by Anita Mills
As always, he wore black. Garbed in a cockaded hat and a caped greatcoat, he looked like a courtier answering a royal summons rather than a man performing a sentimental ritual. Against his dark clothing, a splash of pink identified the familiar roses.
This year he would not throw them into the bay. Lily would not scoop them from the water and trek up the hill to place them on the lonely grave. Today she would tell him that the rosebush on the grave was dying.
Today she would find out who was buried there.
The moment he began the walk to the bow of the ship, Lily stepped from the shelter of the fishing shed. Waving her arms, she yelled, “Stop!”
Like a hawk sighting prey, he turned, the flowers still clutched in his hand. He produced a spyglass and raised it to his eye. Even from one hundred yards away, she felt the intensity of his gaze.
She’d spent a sleepless night contemplating this moment. To fill the hours, she’d washed her hair and chosen, then discarded, a dozen different gowns. For convenience and warmth, she had decided on a serviceable and moderately flattering dress of dark blue wool. Her cloak was new, a birthday gift from her uncle, the duke of Hamilton. She wore no jewelry; her mother had left her none.
Flustered by his lengthy scrutiny, Lily strove for composure. She tried to smile. Her cheeks trembled with the effort. He probably thought her a waif. Or worse, lacking in the head. Then he lowered the spyglass and stared into the rigging as if contemplating what to do. Silently, she beseeched him to understand. Again he peered at her through the glass.
She pushed back the hood of her cloak. The wind whistled, chilling her bare neck and ears. Sending him an honest appeal, she mouthed the words, “Please, I must speak with you.”
He barked an order. Half a dozen men raced to lower a wherry over the side. Two burly sailors clamored into the small boat and rowed straight toward her.
She had hoped the stranger would come ashore. For over a decade, she had longed to meet him. She wanted to tell him about the day she had discovered the grave and the then-thriving rosebush. She wanted to commiserate with him on her yearly journey up the mountain to place his tribute of roses on the grave. He must know that a summer drought followed by a harsh winter spelled doom for the alien plant.
Disappointment choked her, for she must relay her message through a third party. There would be no meeting, no reminiscing. She wouldn’t be able to tell him how cleverly she defied her family and absented herself from Hamilton Castle on her birthday every year, just so she could put the roses where they belonged. There would be no opportunity to become friends.
The ship’s boat scraped land. A burly seaman stood up, a woolen cap pulled low over his brow, his face weathered by the wind and sea.
“Please tell the man in the cape that the rosebush on the grave is dying,” Lily said.
“Climb aboard.” The seaman extended his hand. “I’m to fetch you to him.”
Surprise snatched her voice. Dare she risk her reputation for the chance to talk to him? “Who is he?”
“The captain.”
Turning toward the sun, she studied the captain at length, looking for evidence of what she knew: He was a man of good character, a man true of heart.
With a wave of his arm, he beckoned her. Giddiness buoyed her senses. If she were discovered boarding or leaving his ship, she’d be condemned for a harlot. She almost laughed out loud at that. Being a dutiful daughter had gained her nothing, except unlimited access to her uncle’s library, a new cloak every year, and the pitiful title of spinster.
Caution ignored, Lily picked up her sack of treasures, lifted her skirt above the sea foam, and stepped into the wherry. The small boat surged up and over the swells. Sea spray tickled her nose and coated her lashes. Scanning the shore, she saw smoke rising from the chimney of the baker’s shop. The alehouse was quiet, same as the other buildings. Sunlight winked on the windows of Hamilton Castle and had indeed turned the peak of Goat’s Fell to gold.
Hoping her other expectations proved as solid, she phrased a practiced speech in eloquent terms. But when she stepped on the deck, words failed her, for she found herself nose to chin with a man so startlingly handsome she couldn’t help but stare. He possessed a bounty of manly attributes. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, and an elegantly sloping nose bespoke nobility, yet his shoulders were as broad as a stone mason’s and his legs long and slender, like that of a horseman. A neckcloth of fine black silk complemented his sun-bronzed skin and contrasted sharply with eyes so deeply blue they rivaled the midnight sky.
“If you’ve come to flatter me, lass, you succeeded admirably.”
He spoke in cultured tones flavored with only the slightest of Scottish burrs. Or was he Irish? No, he was too tall and familiar in what her grandfather termed, “the Scots way.” Blushing, she said, “It’s just that I pictured you differently.”
He cocked his head. “Why would you picture me at all?”
Embarrassed to her soul, Lily blurted, “The rosebush is dying.”
Dipping his head, he studied his gloved hands, now empty of his floral tribute. “Rose?”
Why was he pretending ignorance when petals littered the deck? She snatched up a handful. “This rose.”
Rather than being interested or grateful for her participation in his yearly quest, he seemed troubled and uncomfortable, his gaze sliding away and his throat working nervously. “What know you of that rose?”
Murmurs spread among the crew. Lily grew uneasy, for the meeting wasn’t going as she had expected. He was her special guest. They should rejoice in each other’s company and celebrate their common bond. “’Tis exactly like the one that grows up there.” She pointed toward Goat’s Fell. “On the grave hidden in the high glen.”
His jaw grew squarely taut. “I know nothing of a grave on Arran.”
Knowing he lied and wondering why, she pulled an old scarf from her canvas sack. “Here. See the flowers.” She laid the fresh petals on the cloth. “They are the same.”
His large hand dwarfed the scarf, yet he held it with care. “’Tis the needlework of a child.”
The crew occupied themselves with busywork—scraping brightwork and wielding holystones—but their interest strayed to her. Their surreptitious scrutiny did not trouble Lily, for she’d grown up around seafaring men. The captain, however, made her conscious of the fact that she was an unescorted female on a shipful of strangers.
Feeling as if she’d stepped onto a crumbling cliff, Lily struggled for solid ground. “Of course it is.” She took back her keepsake. “I was a child when I stitched it.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Lily.”
“Lily…?”
She hesitated, fearing that he, too, would scorn her for her family name. Her association with this man was pure, untainted by clan wars. She wanted to keep it so. She did not favor her relatives; her hair was red, and she stood as tall as most of her clansmen. “Just Lily.”
A sly grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “I should have known.”
“Known what?”
Ruefully he murmured, “You’re not the sort of female that usually hails our ship. But the times are a-changing.”
Mortified, she glared at him. “I’m no strumpet, and I expected better of you.”
“You signaled. I responded.” He tipped his hat and turned away.
“Wait! Don’t you care about what I’ve done?” Years of questions tumbled in her mind. She chose one. “I don’t even know your name.”
He stopped, the wind ruffling the exotic plume in his hat, his shoulders blocking out the rising sun. His crew shared curious, expectant glances. Slowly, he turned and looked not at her but at the shoreline.
His was the searching, fearless expression of an adventurer. Hers was the wistful gaze of a hopeless romantic. Lily chastised herself for the fanciful observation. He was simply a man, albeit a dangerously attractive one. She was a woman with a mission. “Who are you, sir?”
Placing a hand on
his chest, he said, “I am but a man of the sea who mourns the loss of a vessel. The last ship I captained wrecked upon those very rocks.”
He was also an inventive liar. News of a shipwreck moved on the wind in Brodick Bay. No such tragedy had occurred since a Spanish galleon had run aground. She’d been nine years old at the time. “I don’t believe you.”
He looked insulted, his features smooth with disdain. “A pity then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a cargo to deliver.” He signaled to the burly sailor who had fetched her. “Spanker, return her to shore.”
Angered by his swift dismissal, she lifted her chin. “Unless you traffic in goosedown, Captain, your hold is empty.”
Regal indifference turned to interest. His keen gaze studied her from the coil of braids at the crown of her head to the sand that coated the toes of her walking boots. Indecision softened his noble features. “What know you of ships and cargo, Lily?”
Past injustices tormented her, but Lily shelved them; she had information to gather and a rose to save. “I had a ship of my own once, a French-made pinasse as fine as this vessel. But I did not come here to talk about my life. I came to ask—”
“You sailed often?”
If he could be evasive, so could she. “Much as I would enjoy nattering on with you, I must not. Tell me about the grave.”
He raised one brow. “Tell me about your ship.”
“The grave,” she said through her teeth.
“The ship,” he insisted.
She knew better than to engage in word games she couldn’t win, but pride and fear drove her on. “Don’t you see? I cannot linger with you.”
He crossed his arms as if to say, I’m waiting.
Resigned to the queer turn of events, she answered honestly. “I sailed on my ship only once, but I was allowed to play on the deck when she was in port.” Lily had carved her name on the bulkhead in the main cabin, but she didn’t think he’d be interested in that any more than he cared to make friends with her.
“Play?” Again, his wary gaze strayed to the shore. “Did you also embroider ships on handkerchiefs?”
An unrealness gripped her. They should be discussing the ritual that bound them. “Mock me if you will, but rather you should thank me for tending that rosebush.”
“Why do you care? I do not.”
Could she tell him that her happiness and her future had somehow become entangled with the grave and the dying rose? No. He was too cold and forbidding. She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “You, sir, are a liar.”
Movement on the ship stopped. “You, madam, are dismissed.”
His coldness wounded her deeply. All the better, then, that time was running out. She must glean the answers and quickly. “I want the roses there. You want them there. Why else would you come here every year?”
His eyes glittered with challenge. “You claim to have seen me here before?”
She hadn’t expected defensiveness or denial. “Of course I have. For eleven years.”
He laughed. “Hear you that, Forbes?” he said over his shoulder. “This lass claims to have charted my comings and goings for over a decade.”
A portly, dignified man dressed in brown velvet knee breeches and a matching coat joined them. Doffing his beaver hat, he bowed from the waist. “I’m John Forbes, purser of the Go—”
“Thank you, Forbes.” The captain cut him off before he could reveal the name of their vessel.
A horn blared from the shore, signaling the ship had been spotted. Lily’s heart sank, but she pressed on. “Who is buried in the grave? Please, I must know.”
“Perhaps you would care to share breakfast with me, Lily.”
She fidgeted. The meeting was going all wrong. An uneasy suspicion niggled. What if he were a MacDonnel? Impossible, her better judgment said. A MacDonnel wouldn’t brave enemy territory on a sentimental journey; they were bloodthirsty killers. Perhaps he was sorry for insulting her. “Thank you, but I must decline. I care more for answers than for food. Did you dig the grave and plant the rosebush?”
His gaze drilled her, and she felt rooted to the deck. “A woman who thirsts for knowledge. How novel.”
Although wounded by his sarcasm, Lily hid her pain. “Insult me if you will, but—”
A cannon boomed. Gulls screamed. Whirling, Lily saw a solitary figure on the beach near the battery. He held a torch. He wore a Hamilton plaid. Drat!
Water splashed about thirty feet off the stern. The cannonball had gone wide and short.
“Anchors aweigh!” bellowed the captain as he whipped out the spyglass and scanned the shore. “Haul out the mains.”
Crewmen shinnied up the masts. Like snakes slithering upward into the rigging, the halyards uncoiled. The windlass began to squeal. Over the din, the captain shouted orders to the mate.
To her dismay, Lily saw a stream of tartan-clad Hamiltons pouring onto the beach and running for the battery.
“Hard about, Master Bonaventure,” said the captain. “Get us the hell out of here.”
“Turning to, Captain,” answered the helmsman.
Another cannon boomed.
Into the rigging, the captain yelled, “Pile on the muslin.”
The sails fluttered, then began to sheet home, catching the stiff breeze. The ship listed into the turn, righted, then lunged toward the mouth of the bay.
The second cannon shot also fell short.
“Forbes,” barked the captain. “As soon as we catch the currents, bring that woman below.”
Lily’s heart sank. “Nay. I must go back. I’ll row myself ashore or swim.” Even as she spoke, the wherry was hauled onto the deck. She raced for the rope ladder.
The captain caught her halfway there.
Near panic, she considered pleading, but discarded the weak option. Staring up into his eyes, she looked for a glimmer of honor. She saw intelligence and determination. “You cannot keep me. I’m sorry my family fired on your ship, and you don’t have to tell me who is buried there. I swear to respect your silence.”
“Your family?” Hatred hardened his mouth and his hands tightened on her arms. “You’re a bloody Hamilton!”
She started. “Let me go. I do not share their quarrels.”
“Quarrels?” Pushing her away as if she were a leper, he turned on a heel and strolled toward the aft hatch, his cape billowing in the wind.
She went cold inside, and her skin turned to goose-flesh. Until the day they wrapped her in her father’s tartan plaid and laid her to rest, she would remember the condemnation in the captain’s eyes. Her gallant adventurer had become an ordinary man who hated her, not for herself but for the crimes of her kinsmen.
Forbes stood at her side. “Come with me.”
Why had her kinsmen fired on the ship? Had the one clansman seen her in the wherry? Her mind a muddle of confusion and misery, Lily murmured, “Why is he keeping me? ’Tis cruel and unfair.”
“On my grandmother’s soul, I swear the captain is neither of those things.”
His loyalty was understandable; no seaman worth his salt would gainsay his captain. But if her kinsmen knew she had boarded this pinasse, they would follow in hot pursuit. She glanced at the shore. Brightly garbed in the red, blue, and white Hamilton plaid, the clansmen scurried around her uncle’s bark, preparing to launch the craft.
Her spirits plummeted. Without cargo, the Hamilton ship could overtake the pinasse if the men worked quickly enough. With her uncle away in Edinburgh her father would captain the family ship. Better this pinasse escaped capture, for the Hamiltons would offer no quarter. “Where do we sail, Mr. Forbes?”
He fumbled with his hat, and his gaze wouldn’t meet hers. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
Something was badly amiss. If it weren’t so preposterous, she could think this ship a MacDonnel vessel and the captain her enemy. But that was absurd. They were merely afraid of the Hamiltons. Or were they? Secrets abounded here, and she intended to ferret out every one.
“I can find
my own way, Mr. Forbes.” So decided, she crossed the deck and entered the companionway. Carpet covered the steps and leaded glass lanterns lighted the way. Although like the Valiant Lily in design, this pinasse was luxuriously appointed. The musty, sweet smell of tobacco permeated the air. At the end of the hallway, the door to the master cabin stood open.
She paused on the threshold and saw the captain locking a wardrobe. He’d removed his cape. Over the full-sleeved silk shirt, he wore a quilted leather tunic, and his black velvet breeches were tucked into bucket-top boots. Now hatless, he had secured his overlong hair with a ribbon at his nape.
Spying her, he stood, slipped the key into his pocket, and motioned her into the room.
The cabin was richly furnished, the chairs cushioned with quilted damask, the table set with pewter and crystal, the brazier inlaid with silver. A massive desk was cluttered with map rolls, pencils, an astrolabe, and other tools of the seafarer’s trade. Sunlight streamed through a bank of mullioned windows at the stern. Lily couldn’t help thinking about her own ship and the hours she’d spent exploring every nook and cranny of the vessel. But that was another dream long dead.
Her gaze strayed to the corner and the huge bed draped in velvet and scattered with familiar pink primroses. Curiosity turned to trepidation. “You cannot keep me here.”
He followed her line of vision, and a smile quirked his lips. “Your virtue is safe, Lily Hamilton, but I’ll not take you back. Your kinsmen would have a thing or two to say to that.”
They would, but only out of pride. “’Tis wise to fear the Hamiltons of Arran, for they carry their grudges to the grave—especially if one of their kinswomen is dishonored.” Let him make of that threat what he would.
Glaring at her, he loosened his neckcloth and pitched it on the bed. “Harboring grudges is surely your clan’s one admirable trait, then, for the Hamiltons are masters at kidnapping and butchery.”
There it was, the condemnation that she had expected. Again she had fallen victim to the crimes of her clan. The unfairness rankled, for she had thought her dashing captain above prejudice. He had a face better suited to merry laughter than stern disapproval. But she wouldn’t be fooled by a winsome smile. He had condemned her, not for herself, but for her family name.
