Cherished Moments

by Anita Mills

  “The duke is my uncle.” She gave him a piercing look. “Edward Hamilton is my father.”

  Hugh shivered inside at the name of the monster who had sired her. Edward the Angry, they called him. With a single-mindedness born of evil, he kept the feud alive. “What of your mother?”

  Her hand stilled and she looked down. “Dead at the hands of the MacDonnels. I was but a babe.”

  So that had been the source of Edward’s vengeance. Sympathy squeezed Hugh’s chest, not for the butcher of Arran, but for his daughter. She’d been a motherless babe in that den of thieves. Yet how many MacDonnels had the Hamiltons orphaned? Enough. “I’m sorry, Lily.”

  With the ease of long practice, she composed herself. “I’ll keep asking you about the grave.”

  “Then we shall often be at an impasse.”

  “How can you refuse me after all I’ve done? My kinsmen deny the grave exists.”

  “As do I.”

  “Then I’ll take you to the glen. I’ll show you the grave.”

  Hugh laughed, for he’d sooner swim the Atlantic than step foot on Arran. “Pardon me, but I must decline Hamilton hospitality.”

  “I pose no threat to you.”

  He almost choked. “No threat?”

  “You’re safe—once I explain to them. My kinsmen only bear a grudge against the MacDonnels.”

  On that statement of irony, Forbes appeared in the doorway, a cloth-covered basket in his hands. Hugh waved him inside. “What have you there, Forbes, treats from the purser’s pantry?”

  The always dignified Forbes lifted his chin. With his thumb and index finger, he whipped away the napkin. In perfectly clipped English, he said, “I thought my lady might enjoy a taste of something sweet.” He came forward and held the fruit basket before her. “The figs are particularly fine.”

  She peered down, her excited gaze fastening on the contents. She chose only a fig. “Thank you, Mr. Forbes. I’ve always wanted to taste one.”

  Hugh watched her wrap her lips around the fruit in a manner so innocently provocative that he groaned inside. When she closed her eyes and hummed, savoring the taste, he felt his loins swell.

  “Does my uncle’s bark follow?”

  The question dashed Hugh’s ardor. She stared up at Forbes, who glanced at Hugh. He nodded.

  Taking his cue, Forbes said, “Aye, my lady.”

  A worried frown scored her forehead. “They’ll overtake us.”

  All things being equal, she would have been correct. But Hugh had done more to the Valiant Lily than change her name, add a few luxuries, and double her cannon. He’d square rigged her fore and main, leaving only the mizzen to lateen sails. No wonder Lily hadn’t recognized her dowry ship.

  The bark might get close, but the lumbering sea cow would not overtake the swift and near empty pinasse. “Who captains the Hamilton ship?”

  “My father.”

  God’s hooks! “Forbes,” Hugh said as calmly as he could. “Inform Master Bonaventure that Edward Hamilton commands the bark.”

  The purser dropped the basket. “God be with us.”

  Her expression grew suspicious. “If you live in the colonies, how do you know my father?”

  “His reputation is widespread,” murmured a now sallow-faced Forbes, stooping to retrieve the spilled fruit.

  “Don’t fret, my friend,” Hugh said. “Mistress Hamilton has assured us that her father butchers only MacDonnels.” When Forbes glanced quickly from Lily back to Hugh, he added, “Have Bonaventure take evasive measures.”

  “What measures?” she demanded.

  Feeling as if he were perched on a crossroads, Hugh battled with his conscience. Arran was small, and according to his kinsmen, gossip traveled on the island air. He could put her ashore at Blackwaterfoot and be rid of her. He could also sail into a trap of her father’s setting. Or he could keep her and outwit Edward the Angry. Or he could ponder the question a while longer. The latter held particular appeal to Hugh. “We sail to our summer moorings.”

  She rose. “Where is that?”

  Hugh had no intention of telling her that, either. He had stowed his tartans, his log books, and his seal of office. Short of picking the lock, she wouldn’t find a clue in this room to his identity. He’d tell her who he was, eventually. Why make her suffer needlessly? He couldn’t return her, wouldn’t return her. Her clansmen had seen him in the light of day and were now plowing the Firth of Clyde to catch up.

  Since Hugh had yet to decide what to do with the extremely personable Lily Hamilton, getting away from her seemed the prudent choice.

  He rose. “I’ll speak to Bonaventure myself. Lily, you stay here.”

  To his surprise, she did not protest, but went back to the meal. Ah, well, she was a Hamilton, wasn’t she, and schooled since birth in the art of intrigue. He would take defensive action. He’d begin by having the carpenter fashion a board bearing a new name for the ship. The Golden Thistle was about to take on another identity.

  “Lily?”

  At the sound of her name, Lily dragged herself from a sound sleep. She’d been watching though the stern window and didn’t remember closing her eyes.

  Blinking, she looked up. The captain stood over her. In one hand he carried a string hammock, in the other two tankards of ale. His appreciative grin didn’t bear contemplating.

  She sat up and stretched the kinks from her back. Glancing out the window she realized the sun had set. She hadn’t seen the captain since this morning. Several hours earlier Forbes had brought her a tray of cheese and bread, plus items for her personal comfort. At the behest of the captain, so Forbes had said.

  “You slept well?”

  Under the circumstances, his cordiality rankled. “You locked me in.”

  “Need I remind you that you are a beautiful woman on a ship with common seamen? This vessel has only one other private cabin. Bonaventure and Forbes share it.”

  He had a point. He also looked like a fox stalking a covey of quail. Who was he? From where did he hail? Her every attempt to spring the lock on his wardrobe had failed. His desk had yielded nothing in the way of identification. Her irritation grew. “How thoughtful of you.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Lily.” He raised the mugs. “Join me? ’Tis fresh from the purser’s swipes.”

  Courage from a keg, her grandfather used to say. “You wouldn’t be trying to get me tippered, would you?”

  He tossed the hammock onto a chair. “You wound me, Lily. You wanted to board this ship.” Holding out one of the mugs, he said, “You’ve no cause to fear me.”

  In the course of a day, he’d changed from the forbidding stranger to the friendly host. With reservations, she took the offered tankard. “That wasn’t my uncle’s ship behind us this afternoon, was it?”

  He clanked his mug against hers. “Many ships sailed in our wake today. Many more crossed our path. Any of them could pass along our direction.”

  She set down the ale. “Have you changed course?”

  “Aye, and do not ask where, for ’tis better that you do not know.”

  The extent of the danger she was in made her wary. She wanted to run. To where? A shipful of unsuspecting ruffians who ran before her kinsmen’s revenge? Back to a family who would shun her for a fallen woman? Better the devil she knew.

  She sipped the ale and found it palatable, if weak. “Am I allowed on deck?”

  “Are you offering to mend the jib?”

  At his innocently worded question, laughter bubbled up inside her. Had she stumbled onto a renegade, a libertine captain? The possibility made her brave. “And if I am?”

  Hitching his hip on the edge of the desk, he crossed his arms over his chest. “A noble sacrifice, but I could not allow a guest to labor so.”

  His shirt was open at the neck, and she found her gaze drawn to the mat of black hair that peeked provocatively from the garment. “You don’t trust me.”

  As amiable as could be, he smiled. “Let us just say that I don’t know
you.”

  Her family name meant nothing to him save trouble. An earl surely had friends in high places. Perhaps he knew of a family in need of a governess. A family. Did he have a wife and children? “Are you married, my lord?”

  “Are you making an offer for my hand?”

  Caught off guard, she gave a huff of indignation. “Of course not. I was making conversation.”

  “Nay, I’ve not wed.”

  She shouldn’t have been glad, but she was.

  “And I seldom answer to ‘my lord.’ Captain will do.”

  “Tell me the name of your vessel, Captain.”

  His eyes shone with pleasure rather than pride. “She’s the Westward Angel.”

  “Will we make port tonight?”

  “Perhaps.” He walked to the table and picked up the hairbrush the purser had brought her earlier. “Yours?”

  “Forbes said you wanted me to have it.”

  “Ah, Forbes,” he drawled. “Now there’s your gallant.”

  “Ha! You are a gentleman, Captain Hugh.”

  As if to prove her wrong, he lifted his brows in invitation. “The bed is soft and made for two.”

  Mortification nibbled at her composure. “I’ll take the hammock.” Snatching it up, she moved away, but not half as quickly as she wanted to. She located the hooks overhead, but they were out of reach.

  “Can I help?” He sounded much too agreeable.

  “No. You’ve done quite enough for one day.” She slid a chair to the appropriate spot. Throwing the hammock over her shoulder, she lifted her skirt and stepped onto the chair.

  The rope ends slipped easily onto the hooks. His hands moved effortlessly to her waist. “I wouldn’t want you to fall.”

  His seductive tone made a pledge of his concern. Summoning bravado, she thought of a cheeky reply. “Not unless I landed in that bed with you.”

  As if she weighed no more than a pebble, he lowered her to the floor. He stood so close, she could see herself reflected in his blue eyes. Her adventurer. A man who, for one day each year, had brought purpose to her life. Another lonely soul paying tribute to a dying rosebush on an anonymous grave.

  “Lord, Lily, you rob a man of his wits.”

  Then his lips touched hers, and his arms surrounded her, coddling her, drawing her into the shelter of his broad chest. A spicy sweetness flavored his mouth, reminding her of mulled wine sipped ’round the Hogmanay fire. Hogmanay, the day when a maiden’s beau presented himself on her doorway and offered her food, drink, and the warmth of his fire. Year after year, she had watched and congratulated the other girls for their good fortune. No such suitor had come for Lily Hamilton…until now.

  Like a raging thirst, a lifetime of loneliness demanded that Lily drink, and she did, savoring the wondrous new feeling of being cherished, valued, and wanted. But no sooner had one need been met, than other surfaced. Her head felt light and her breathing strained, as if she’d raced to the top of Goat’s Fell and now teetered, ready to tumble off the peak. Seeking purchase, she clutched his waist to steady herself, and found warmth and a body taut with manly strength.

  His tongue slid between her lips, and he murmured, “Open your mouth, Lily. Give me your sweetness.”

  At his provocative command, she snapped to her senses and jumped back, her hand drawn to her tingling lips. “Absolutely not.”

  His dreamy gaze slid from her mouth to her straining breasts, to her skirt, beneath which, her knees trembled. “You liked kissing me,” he said, all powerful male.

  The truth in his words only embarrassed her more. Maidenly protests rose in her mind, but she discarded them for the flimsy excuses they were. Never more than at this moment did she miss having a mother to confide in. Yet with stern conviction, Lily knew she would brave even her father’s wrath for this man, this stranger’s cause. “I would have us be friends, Captain.”

  A grin as big as Scotland spread across his handsome face. “Oh, aye, Lily Hamilton. I believe we will indeed be friends.” He held out his hand.

  Having no reply and less will to argue, she climbed into the hammock, although she knew sleep would be a long time coming. An odd silence pulsed between them, as if the air were charged with words unsaid and desires unfulfilled.

  She sought a light topic. “If you’ll tell me who pays you to throw those roses, I’ll take the night watch at the wheel.”

  His chuckled sound devilishly male. “You’d run us aground in Ireland.”

  “Ah,” she said, feeling smug, “so that’s where we’re going.”

  The bed linens rustled; he was settling in. “Pleased with yourself, are you?”

  “Pleased?” She stared at the beamed ceiling and listened to the creaking of the ship and the flapping of the sails. “You say you want to be my friend, and yet I must trick you to gain the smallest bit of information. ’Tis poor ground on which to build a friendship.”

  “Ground littered with angry Hamiltons.”

  “I’ve told you before, I am not like my kinsmen. I would have your trust.”

  “The moment you boarded this ship you put a crew of innocent men in danger.”

  “Not apurpose. I came only because of the rose. Had you told me what I wanted to know, I would have returned home and…” She could not tell him of the lonely future that awaited her on Arran.

  “And what?”

  Her disappointments were her own, and until he confided in her, she would keep them to herself. Better she stay with the event that had brought them together. “I would have tried to save the rose, and I would have anticipated your next visit to Brodick Bay.”

  “Must you natter on about that piece of maidenly fiction?”

  A quick glance at him confirmed her suspicions. “Why are you angry?”

  He scowled. “Your husband will explain it.”

  Now she was completely confused. “You’re just too prideful to admit your part in a romantic ritual.”

  At his huff of disbelief, she considered rolling out of the hammock and confronting him. Better yet, she would give him something to think about. “By the way, on my twelfth birthday, you sailed into Brodick Bay wearing a seaman’s beard.”

  He fluffed his pillow. “Men often grow beards.”

  “You do not. Not in May.”

  Reaching to turn out the lamp, he gave her a sharp look.

  It was a small victory for Lily, but progress all the same. She would hammer away at his resistance. She’d describe each of his visits to Arran. Eventually, he’d come to trust her.

  “On the morn I turned three and ten, you wore a Dutchman’s hat.” She sat on a water barrel and busied herself mending the edge of a frayed sail.

  The captain stood at the rail and surveyed the sea. “A Dutchman’s cap?” he scoffed, not taking the spyglass from his eye.

  The pinasse cut effortlessly through the swells and the wind felt like a gentle caress. Basking in the thrill of being at sea again, Lily grew brave. “You looked rather square-headed.”

  He sighed and slapped the glass against his thigh. “Best you get out of the sun, Lily, and not just to protect that pretty skin.”

  “Did you hear that, Master Bonaventure?” she said to the helmsman. “The captain believes me daft.”

  “This captain,” Hugh said, before Bonaventure could reply, “thinks you are clever for a Hamilton. Too clever, perhaps, for the rustic pleasures of the May Fair.”

  That got her attention. “What May Fair?”

  Giving her a sly smile, he motioned to the helmsman. “Master Bonaventure, enlighten our guest on the Irish custom of May Fair.”

  Ever willing to join in the conversation, the affable Bonaventure spoke in a booming voice flavored with the accent of his native France. “You, la belle fleur, shall witness the children of Erin at their playful and primitive best. A warning, though, eat not the food, for an Irishman has the palate of a swine.”

  The first mate, a Lowland Scot named Crossjack, jumped to his feet. “An’ what would a Froggie be knowi
n’ about food? They eat snails.” He pretended to spit on the deck. “I ask you, what civilized man eats snails?”

  Laughter drifted from the rigging and the bowsprit as the crew joined in. The nimble-footed Crossjack waved his stocking cap, extolling them to challenge the helmsman.

  When her turn came, Lily said, “How ever do you chew the shells, Master Bonaventure?”

  He rolled his eyes, but the battle of cultures had been struck. A lengthy discussion followed on the eating practices of everyone from Turks to Quakers.

  Lily only half listened, her attention straying often to the captain, who still scanned the sea. His stance was so familiar it filled her with a sense of destiny. She felt in the midst of a scene she had watched from afar. At twelve years old she’d prayed for God to change her into a bird so she could fly to his ship and share his ritual.

  Was he thinking about her description of his visit to Arran eleven years ago? How would he counter her next testimonial?

  “Ridiculous,” was his reply. “I have never worn a lovelock.”

  Hoping to ease the imposing stiffness from his shoulders, she had recalled the occasion of her fourteenth birthday. Her ploy had backfired, for he stood straighter, his arms rigid as he took a turn at the helm later that afternoon.

  Lily could not retreat. “Aye, your hair was almost as long as mine at the time, and ever so curly. You wore the lovelock draped over your shoulder, but the wind kept blowing it into your face.”

  “You are a spinner of tales, Lily Hamilton.”

  She sighed dramatically. “I imagine the look fell out of fashion, for the next year you wore your hair braided in a Frenchman’s queue.”

  “There, you’ve tricked yourself up. I know not the first thing about plaiting hair.” He jiggled his eyebrows. “I am, however, adept at unplaiting it. Shall I show you?”

  He’d done the tricking and, as usual, Lily felt like the naive island girl she was. “You’re a rogue.”

  “Thank you, but you needn’t flatter me with words. Adoring glances will do.”

  Fuming, she said, “I’d rather…” No insult came to mind.

  “Watch porridge spoil?”

  He shouldn’t have such a good memory, not when she had so little experience to draw on. Her mind shouldn’t dwell on the kiss he’d given her, and her body shouldn’t yearn for his touch.