Her giggle was soon edged with hysteria, but at least she had the door closed and barred before it dissolved into outright sobbing.

  How could he leave her? How could she forgive him? She almost hoped it was the devil himself who’d captained the Cutter. At least it would explain all that business about selling his soul and having no choice but to leave. And it would make the braw Scot seem less of a coward for not arguing on her behalf.

  Truth be told, he hadn’t put up any fuss at all.

  Esme did admit the oddly dressed young woman seemed genuinely contrite. Her quiet apology should have been a balm to her wounded heart, but it wasn’t. Nothing would ease that pain but a tear or two. Or a thousand.

  When her weeping ebbed, and she finally caught her breath, she was in no shape to do anything but sleep. So she rolled over and closed her eyes and allowed the pitch and roll of the ship to lull her senses and leave her heartache behind for a wee while.

  When she woke, the room was dark. The damp from the earlier storm led her to throw the windows open and light some candles.

  Someone knocked on the door and she had to remind herself she no longer needed to fear for her life. She found the captain holding a bottle of wine and Mrs. Fredrick bearing the weight of a heavy laden tray of food.

  “Calm seas allowed for a fire,” Titus said and pushed past her into the room. “And fire allows for fresh bread, among other things. I thought you might like some company and a decent meal to help take your mind off the loss of your…Highlander.”

  “Very thoughtful. Thank ye.”

  He set the bottle on the table and moved the trunk close so Esme would have a place to sit. Then he settled onto his throne of a chair and offered her a fresh bread roll. The maid reached over and took one from the tray. He pretended not to notice, poured wine into a chalice, and offered it to Esme.

  She declined.

  He politely insisted.

  She declined again, and the man grunted. “I promise you’ll be better off drunk, Miss

  Forsyth. Now take the wine.”

  Forsyth! He knew who she was!

  Mrs. Fredrick’s laugh was telling. Obviously, she knew what the captain had in mind, and Esme wasn’t so naïve that she couldn’t guess.

  The woman’s eyes opened wide, she choked on her own spittle, and tried to divide her attention between catching her breath and pointing at the back wall.

  “Esme, my love.” Tremayne Watson stood just inside the open window. “I suspect the captain didn’t want you drunk because he planned to ravish you, but because he planned to murder you.” He addressed Titus, who remained seated, though he stroked the arms of his chair a wee more nervously than before. “I assume you would push her out the window and claim she jumped. Is that why the servant is here, for a witness? Or did you plan to push her out the window too?”

  The maid spat and sputtered and Esme enjoyed her indignation. Tremayne stepped around the end of the bed and the captain finally got a good look at the pistol the Scot had trained on him. Esme’s heart raced around her chest like wild, confused animal.

  She shook her head. “Titus is the killer?”

  “Aye, lass. He must have coerced Red Mac into confessing. Time was running out, and he was desperate to lower our guard. I’m sure he was quite beside himself with glee when he saw the ship coming to collect me. In fact, he was so giddy, he slipped—”

  “I was surprised you didn’t catch that, Doctor.” The captain turned to her. “I asked him if Miss Forsyth was going to continue on with us. I was surprised he didn’t hear it, but doubly surprised when you seemed just as oblivious. But then again, your heart was breaking, was it not? A helpful bit of distraction, that.”

  “First of all, I’m not a doctor.” Tremayne bent down and handed Esme the pistol. “It’s ready to shoot. Just squeeze the trigger if he moves. I forgot my dagger, aye?”

  He moved to the bed and beyond, then pulled his weapon out of the wall where it had nearly severed the bed rope. When he turned back, the captain jumped to his feet, pulled something from the chair, and threw it. She shot the pistol, but it hit the leather back and split it open.

  Titus screeched with fury at the damage done.

  Tremayne stood still, looking down at the handle of a knife sticking out of his belly. Esme screamed and ran to him, to help ease him to the floor. But he simply stood there, frowning at the handle.

  Esme’s hands fluttered ineffectually, searching for some way to aid him. “Tremayne! Ye must lie down!”

  He shook his head and grabbed the handle, then sucked air through his teeth while he pulled it out. “That hurt, by the way. But, as I was saying, I’m not a doctor.”

  “Pity,” Titus said. He moved around the table and picked up the pistol.

  “Actually, I’m a ghost.” Tremayne laughed. “And as it turns out, I can’t be killed—for a wee while longer.” He pulled his shirt open and proved there was no wound to be worried over. Then he slipped his dagger into his boot, tossed the other knife across the room, and gestured for Esme to go to the window. He followed, walking backward, facing the captain all the while.

  Titus kept a close eye on the Scotsman’s belly, no doubt waiting for him to drop.

  Esme looked out the window. A rope hung from just above the window down to the water where the smaller ship trailed in the wake. The young woman grinned and waved. She had no idea how she was supposed to get down that rope, but as long as Tremayne went with her, she’d try anything to keep from going into the sea again. She still wasn’t sure what lurked beneath the surface.

  But the stubborn man had just pulled a knife from his middle. There should have been blood. And now he was back to claiming to be a dead man.

  Heaven help me!

  “There is one thing I don’t understand,” he told the captain. “Why would you try to kill her if you knew she wasn’t Mary Campbell? If you knew she wasn’t Lord Campbell’s daughter—”

  “I wasn’t hired by Childers. It was Lord Campbell who wants the lass dead, and was willing to pay me handsomely to see it done. Childers will be ruined if the world believes he killed Campbell’s daughter. And as far as the world would know, the lass was that daughter. If she reached Boston, however, there was too great a chance someone would recognize her for a fraud. It was all Campbell. I’m certain he manufactured the threats as well.”

  Esme was shaken to the core. “So it wasn’t Mary he wanted dead, it was me?”

  Tremayne gave her a frown. “Ye’re safe, lass. We’re going. No one will ever try to harm ye again, aye?”

  “Just like that? You don’t want to stay on to see that I’m brought to ju
stice?”

  Tremayne smiled. “I have it on good authority that Mr. Nunn will be reaching port well ahead of you, sir. And he plans to tell the authorities that you tried to pay him to finish the job. Red Mac has been released and Mr. Trudeau has taken command of the ship.

  “You and Mrs. Fredrick will be locked in here—together—for the next two days or so. Of course, ye’re welcome to jump, and no doubt one of ye will drive the other to do so. But it won’t change a thing. Ye see, History won’t remember either one of ye. So ye’re what we in the twenty-first century call expendable.”

  EPILOGUE

  Tremayne and Esme Watson, along with their wee family, planned to spend their entire holiday in the Inner Hebrides. Trem wanted his sons to know the bliss of being island lads, if only for a week.

  They began on Tiree, the isle upon which Trem had spent the better part of his early life. In Balephuil Bay, the boys sank their toes and feet into the white sands and called out for Trem to come save them.

  “I’m nay yer fither, laddies. I’m a pirate—Captain Titus—come to steal yer mither away forever.” He pulled Esme off her feet and into his arms, letting their picnic fall where it would. After a quick kiss, he laughed as pirate-like as possible while running into the cold blue water. The lads hurried to their mother’s rescue and they wore themselves out with squealing.

  After supper, they drove further east to Hynish, where Trem’s home had once stood. A newer cottage had been built upon the old, so there was little of it that was familiar. With time still on their hands and carpets of wildflowers spread before them, they wandered to the shore and picked their way around the cliffs.