In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  Thomas pulled up before the sprawling building housing the Cameron and Company offices.

  “I’ll come with you, shall I?” he asked, opening the door for her.

  That wouldn’t do at all, would it? She didn’t want a witness to this particular confession.

  She opened her umbrella and smiled at him. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll be fine.”

  He only shook his head at her and climbed back onto the seat.

  She’d not come here often, but she knew the only entrance to the office was on the dock side.

  A carriage was parked not far away, reassuring her that Lennox was there. With the rain dividing its time between a torrent and a mist, she made her way to the office.

  Please, don’t let him hate me.

  She had been without Lennox’s good opinion of her for seven years. Why did it seem to matter so much now? Was it because he was the only person who truly knew her?

  He’d witnessed most of the embarrassing scenes of her childhood. He’d helped her up when she’d been knocked from her horse, laughed at her when she was drenched in mud, and looked away when she’d fallen from a tree and torn her dress.

  Yet he’d never seen her in all of her finery in Washington, with her hair arranged by an expert at the task. He never witnessed her making an entrance into a Washington ballroom, conscious of men’s admiring glances. Not once had he heard all the fulsome compliments paid to her.

  Or if he does hate me, let it be of short duration. Or, if that cannot be arranged, then help me not to care. Let me consider his good opinion of me as worthless as Richard’s had been.

  Every time Richard had approved of her, he was really congratulating himself for picking her as his wife. He’d created a poised puppet who could enter any room filled with important people and hold her own in a variety of conversations. She could converse with a lecherous German, a fawning Frenchman, and discuss history with a Greek.

  If Lennox did hate her, she would have to bear it somehow.

  The rain drummed on the street in a heavy rhythm, then light, like a child making too much noise and cautioned by his parent. A moment later the sound would increase again, then slow to a patter.

  Despite her umbrella, droplets found a home in the back of her collar, ran down her face, and soaked her stockings. She sneezed once, shivered with a summer chill, and drew her elbows close to her body. The wet wind carried a cooler layer beneath it, a hint of winter not far away, a caution to enjoy these days of warmth before they disappeared.

  The afternoon was now almost as dark as night. She wished the lamps along the quay would light or the docks wouldn’t be as deserted. The silence unnerved her, made her feel as if she were the only person there.

  Thomas was right. This was a man’s world where women weren’t welcome.

  She stood surveying the docks belonging to Cameron and Company. Spires of masts clouded the air, blocking the view of most of the Clyde.

  Drawing in the pong of dead fish and the warm, thick, almost caramel scent of varnish, she climbed the steps to the office and knocked on the door. When Lennox didn’t answer, she peered into the window. Nothing but blackness met her eyes. The day was dark. If anyone had been inside they would have lit the lamps.

  He wasn’t there.

  Relief and regret surged through her. She wouldn’t have to tell him about Washington just yet. But she would have to soon. Delaying meant she’d worry longer.

  Should she wait?

  The wind gusted hard, rain beading her face as she turned then stopped and stared in wonder.

  That long, low, gray iron ship had to be the Raven. She blended into the dim light of the watery day so perfectly she might be part of the elements.

  Glynis recalled the talk about the thirty-five-hundred mile blockade. A Confederate captain had two hopes to make it to a southern port. Slip undetected through the fog and the night. Or be faster than any Union ship.

  The Raven looked as if she could do both.

  The ship was a beauty, her lines making her appear restless, waiting for the challenge of the next wave despite being moored to the dock. She looked like she wanted to race the wind and feel the power of the seas beneath her hull.

  After descending the steps, Glynis moved to the gangplank. She’d never been aboard a Cameron and Company ship before, unless she counted Lennox’s boyhood boat.

  By going on board she would be flaunting a superstition. Women weren’t allowed on a ship unless they were married and accompanying their husbands.

  “What about figureheads?” she’d once asked Lennox. “Why are they women?”

  “That’s different,” he said, his cheeks bronzing.

  She’d waited but he’d never explained. Only later, and she couldn’t remember from whom the information had come, she’d been told a figurehead’s bare bosom was supposed to quell the sea into obeying while its eyes looked out for danger.

  A human woman, however, brought about storms and disaster.

  Sailors were a superstitious bunch, another comment Lennox made. Everything she’d learned about ships and the sea had come from him. On her voyage to Cairo and to America, she’d made note of several things aboard ship she wanted to discuss with him, before she remembered Lennox was part of her past, not her present or future.

  She crossed the gangplank and over the wet deck, taking care as her footing slipped several times. She expected to feel the gentle swell of the ocean lapping at her hull but the Raven was as sturdy as a brick building, a match for any wave.

  Great ships were built on the Clyde. Some had been transported to America in crates to be unpacked and put together on the Mississippi. Clyde ships sailed the globe, bearing names synonymous with grace, speed, and workmanship.

  She had a feeling the Raven was among the greatest of all these and yet she’d been built for war.

  The heavens opened up, the growl of thunder timed to the slash of lightning.

  This was not a tranquil storm but a fierce Scottish one, sent to bathe the earth and wash it clean. The wind whipped over the deck and whistled through the rigging. Rain slashed across her face as thunder rumbled, announcing its arrival like the Queen’s trumpeters.

  She turned away from the wind, stopped and stared.

  The hand holding the umbrella dropped to her side. Her pulse escalated as her mind screamed at her.

  She calmly took a step back and remembered to breathe.

  Fear climbed her spine with sharp claws as she stared at the sight at her feet. For a heart-stopping second she thought it was Lennox, but details rushed in to fill her with hope. This man’s hair was blond.

  She forced herself to look at him.

  He lay on the deck, eyes open and staring at the black clouds above. His legs were spread, his arms at his sides, one hand stretched out as if to reach for something.

  Blood, diluted by the rain, pooled beneath his body and ran in rivulets over the deck.

  Was he dead? He looked dead. But what if he wasn’t? If he was dying, she needed to get him help or do something.

  In Washington there had been calls for matrons to volunteer as nurses. She had been grateful, God help her, for her status. Being married to a member of the British Legation prevented her from volunteering because of their neutrality. She needn’t see the wounded or witness the gore of war.

  Now she had no excuse. She had to do something.

  Time slowed, became a pudding of air, a gelatinous mixture not unlike Mabel’s tomato aspic. She hated the dish, an odd thought to have now as she stared at the man on the deck.

  Forcing herself, she walked to his side and sank to her knees, staring at the cane handle protruding from his chest. He looked mildly surprised, as if Death had tapped him on the shoulder, startling him.

  His eyes stared up at the rain falling into them. He couldn’t be alive, but she reached out and shook his shoulder gently. No, that wasn’t going to do anything. She felt for a pulse, her fingers trembling against his neck, feeling cold when she expected
him to be warm.

  There was no pulse.

  She pulled her hand back to find her fingers coated with blood.

  Nausea roared up through her.

  She wiped her hands on her skirt. The hem was saturated with blood, the material wicking it upward.

  Tears ripped out of her, the constriction in her throat making it difficult to breathe. She struggled to stand.

  Gavin Whittaker, husband, Confederate, and captain, lay dead at her feet.

  “Glynis?”

  She turned with a sense of inevitability.

  The rain subsided to a drizzle as Lennox stood on the gangplank unprotected. The wind blew his hair askew, and she wanted to freeze this picture of him: powerful, commanding, and a little mussed.

  “Is that blood?” he asked, striding toward her.

  She stepped aside so he had a view of Gavin’s body.

  He abruptly stopped, stared at the dead man, then at her.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I found him here.”

  He sent her a quick look before kneeling at Gavin’s side to test for a pulse, just as she had.

  Gavin Whittaker was well and truly dead, and wishing him alive didn’t make it so.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. He turned his head, his eyes shining in the dim light.

  “I saw the ship,” she said. “I wanted to see more of her.”

  She couldn’t look down any longer. She thought she might be sick at the sight of all that blood.

  He glanced around. “Where are the guards?”

  “I haven’t seen anyone since I arrived.”

  “That’s odd. Unless Gavin dismissed them.” He stood. “Are you certain you don’t know anything about this, Glynis?”

  She shook her head.

  “Yet you were talking to Baumann a few days ago. What about?”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, staring at him. “Do you think I’m a Union spy and my mission was to kill Gavin? Do you honestly believe I could kill another human being?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “But I also think you know something you’re not telling.”

  The expression on his face didn’t soften. Nor did his eyes warm.

  She folded her arms in front of her, almost like a barrier. Her trembling worsened and the chill from the wind was slicing through her. Her stomach quivered, her lips felt numb, and her knees threatened to refuse to support her.

  She’d experienced the same sensations when the police had arrived to tell her about Richard’s accident. That night, too, had been rain-filled, thunder accentuating the policeman’s words.

  I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe, nothing could be done. The driver said he didn’t see your husband until too late. With all the rain, we can see how it would be possible.

  “You need to tell Lucy,” she said now. “Someone murdered her husband.” She frowned at him. “Not me, Lennox.”

  “You still haven’t explained what you were doing here, Glynis.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t tell him now, not with Gavin dead at their feet. Was he another man whose death she’d have on her conscience? Had Baumann done this?

  He reached out and touched her hair. Only then did she realize it had come loose from its careful bun. He pulled the wet tendrils free from her face, the tenderness of his touch making her close her eyes.

  She willed herself to another place. Somewhere death didn’t hover nearby, where she didn’t have a secret, and Lennox didn’t suspect her.

  “Glynis.”

  Glynis, mind your manners. Glynis, you can’t say such things to me. Glynis, do you know how shocking you are? How many times had he said something similar to her?

  She opened her eyes and stepped away. How foolish she was to long for him at this moment. A man lay dead only feet from them. A murderer could be nearby.

  She’d returned to Scotland much wiser, yet his touch stripped her of any wisdom or sense.

  “I didn’t kill him, Lennox.”

  “I didn’t think you did. Did you see anything or anyone?”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you working for Baumann?”

  “No,” she said, grateful it was the truth.

  “Why are you here, Glynis?”

  “I told you. I wanted to see the ship.”

  He shook his head. “Why did you come to the yard?”

  “I came to talk to you,” she said.

  There, a tinge of the truth.

  “Why?”

  She looked away.

  Why had she said that? Words were a net to trap her, and she felt like a fish gasping for air.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, looking away from the rivulets of blood-tainted rain spreading on the deck.

  Was the Raven cursed now, because she’d known murder? Would the sailors who manned her think the ship unlucky?

  She glanced up at him to find Lennox still studying her intently. She had no other explanation to give him.

  How had this situation become so terrible? She’d started off with such great intentions. But it was a Scottish poet who’d said the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.

  Burns certainly had it right.

  Chapter 20

  Lennox sent his driver to summon the police. Until they arrived he suggested they wait upstairs.

  The last time she’d been here, his office had been a series of small rooms, one leading to the other until the place was a warren. Now the walls had been knocked down until there was only one large, rectangular space.

  A massive desk with three visitor chairs, two in front and one on the side, sat in the corner. Six drafting tables were arranged in three rows in the middle of the room, each table covered with a drawing.

  She stopped at the closest table, studying the sheet of paper, but couldn’t understand what she was seeing.

  “It’s the structural plans for a new hull,” he said.

  She glanced around at the other tables. “Are they all different ships?”

  “Two of them are. The others are different types of plans for the same vessel.”

  “How many ships do you work on at a time?”

  “The Raven occupied most of our resources. Normally, we’re working on three to four ships at once.”

  That many? Cameron and Company had indeed expanded.

  A wall of windows looked out over the quay and at either side of the door. Sunlight would flood the room and warm it well in winter. From here Lennox could see most of the docks and who was approaching the office on the land side.

  She could picture him sitting on one of the tall stools, intent on the drawing before him. Hours would go by and he wouldn’t notice. Nor would he care as long as he created something from a thought in his mind.

  In her childhood she’d often found him scrawling something on a piece of paper. When she wanted to see, he would reluctantly show her a sketch of a ship or a hull.

  She left the tables, walking to the white painted shelves occupying both of the remaining walls. In each compartment rested a small rendition of a ship, so flawless in execution she stared in amazement.

  “May I pick it up?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  Putting her umbrella on the floor, she reached out with both hands, cupping them around the delicate ship. The name was painted in tiny Cyrillic letters on the stern.

  “It’s Russian?”

  He nodded again.

  From the smokestacks to the captain at the bridge everything was crafted in perfect miniature. She traced a finger across the hull.

  “Who did these?” she asked. Had Lennox learned yet another skill?

  “Garrison McPherson,” he said. “He worked at the yard for years.”

  “Such a talented man.”

  He didn’t respond, merely folded his arms, leaning against one of the tables.

  She gently replaced the model and retrieved her umbrella, continuing her walk.

  “Are these all the ships C
ameron and Company has built?”

  “We haven’t built all of them. But most of them, yes. Here and in Russia.”

  “Why did your father ever decide to construct a shipyard in Russia?”

  “He was asked to,” he said. “I guess you go where you’re wanted.”

  There were a dozen things she could say to that, but decided silence was the best recourse.

  “Does he miss Russia after he sold the yard there?”

  “Why the interest, Glynis?”

  She glanced at him, surprised. Didn’t he know she’d always been fascinated in everything about him?

  “People who think Scottish winters are bad have never spent one in St. Petersburg.”

  She strolled across the room to the opposite wall, with its empty compartments. Lennox planned ahead.

  “Where is the Raven’s model?”

  “It hasn’t been built,” he said.

  She glanced at him, wondering at the change in his voice.

  Her attention was caught by another ship, one reminding her of the Raven. It leaned forward like it raced the wind, wanting to outsail anything on the water.

  “The Vixen?”

  “One of those ships never constructed,” Lennox said. “It doesn’t have a practical purpose. Nowadays a vessel has to be worth building.”

  “It looks like a swan settling over the waves. A steamship with all the grace of a clipper.”

  “Have you studied ships?”

  Once she had, with the intent of impressing him with her knowledge.

  “I designed her after you left for London,” he said, coming to her side.

  He named the ship Vixen. Had he named it for her? Is that what he thought of her? She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or pleased.

  “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No.”

  She would be better off moving, keeping active, anything but think of Gavin’s death.

  She should have dissolved into tears or fainted. Perhaps she should wave her handkerchief in the air and claim the vapors overwhelmed her.

  Was she being unwomanly by not acting fragile? Was that why Lennox studied her, a V forming on his brow?