First Time with a Highlander

by Gwyn Cready

  They seemed to be keeping their word about leaving the sailors of La Trahison unharmed, though until the other ship was gone, Gerard wouldn’t breathe easy. The look of disappointment on Duchamps’s face was not one he’d soon forget, and he hadn’t seen Serafina since he’d returned.

  It was hard to believe his biggest problem a day ago had been deciding whether to go for the sixteen- or twenty-five-year-old Macallan at the hotel.

  The door opened. It was Thistlebrook.

  Gerard gave him a weak smile. “We meet again.”

  “We do. Might I impose upon you to take a short stroll around the quarterdeck? There are a few matters I need to take care of in here.”

  Gerard shrugged. “The cabin is yours, after all.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Will the armed men come with me or stay with you?”

  “I say we split the difference, aye? Hartnell,” he called, “stay with our guest. Tolan can stay outside.”

  Gerard rose and made his way into the sea air. His eyes went automatically to the crow’s nest, which held one of the other ship’s sailors, then to the crates being lifted over the side. He tried to read the names scrawled on the sides, but Hartnell stepped into his line of vision.

  “The better view is to the south.”

  Gerard turned with a growl. Thistlebrook and the men from the other ship were stealing the cargo, that much was clear, probably so that Edward, the ship’s owner, could collect insurance on what had been stolen, and Edward and Thistlebrook could share in the proceeds from the sale of the stolen merchandise. The insurance would be used to cover the investors’ losses, and Edward and Thistlebrook would be rich. A good plan if you weren’t too fastidious about thievery.

  Edward and Thistlebrook were in league in the heist, of course. But according to the conversation Serafina had overheard in the carpenter’s walkway, Thistlebrook begged his confidante, whoever the confidante was, to keep something secret. Was the person who was not to be told Edward, Duchamps, or someone else? If it was Edward, Thistlebrook was not as trustworthy a partner as Edward may think.

  The last of the cargo was being loaded into the boats. Gerard was desperate to see Serafina.

  Edward’s voice rose above the hum of activity. He and Thistlebrook were arguing. Edward grabbed Thistlebrook’s shirt. Gerard took a step toward them and changed his mind.

  Hartnell said, “Wise choice.” He chuckled. “The ship is well named.”

  “How’s that?”

  “La Trahison means ‘the betrayal,’ and we’re the ones who have the gold now.”

  The next thing Gerard knew, Edward, swearing and kicking, was being lashed to the rigging.

  Thistlebrook gave him a wave and disappeared over the side. The men from the other ship followed. When the last man disappeared, Hartnell returned the pistol to his belt and joined his companions.

  Gerard ran to Edward. “What’s the fuck is going on?”

  “How should I know? They’re stealing my cargo!”

  Gerard grabbed Edward’s pistol and ran toward the companionway.

  “Unlock me,” Edward shouted.

  “In a minute.” Gerard flew down to the hold. The door was chained shut and a keyed lock held it closed.

  “Get away from the door,” he shouted.

  He aimed the pistol at the lock, lifted the lever, and pulled the trigger. When the smoke cleared, the lock was broken. Men poured out.

  When Duchamps appeared, Gerard grabbed him. “They’re rowing away with the cargo. Should we shoot them? Chase them? You’re in charge. Where’s Harris?”

  Duchamps pointed ahead in the crowd. In the press of the crowd, Gerard had missed her. Duchamps yelled, “Battle stations!” Gerard elbowed his way through the chaos, desperate to reach Serafina before she reached the stairs.

  But he was too late.

  She reached the top, and a hand flew to her mouth. “Edward!” she cried, having forgotten her disguised voice.

  By the time Gerard crested the stairs, she was beside her former fiancé, listening as he spoke.

  She called to Gerard. “Is he tied up for a reason?”

  Gerard shook his head.

  She went to work on the ropes, and though nothing in her attention suggested special care, Gerard found it impossible to watch the ministrations without feeling a deep sense of jealousy.

  Duchamps, in the midst of shouting instructions to the various gun crews and sailors overhead, spotted the vignette. His gaze went from Edward to Gerard and back again. Gerard made his way to the lieutenant.

  “Struan Harris is a woman named Serafina Fallon,” Gerard said. “I’m not Edward Turnbull, only a man pretending to be. And the man beside Serafina? That’s Edward Turnbull and the ship belongs to him.”

  Duchamps face turned somber. “Does the woman belong to him too?”

  I wish I knew.

  Twenty-eight

  The sun had begun its slow descent through the bruised clouds in the west. The ship was quiet at last, and Gerard stood at the railing of La Trahison with Duchamps, intently aware of the closed door behind them. The sea was an inky void.

  “Are you sure you should be standing?” Gerard asked.

  Duchamps, draped in an impressive crown of wrapped linen bandages, gave him a weak smile. “I am not. But it’s a captain’s job.” La Trahison had chased the other ship for tens of miles, falling farther and farther behind until she’d had to let it go. Only one shot had been fired, and that by the other ship. The shot had been wide of the mark, dinging a spar, which had exploded in a hundred pieces, including one large enough to knock Duchamps out for several moments. No one else had been hurt.

  Lost in the evening’s serenity, one of the master’s mates awoke from his reverie, turned over the hourglass marking the quarter hour, and noted the time in the log. Gerard stole a glance at the door of the captain’s cabin.

  “The length of the discussion means nothing,” Duchamps said. “Do not lose heart, mon ami.”

  Gerard sighed. The moment he could, Edward had asked Serafina for a private audience. She refused twice, but his pleas had begun to draw looks from the crew, and she’d relented. Edward had claimed the captain’s cabin and led her into it. That had been half an hour ago.

  “She’s not promised to you?”

  “No,” Gerard said quickly. “I have no claim on her at all.”

  Duchamps eyed him skeptically. “Claims exist before hard promises.”

  “I’ve known her for a day. Turnbull was once her fiancé. He wants her back. It’s likely that would be a very good decision for her.”

  The Frenchman smiled. “Would it?”

  “Yes. He comes from a wealthy family. And he’s shown his ability to admit when he’s made a mistake.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I can think of very few women who aren’t immediately drawn to a fool with money.”

  “Laugh if you will. It would make me happy to see her happy.”

  “Oh, yes, I could tell by the look on your face when he closed the door.”

  Gerard really didn’t have a claim on her. And who was he to judge Edward’s sins? People made mistakes, and if Edward acknowledged his and Serafina forgave him…

  Duchamps thumped Gerard on the back. “Shall I call for some wine?”

  Gerard reminded himself that Serafina insisted Duchamps was still a very likely candidate for the person Thistlebrook had been talking to in the carpenter’s walkway. Gerard didn’t want to suspect the Frenchman. He rather liked him. But he knew he had to accept it as a reasonable possibility.

  “Yes. Thank you. That would be good.”

  Duchamps gave instructions, and Gerard insisted a chair be brought for the lieutenant as well.

  When the wine was poured, Gerard said, “Do you have any idea what the men on the other ship wanted
—I mean specifically within the cargo?” Hartnell had mentioned gold. Complicit or not, Duchamps would have to provide a guess, and Gerard was quite adept at reading the faces of his clients, especially if they were lying.

  “I don’t know if it’s anything specific. The cargo as a whole is worth many thousands of pounds. Though the men didn’t seem to be mere pirates.”

  “No. Nor did they seem especially fond of Turnbull.”

  “Non.”

  “Do you think he helped plan it?”

  Duchamps shifted. “As you know, I had not met Monsieur Turnbull—the real Monsieur Turnbull,” he added with a small bow, “until last night. If I had, of course, I would certainly have recognized that you were not he. Thistlebrook’s communication with Turnbull was through letters. La Trahison was hired to deliver goods to Portugal and Marseilles and pick up other goods from Istanbul, Venice, Barcelona, and St. Petersburg. That is what this ship does.”

  “And Turnbull owns it?”

  “Yes. He bought it six months ago, though rumor has it he plans to sell it again soon.”

  The breeze died away, and for a moment Serafina’s voice, calm but indistinct, was audible on deck.

  Gerard had no desire to hear the conversation and was summoning a reason to prowl the far deck when the wind picked up again.

  “Edward has an investor—in the ship, I mean, not the cargo,” Duchamps said. “He came to the ship yesterday, before Harris—er, Miss Fallon arrived. He’s not a sailor, on that I would be willing to wager. One learns to recognize those things—the stance, the way one looks at a ship. Yet there was an air of the military about him. Land though, not sea. But I’m only guessing…”

  “Name?”

  “He didn’t give one. He’s English, about your height, and blond too, though his hair is slightly darker.”

  Gerard felt a further observation coming and held his tongue.

  “To say more would be mere conjecture,” Duchamps said at last.

  “Your conjecture would be valuable to me.”

  Duchamps resettled in his chair. “I believe Mr. Turnbull owes him money. There was a certain…heatedness to their discussion.”

  “And you said the ship and its contents were insured?”

  “They are. Monsieur Turnbull will lose nothing.”

  The door of the captain’s cabin opened and Edward emerged. He slammed the door hard enough to rattle the panes in the lantern swaying beside it and looked at Duchamps.

  “How long to Leith?”

  Duchamps, who had leaped to his feet at the first sound, said, “At least several hours, sir. Though if the wind dies as it appears it might, it could be longer.”

  “Bloody, goddamned, arse-buggering wind.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Edward stomped down the companionway and disappeared.

  Serafina opened the door, and suddenly Gerard felt in need of a chair as well. She remained in the shirt and trousers of a sailor, but she’d loosened her hair, and her face had been scrubbed of ink. The certainty in her eyes spoke of an ending, not a beginning.

  Gerard looked to see if Duchamps saw it as well, but Duchamps had retreated to the farthest end of the stern, leaving Gerard and Serafina as much privacy as they could hope to enjoy on a fifty-man ship.

  She drew a strand from her cheek and made her way to the railing. As a man, she’d been striking. As a woman, with hair the color of the blazing western sun, full lips, and a figure apparent even in the most shapeless of clothes, she was the focus of every eye on board. Gerard was afraid the sailors might begin to topple from the yards.

  “I’m glad we finally get to talk alone,” he said.

  She laughed. “Aye.”

  “As I believe a number of the men here know how to read lips, I suggest we replace ‘Thistlebrook’ with ‘unicorn,’ ‘cargo’ with ‘dirk,’ and ‘Edward’ with ‘boysenberry tart.’”

  She laughed again, more lightly, but the mention of her former fiancé had changed something on her face.

  “I’m afraid boysenberries are nae tart enough to replace Edward,” she said without joy, staring into the water.

  Gerard let the silence fill in the space around them. There was no point in rushing her. She would say what she had to say in her own time. A dozen humps of gray appeared in the sea to the south and one rose high enough to reveal a fin.

  “Sharks?” he asked.

  “Whales.”

  The rise and fall continued as the hills moved across the water.

  “Beautiful.”

  “You are easily pleased,” she said, but a little of the old Serafina had returned.

  “You know,” he said at last, “I’ve enjoyed every moment I’ve spent with you, and nothing you can tell me will change that.”

  “Are ye expecting me to tell ye something now ye won’t enjoy?”

  “Well, I…I mean, you and Edward had time to talk…”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Aye?”

  “And I know he intended to renew his offer of marriage.”

  “You knew that?”

  His spine prickled. “Well, yes. He told me on the other ship.”

  “Did the two of ye come to an agreement on it?”

  Oh, he had definitely stepped in something he shouldn’t have. “No agreement, no. I did promise I would bring him to you. I had to in order to get him to convince the men running the ship to do the men on La Trahison no harm. I told him you were in Edinburgh, that I had forbidden you from boarding.”

  On “forbidden,” her brows rose almost to her hairline. “I see. So your assumption then is I will accept Edward’s renewed attentions?”

  He swallowed. “It’s not my hope, that is certain.”

  “What is your hope?”

  Gerard’s tongue felt like a wad of cotton.

  “Come, Gerard. You hear Edward declare his love for me. To save the ship, ye agree to bring us together. You say ye dinna wish to see me marry him. What do ye wish, then?”

  He was not a man prone to wishing. He lived in the now. There were a few things Gerard did not wish for—unhappiness, finding the Yankees in the World Series, Serafina with a man like Edward—but his pyramid of needs did not extend beyond bedtime.

  “I…” He searched for a response.

  “Dinna forget that the moment we can provide a complete list of our deeds to Undine, you will return to the land of advertisements and airships. What is it you wish?”

  He had lost heart for this game. “I wish to know if you’re promised to him.”

  Her eyes, dark and blue, met his. “I’m not.”

  He exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. “Why?”

  “Do ye think I should’ve said aye? I canna marry a man I dinna love. Even a man from New York should know that.”

  Her face, always so open, seemed free of regret, but he wanted her to be sure. “I do think he cares for you. He was honestly concerned for your safety.”

  The corner of her mouth rose. “Are you his advocate?”

  Gerard shook his head. “Not me.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear, and he found himself quite deeply in love with her.

  “Edward seemed angry,” he said.

  “Aye, well, he’s nae had much practice at accepting no for an answer. ’Twill improve his character. It might improve yours as well.”

  “I wish I could take your hand.”

  She drew a spyglass from her pocket and handed it to him. Their fingers touched, and a charge went through him. “A poor substitute, I know.”

  “Nothing about it was poor. I have other wishes.”

  “Oh, do ye now? Speak.”

  “To hold you in my arms and sleep next to you in a real bed. To count the colors in that silky mass of curls. To feel your ribs swell when you breathe. To smell the night on
your skin.”

  “These are all good wishes—and ones I share. But none of them last past dawn. I dinna want what ye canna give, but I’m a Scot. We are constant and unchanging. The man at my side must be more than the dust that disappears in a puff when ye pick up a handful of earth.” She leaned closer. “Find yourself a cabin tonight, and we’ll see what sort of earth ye have to offer.”

  Twenty-nine

  It was not the light of dawn that woke Gerard but the rumble of feet over his head. He sat up. She was gone. He dressed in the dark and hurried up to the deck, which was as lively as a skyscraper construction site. The ship was docked and the buildings of Leith harbor lay before him, just dousing their lanterns one by one as the rose in the East.

  “Has the lady made her way on deck?” he asked Ginty.

  “Come and gone.”

  “Gone?”

  Ginty shrugged. “Sailors work while landsmen sleep.”

  The gangway was in place and men were moving up and down it. One of the men ascending was Duchamps, who looked considerably better than he had the night before.

  “Did you sleep well?” Gerard asked, bowing.

  Duchamps gave him a Gallic smile. “Not as well as you, it seems.”

  “Apparently, I slept too well. She’s gone. Without a word. Good thing I don’t take these things personally.”

  Edward emerged from the captain’s cabin disheveled and red eyed. He nodded stiffly to Gerard and Duchamps and headed down the gangway.

  When he was out of earshot, Gerard said, “I take it he didn’t sleep as well as we did.”

  “Up all night, I believe. Writing letters. Wanted an inventory of what was left in the hold as well.”

  “Which was?” The Grinch had nothing on the men from the other ship, who had taken everything, including every one of the cook’s pots and pans.

  “Three barrels of Madeira, nineteen riding crops, and a hundred and sixty-seven bolts of Turkish muslin.”

  “Now there’s a cocktail party you won’t soon forget.”

  Duchamps didn’t laugh. “What are the odds,” he said, “that you and the lady would ask the same question an hour apart from one another?”