by Anita Mills
“I do not share their beliefs or their disputes, and I must return.”
“To what, then?”
To what indeed, she wondered, picturing her apartment, a small parlor and a smaller sleeping room on the upper floor. She thought of her family, the men turned bitter by war and hatred, their women tired and cowed, their children eager to walk the familiar path of destruction. She had dreamed of leaving Arran, but not with her kinsmen giving chase and dozens of lives in jeopardy.
“Do you return to a beau?” the captain asked.
She couldn’t help but laugh. She had no dowry, and her father refused to take money from the war chest to provide her with a respectable marriage portion.
“Aha!” He snapped his fingers. “A husband awaits you.”
His eager expression depressed her more, for he was probably hoping she’d married into Clan Hamilton, rather than share their blood. Would that it were true. “Nay. I am a maiden who wishes to return with her good reputation, which will be ruined do you keep me. Put me ashore at Lamlash or Blackwaterfoot. I’ll find my way home.”
“You’re old not to be wed.”
“You’re young to be so jaded.”
He looked impressed, his gaze sharp, his interest engaged. “My apologies. I meant to say that you are bonny enough for a prince.”
At his weak flattery, her temper snapped. “Don’t patronize me. I have not wed, for reasons of my own. Now, thanks to your villainy, a cabbage farmer wouldn’t take me to wife.”
“A Hamilton without a fortune to buy her a husband?” He leaned against the cabin’s center beam. “Pardon me if I don’t believe you. And ’twas you who wished to speak with me.”
Past reason, beyond decorum, she moved close to him and poked his shoulder with her index finger. “Listen to me, you heartless bully.” He backed up. She came on. “I have tended that grave for over half of my life. I have crouched on that beach on my birthday for the past eleven years and watched you unveil your pride. You’re a beast to belittle my feelings for the plight of that rose.” She poked him again. “And you’re an ungrateful wretch.”
His hand curled over her fingers, flattening her palm against his chest and holding it there. “I’m no hero, Lily Hamilton. I will not risk the safety of my crew to save your honor or a dying shrub.”
Bright girlish dreams faded, and she couldn’t stop the tears. “I’m sorry I came to you.”
Softly he said, “I cannot say the same.”
Puzzled, she frowned. “Why not?”
He gave her a smile that would have melted a harridan’s heart. With his thumb, he brushed away her tears. “Because you are surely the bonniest lass ever born on that island.”
She hadn’t expected more pretty words. Flustered, she batted at his hand. “Please take me to Lamlash.” The port city was so close by, she could walk home.
“I regret that I cannot, Lily.”
Defeat weighted her shoulders, but she could not blame him. To make port anywhere on Arran would imperil his crew. “You know my name. Tell me yours.”
He walked to the table, pulled out a chair and, with a wave of his hand, invited her to sit. “I’m Hugh, and the earl of Blackburn.”
He hadn’t named his clan or mentioned an alliance with an influential family. She scanned the room for a heraldic symbol, a tartan plaid, or a clan badge. She found a few personal items: a cask of French wine; a pair of blown-glass vases from Venice; and a stack of books beneath the windowseat. “Blackburn? I don’t know that title.”
“’Tis recently bestowed. Do you harbor ill will to those new to the nobility?”
“Of course not, but you didn’t answer my question. Rather, you asked me one.” When he gave her the bland, handsome stare she expected, she said, “I have six uncles and enough male cousins to man this ship. I’m familiar with the tricks men play with words.”
“You do not yield to their superior intellect.”
She fought the urge to huff. “I do not play their games.”
He propped his arms on the back of the chair and leaned forward. Lamplight fell on his hair, turning the black strands to midnight blue, the same as his eyes. “Because you lose at their games?” he said.
Heavens, he was insufferable and disarmingly handsome. “Because I prefer to watch porridge spoil.”
He laughed, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. He even had a dimple. The rogue. “Me thinks ’tis because you’ve grown bored with besting those rascally Hamilton men.”
It was Lily’s turn to shrug. She had little in common with her kinsmen. They fought battles; she helped patched up their wounds. “To where do we sail, my lord?”
“Where would you like to sail?”
He had intentionally asked her a question. She gave him a pained look. “To paradise—eventually—on the wings of angels.”
His expression softened, and he chuckled. “That can be arranged. Now, sit, eat, and we’ll chase away that fear I see in your eyes.” He rocked the chair.
The table bore an odd feast—a bowl of nuts, a grainy yellow cake, a large ham, and a jar of what looked like thick whiskey. Not even if the king’s own chef had prepared the meal, would she eat before learning their destination. “To where are we sailing?”
“To the American Colonies—eventually.”
Her senses reeled. “I cannot go there.”
“Why not? Do you find the colonists too primitive?”
“You know very well I haven’t been there.”
“I know you not at all, Lily Hamilton. Sit, tell me about yourself.”
When she did not move, he heaved a sigh and stared out the open windows. “Have you a weapon?”
“I do,” she lied. “I’ve a dirk sharp enough to cut out your gizzard.”
He continued to gaze at the sky. “Not my heart?”
“You haven’t one.”
Grinning, he turned slowly toward her. “Bloodthirsty women disturb me. I merely thought to offer you a blade for your peace of mind. You need not fear me.”
“You’ll pardon me if I question your sudden concern. It rings hollow.”
“Like my chest?”
“How can you jest when my future stands in ruins? You should have let me go in the wherry.”
“What future? You hate your kinsmen. I suspect you have no marriage prospects. Why not go adventuring with me?”
She sent him her most withering stare. “You have the reasoning power of an oyster.”
“And you have the tongue of a viper.” He put a hand near his cheek and flapped his fingers against his thumb. “With you nipping at me constantly, I’m not certain I’d survive a long voyage.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Then tell me what I want to know. Who is buried in that grave?”
“Sit down.”
“Not until you answer me.”
“On my honor as a…man of the sea, I do not know. Now will you sit?”
He had not intended to swear on his occupation, of that Lily was certain. Why did he conceal his family identity? The more she looked at him, the more certain she became that he was not one of the dreaded MacDonnels. They were fair of face and hair, traits from their Viking ancestors. Given an hour alone in his cabin, she would find out his family name. Joining him at the table seemed a reasonable start.
When she sat down, he took the chair across from her. “These are corn cakes—from the colonies.”
She tasted the crumbly cake and found that it had a rich, nutty flavor, stronger than wheat or oats.
He handed her a napkin. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, but I’m unfamiliar with the grain.”
“The natives call it maize.” As he spoke, he piled her plate with ham. “The kernels grow in a husk, six or seven to a plant. The colonists farm it, but the natives harvest it at random.”
So fondly did he speak of the New World, Lily felt bound to say, “You sound as if you like the colonies.”
“Aye.” He pulled a stopper from the bottle of thick brow
n liquid and drizzled a puddle on her plate. “Try it.”
She did and found it sweet. “Delicious. Are you a merchant ship?”
“Aye, ’tween the king’s isles and Chesapeake Bay.”
From the smell of the ship she knew he normally hauled tobacco, but was curious to know if he would tell the truth. “Your cargo?”
He hesitated, mischief glimmering in his eyes. “Goosedown.”
Lily didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. He shouldn’t be so witty, so companionable. But he was.
“You have a bonny smile,” he said.
“You have an empty hold.”
He shook his head. “I think I pity your cousins and uncles.”
“I’ll tell them that when they board your ship.”
Propping an elbow on the table, he rested his chin in his palm. “On second thought, ’tis likely I’ll have to pay them to take you back.”
With your life, if you do not let me go, she almost said. But friendly banter offered a respite from the danger they faced. “Are you wealthy, then?”
“In spirit”—he declared, spearing a forkful of ham—“I am as rich as the king.” He popped the meat into his mouth.
“Are you a Stewart? You have their look about you.”
“Again, you flatter me, Lily. Master Bonaventure swears I favor the Brodies.”
“Oh, nay. They come from Norse stock.”
“You sound well traveled, Lily. Why not add the New World? ’Tis a bountiful land with a handsome native people. The soil is so rich, ’tis said the seed willingly flies into rows as straight as a new mainmast, and weeds keep to their own. For an entire season, the sun shines so brightly the men must shield their eyes and the ladies protect their delicate skin.”
So much sun seemed impossible, especially to one from the cloud-misted isle of Arran. “I’ve heard the natives are savages.”
He grew serious. “No more savage than the Hamiltons and the MacDonnels when they cross paths.”
At least his condemnation was fairly divided. She could only hope to change his mind about one Hamilton. “You swear you take no side in the feud?”
He turned agreeable again. “I swear that I despise all quarrels, save those with greedy harbormasters and flame-haired vixens…”
She grew shy, thinking how seldom anyone on Arran praised her hair or appreciated her outspoken nature. In more than appearance, she was different from her people.
“With eyes the rich shade of chestnuts…”
A flush heated her skin. She searched for a quip but her mind was content to savor his compliments.
“And a taste for adventuring.”
He had steered her off course. She couldn’t go traipsing across the world with the earl of Blackburn. Blame for her predicament was hers, but she would not compound her mistake with more unseemly behavior. She had come seeking information. She would not be deterred. “Why do you cloak your ship?”
Hugh MacDonnel had no intention of telling the clever Hamilton lass. He couldn’t believe his luck. Fate had dropped the sweetest plum on the Hamilton tree right in his lap. His father would empty his treasury to get his hands on her. The MacDonnels would dance in the street, did they possess this bonny prize.
Hugh didn’t for a moment believe her long-suffering tale of waiting and watching on the beach. There was no grave and no rosebush; his sister would have told him so. The scarf was not proof. Lily could have patterned her poorly embroidered roses after the flowers he tossed into the bay. The Hamiltons were using her. Unfortunately, Hugh MacDonnel had taken the bait. How badly did they want her back?
The clansman in him stirred to life, and he felt a devilish need to seek carnal revenge. His father would praise him for slaking his lust between the thighs of a Hamilton wench.
Wench. The undeserved slander shocked Hugh, and he quickly tamped back the demon inside. He’d long ago turned his back on the politics of his clan. He would not now become a supporter of their destructive ways, even for a tumble with a shapely virgin.
“Why do you bring the flowers?” she asked.
Not for a moment did he believe she would understand his devotion to an older sibling; she was a Hamilton, living amid discord. “’Tis a private concern.”
“’Tis a sentimental quest,” she corrected in that bold tone he was coming to expect and to favor.
“Attach no soft-hearted ideal to what I do in Brodick Bay. I come here for someone else.”
Her saucy smile boded ill. “Coming here for someone else is sentimental in itself. Admit it, Captain, you’re a gallant.”
She had spun girlish dreams about his visits here. A lie would put an end to them. “Not if I’m paid to do what I do.”
Disappointment glazed her eyes. Seeing vulnerability, Hugh pressed on. “That’s what you thought, isn’t it?” For effect, he laughed. “You’d have me coming to Arran for nostalgic reasons. Admirable, Lily, but short of the mark.”
Bless her, she rallied, demanding, “Who pays you then?”
Since he’d acquired his first command, Hugh had distanced himself from the feud. His family had disdained his lack of interest. When that hadn’t worked, they’d bought him a title to entice him back to Scotland. But Hugh Alexander MacDonnel had found his home an ocean away, among industrious people who cared more for harmony than tradition. Only for the love of his older sister did he navigate Brodick Bay every spring, a bundle of primroses in his hand.
“You do bear some concern for the grave. I see it in your eyes.”
He’d have to hide his feelings better, for among her other qualities, Lily Hamilton could ferret out a soul better than a priest. But, by the saints, she was a pleasure to look upon, her eyes a soft warm brown and her hair the glorious shades of a harvest fire. He’d wager his tobacco plantation that as a child she’d had a spray of freckles across her nose. Now her complexion glowed like new ivory. His gaze kept straying to her mouth, the perfectly symmetrical bow of her upper lip, and the fuller one below. He could make a banquet of her mouth.
“Who is buried there? A sweetheart? When did you fall in love with her?”
A few moments ago, Hugh realized, for Lily Hamilton’s romantic nature begged to be coddled and shared. And her body—only a cloistered monk could ignore her lush curves and lithe limbs. But she, of all women, was forbidden to Hugh MacDonnel, for he would take no spoils in a war that he despised.
Curse his soul, he wanted to believe her, to find a bright spot in the dark war between the Hamiltons and the MacDonnels.
“Please talk to me. I’ve watched and waited for so long.”
Her earnest plea dashed his introspection and inspired a challenge. “Over a decade you said. That would have made you six or seven at the start.”
She had a lovely way about her, both retiring and exciting at once. “I was eleven”—she demurred—“when first I saw you.”
He gave her a skeptical frown. She couldn’t possibly know so much about his life. She couldn’t be two and twenty either; she didn’t look a season over ten and seven.
“You don’t believe me. Very well, Captain Hugh. You wore no hat that first year or cloak. ’Twasn’t dawn yet, and the bay was becalmed. You carried a torch, which you also dropped into the bay.”
Hugh had been clumsy with cold that year. She must have shivered, too, if she’d been standing on the shore. Which he doubted. No child would venture out alone on such a mission. One of her kinsmen had seen Hugh and passed the story along. But that brought up another question. “Why did you not sound the alarm?”
“Because of the roses.” Using the tines of the fork, she cut into the ham. “I’d just found the grave the year before.”
His sister had not mentioned a grave. When asked the reason behind her request that Hugh deliver the roses, Fiona MacDonnel had said, “’Tis for an angel.” An odd statement, for her knowledge of Arran and the Hamiltons stemmed from the most bitter episode in the clan war. Did Lily know what had happened to Fiona on that island so many years ago
? No, she wouldn’t have been born then, and the abduction and ransom of Fiona MacDonnel had been a closely guarded secret. “How did you locate this grave?”
She seemed to settle in, resting easy in the chair. Between bites, she studied the furnishings. When she tilted her head back, he couldn’t help but stare at the graceful column of her neck. At length, she said, “I ran away from home.”
“A lass of one and ten? Why?”
Her gaze level, she said, “An injustice done to me by my kinsmen.”
No doubt she’d seen her share and more of the cruelty of which her clansmen were capable. The bitterness of Edward Hamilton, a high-ranking chieftain, knew no rival. Or did she, like her kinsmen, enjoy the strife? “What injustice?”
Her lips thinned, and she again studied the cabin. “They lost my dowry ship to the MacDonnels.”
They might well get it back, too, if they had managed to launch that barkentine and catch a fair wind. Before remodeling, his Golden Thistle had born the name Valiant Lily. How fitting, he thought, watching her comport herself with dignity. A spoil of the clan war, this pinasse had been part of Hugh’s majority. The ship had also been her dowry. “That is why you haven’t wed?”
Pride shimmered around her. “Why I haven’t wed is as you say, a private concern.”
“A clever reply.” One thing was certain. Hugh MacDonnel had no intention of alienating Lily Hamilton. He was content to simply admire her beauty. A Hamilton? The notion was laughable. When her clan bred true, they were rightly called pigeon-faced. He hadn’t exaggerated when he said she was lovely enough to please a prince. Why, then, had her father not found her a husband? She needed no financial inducement to grace a man’s table and share his bed. No doubt her father was holding out for the highest bidder. ’Twas common knowledge that the Hamiltons would turn a profit on the cairns of their ancestors. What price would they pay to save her virginity? Could Hugh take it? He didn’t know.
“Who is buried in the grave?”
He could be relentless, too. “A duke’s daughter has much to recommend her.”
