by Karen Ranney
“By being my clerk,” Daniel said, ruffling the boy’s hair.
Douglas pulled away, his chest puffing up like a banty rooster. “I’m going to be the captain of my own ship,” he boasted. “Not a clerk.”
“They’re sometimes one and the same.” Daniel made no effort now to mask his smile. “Who do you think guarantees the contents of a ship’s hold? And whose word is taken when a cargo is given to a ship? And who is to blame for as much as a handful of tea missing?”
When Douglas didn’t answer, Daniel handed him a sheet of the manifest. “The captain, that’s who. On this voyage I’m acting in your brother’s stead, and I’ll not have any mutiny from you, Douglas.”
Douglas looked rebellious, but he took the sheet nonetheless.
“It’s better than being a cabin boy,” he muttered.
“You might not think that at the end of the day,” Daniel said, nodding in the direction of the adjacent pier. “There are over a hundred barrels to check, and that’s before the wagons arrive tomorrow.
“Harness your irritation, Douglas,” he said, hoping that the young man had the sense to take his advice. “Use your energy to begin to count the crates and casks before they’re loaded aboard ship. It’s a chore better done here than in the hold.”
Daniel watched as the youngest of the MacRae brothers stomped across the deck and down the gangplank in a display of temper.
Exactly, Daniel thought, like one of the MacRaes.
He was, perhaps, a fool, Fergus MacRae told himself. This journey to Gilmuir would, no doubt, result in a blistered stump and aching arms. Because of the distance, he had tucked his cane into the pack slung over his shoulder and used a crutch he’d made himself of three pieces of wood bound together. He’d welded the middle of it with an iron bar, and padded the top with a bit of worn cloth. He’d not made the cushioning thick enough, he realized as the top of the crutch began gouging into his armpit.
Who was the woman he’d seen in Cormech? Was it possible that there were, after all these years, MacRaes at Gilmuir?
Best leave the wishes to others, Fergus, he counseled himself. Life was hard enough dealing with the why of it without asking for more grief.
But wouldn’t it be a grand thing to walk back to his home and see, not the English squatting there, but the sight of his kinsmen? The loneliness had not been easy to bear, ladled on top of the loss of Leah. He’d like to find just one person still alive who had known him as a boy. Who might even say to him with a teasing wink, What a clumsy oaf you were, Fergus.
Memories flooded his mind, of times racing in the sun with his brother or trying to rid himself of his bedeviling younger sister, of picking harebells for Leah and sliding them beneath her chin to tickle her throat. Now these recollections seemed doubly precious, since all the people he had loved the best had been lost to him. Leah, because of his pride. His brother, James, at his side at Culloden, and Leitis, vanishing as she had all those many years ago.
Resolutely, he picked up his pace, forcing himself to cover the distance he’d allotted for each day. Such was the way he’d lived his life in these past years, by choosing one goal and achieving it, ignoring all the setbacks and the naysayers. Fixing his gaze on a spot on the horizon, he vowed to reach it before nightfall.
One thought pushed him forward. He was going home to Gilmuir.
Chapter 30
A lisdair awoke gradually, sleep falling away like layers of wispy clouds. For a few moments he lay in his bunk, staring up at the wood-grain pattern above him, taking a careful bodily inventory.
He moved his head from side to side, relieved to find there was only a dull ache where before a thousand anvils had rung against his skull. Carefully, he sat up, dangling his feet over the side of the bunk, surprised, then amused, to find himself attired in the voluminous red nightshirt.
“You’ll wear it, Alisdair. Nights are cold aboard ship.”
“Thank you, Mother,” he’d said politely, taking the wrapped garment from her. He’d store it in his chest, as he did all the others.
“He’d be better off finding a mermaid to companion him,” one of his brothers said.
Leitis MacRae had arched one eyebrow and the room had fallen silent. Grown men all, they were easily chastised by their mother.
All thoughts of his family vanished when he saw Iseabal huddled on a pallet in the corner of the cabin. He’d slept in a similar position many nights at the beginning of their marriage and could attest to the discomfort.
Why, then, had she chosen not to sleep beside him?
“Iseabal,” he said softly. She woke easily, her eyes blinking open to meet his gaze.
He raised his hand, surprised to find that it trembled in the air. Two short steps and she’d captured it between her own, placing her cheek gently against his palm.
“What happened?” he asked gruffly. Why did his throat taste of fire and his arms and sides hurt? As if he’d been kicked by a horse, he thought, or dragged across Scotland.
Once, he’d seen a French privateer attack an English merchant ship, her cannons firing from bow to stern in a regulated barrage. That was how his memories came to him, each giving Alisdair back a piece of himself.
The stench of fire, the caustic smell of thatch burning, the whimpers of children, were only a backdrop for the image of a face, disdainful and mocking.
“We’re at Gilmuir,” Iseabal said. “Aboard the Fortitude.”
Bending down, she brushed a kiss to the back of his hand, a warm tear anointing his skin.
“I’m fine,” he said in an attempt to reassure her. She merely smiled again, placing her cheek against his cradled hand as if she recognized the shallowness of his bravado. He felt incredibly weak, as if he were a newborn babe and innocent to the world.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“A few days,” she said, reaching up to cup his bearded cheek.
He stared at her. “A few days?” he echoed.
“You needed the time to heal,” she explained. “Your eyes are clearer,” she added, “and you don’t look so pale.” Reaching up, she brushed her hand over his brow, sweeping his hair away from his face. Her skin smelled of herbs and sandalwood.
“You used the Chinese medicines.”
“Yes,” she softly said. “Do you feel any better?”
“I feel as if I’ve been kicked by ten horses,” he answered. Looking down at the nightshirt he wore, Alisdair began to smile. “Do I also have you to thank for this?”
Her cheeks deepened in color, as if she were sharing his thoughts and his pleasant memories of this particular garment. Iseabal, in the morning after their wedding night, bathed by sunlight as she sat there smiling at him and nibbling on her toast. Iseabal, defiant and attempting to hide it while he treated her ribs and then covered her body before temptation loosed him from simple lust to unacceptable behavior.
“Brian’s left word that he would like to see you as soon as you are awake. Do you feel strong enough?” she asked, her voice low and oddly seductive. A siren’s voice, he thought, raising his eyes to meet her gaze.
Alisdair nodded to cover his sudden wish to touch her with hands that retained memory of her curves and lips that knew the flavor of her kisses. Perhaps he felt like this because death had come so close to him, and this was a way to celebrate his life. Or perhaps it was simply Iseabal.
Amused at himself, he crossed his legs and placed his hands on his lap in a nonchalant attempt to hide her effect on him.
“Not before I wash and dress,” he said, determined that none of his men would see him in his nightshirt.
“I’ll send Rory to you,” she said, standing and slipping from the room before he could stop her.
A few minutes later Rory appeared in the doorway. The boy halted there, a tray balanced on one hand, his attention fixed on Alisdair.
“I knew you would come to yourself, sir,” Rory said, entering the cabin. “I’ve fetched your breakfast,” the boy added with a grin. “Are
you up to eating?”
Surprisingly, he was hungry. No, Alisdair thought as he sat at the table, he was famished and could cheerfully eat the tray Rory was unloading.
Once the dishes were arranged, Rory set the pitcher aside as he opened a door in the tansu. Retrieving a turtle-shaped jar that held Alisdair’s sandalwood soap, he placed it beside the pitcher, basin, and toweling.
“Can I do anything else for you, sir?”
“Send word to Brian that I’ll meet with him in an hour.”
Rory nodded and began to leave, turning at the last moment to smile at Alisdair. The expression was so engaging that he had no choice but to smile back at his cabin boy.
“Get dressed, you drunken fool!”
Thomas’s first reaction to being shaken awake was to pummel the man whose hand was on his shoulder. His second, more cautious approach was to slit open one eye and then quickly sit up, facing Magnus Drummond.
“You stink of ale, Thomas. Proud of your night’s work, are you?”
He nodded, peering through the fog of sleep. Drummond’s bloodshot eyes narrowed at him as he yawned.
Drummond looked as if he’d not slept the night, either, Thomas thought, but he doubted his cousin had been engaged in such enjoyable pursuits. The older man’s clothes were wrinkled and dusty, his face shadowed by a stubble of beard. Even his hair was askew, and Magnus liked a neat and tidy appearance.
“Where is he?” the older man asked, his face florid. “Where is MacRae?”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “How did you know I had him?”
“Never mind that,” Drummond said. “Where is he?”
“With the other villagers,” Thomas said, standing and stretching. The night before had been one of revelry, such as Cormech offered. He’d been treated to more than one glass of ale by the captain of the Harriet, and had celebrated in another way with one of the barmaids.
“I want him killed,” Drummond said. “And his body taken to Fernleigh for proof.”
“Do you want to discuss this here?” Thomas asked cautiously, glancing around the attic space. The inn was full, and this chamber currently shared with five other sleeping men.
“Where is he?” Drummond demanded, obviously uncaring that his orders were overheard.
Thomas began to fasten his breeches, thinking that he’d never seen the other man so worked up about anything, unless it was the loss of a coin or two. “Aboard the Harriet,” he said, pulling on his boots. “And it’s a lucky thing you’ve come now,” he added. “She’s due to sail today.”
“Nothing’s been lucky in my life since the MacRae arrived in Scotland,” Drummond said with a scowl.
Thomas walked with his cousin to the ship, explaining how MacRae had come to be in his possession.
“You should have killed him,” Drummond said angrily.
“Why should I, Magnus?” he asked, facing him squarely. Behind him, the dawn sun glinted off the waters of Cormech, illuminating the ships lined up at the pier like greedy nurslings. “I sold him instead and made you richer. He’ll never return to Scotland. Instead, he’ll be working at hard labor for the rest of his life. If he survives the voyage.”
Drummond nodded grudgingly. “I suppose I’d have done the same.”
Thomas led him aboard the Harriet, introducing him to the captain.
“Drummond wants one of your passengers,” Thomas said, exchanging smiles of greeting. “One you took aboard yesterday.”
“Feel free to search the hold,” the captain said, “but you won’t find him there. You won’t find anyone there.”
“Where are they?” Thomas said, suddenly aware that Drummond had taken a step away from him. At no time was it wise to be on the man’s long list of enemies. In Magnus’s current mood, it was dangerous. “We delivered and you paid,” he said. “Seventeen men, women, and children.”
“Gone,” the captain said. “And me compensated prettily for them, too.”
“Where?” Drummond asked, looking as if he’d eaten a breakfast of nails.
“I don’t know,” the captain said, “and I don’t care, unless you want to sell them back to me. I’m looking for another cargo.” He smiled, the expression seeming to annoy Drummond further.
“I heard them talk,” the first mate interjected. “They’re going to a place called Gilmuir.”
Drummond nodded, as if the news had been what he’d expected.
“A woman freed him,” he said, the statement verified when the first mate nodded.
“A nasty piece of work,” the sailor added, scowling. “Someone should take her by the hand and teach her how to behave.”
“Someone will,” Drummond said, his mouth thinning. He turned and walked off the ship, leaving Thomas to follow him.
“Once the Drummonds fought the MacRaes,” he said. “But there’s not been discord between us for decades. It’s time that changed. The MacRaes have their footprints all over my life and I’m done with it.”
“What are you going to do?” Thomas asked, grateful that Drummond’s anger was directed at someone else.
“Lay siege to Gilmuir,” Drummond said, smiling.
Thomas halted, staring at his cousin. Had the man lost his mind? From the gleam in his reddened eyes, it was almost possible to believe it.
“We’ve not enough men to lay siege to Gilmuir,” Thomas said, wondering if he took his life in his hands telling Drummond the truth. “Especially if he has the villagers on his side.”
“Then hire them for me,” Drummond replied, surprising Thomas. “I’ll see MacRae die on his precious land.” He stared out to sea in the direction of Gilmuir. “My daughter will be made a widow, Thomas, and ripe for marriage once again. I’ll give her to you as a reward for your loyalty.”
“You would marry Iseabal to me?” he asked, startled.
“What better man?” Drummond said, turning to grin at him, his expression oddly malevolent.
Dressing was not done as quickly as Alisdair wished. From time to time dizziness threatened to topple him, forcing him to flatten his hands against the bulkhead in order to maintain his stability. He sincerely hoped that the headaches and this unwelcome disorientation were not permanent reminders of how close he had come to death.
He dismissed that thought before it could take root, fastened his shirt, and slipped into his boots.
Annoyed at his own weakness, he called out a gruff greeting when someone knocked on the door.
Brian stood on the threshold, his smile stretching from ear to ear and his hazel eyes alight with happiness.
“It’s good to see you up and about, sir,” he said, looking more like an enthusiastic boy than a young man promoted to a position of authority.
Alisdair was doubly grateful that Brian had not been present fifteen minutes earlier, when he’d struggled to maintain his equilibrium while donning his shirt. Buttons were a chore, and pulling his boots on had been likewise as difficult.
“I’m grateful to be up,” he said, voicing the truth. If the bullet had been an inch deeper, he’d be buried by now.
“We’ve moved to Gilmuir, sir,” Brian said, “and are in the process of building temporary shelter.”
Iseabal entered through the opened door quietly, but Brian turned at her entrance. In a second his face changed, becoming more severe, almost taut. As if, Alisdair thought, he’d suddenly become a statue.
“For the people of Lonvight,” Iseabal explained, moving to Alisdair’s side. “Where you were hurt.”
“Is the village intact?”
“Lonvight?” Brian asked. “Burned to the ground, sir.” He did not, Alisdair noted, look in Iseabal’s direction. Nor did she look at him.
“Not Lonvight,” Alisdair said impatiently. “The old village of Gilmuir.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “The village still stands. And large enough to accommodate all the people of Lonvight,” she added, glancing toward the door.
“Why will neither of you look at the other?” Alisdair asked, annoy
ed at their behavior.
Brian stood rigid, looking at the bulkhead in front of him, while Iseabal said nothing, only smiled gently as if to dissuade Alisdair from further questioning.
“At the end of the land bridge there’s a path to the left. It’s overgrown, but you can find it if you’re looking. Follow it and you’ll come to the village,” Iseabal said, concentrating on the view of the cliffs beyond the rail.
“I’ll see to the state of the old village,” Brian said, bowing slightly. “Unless you wish me to perform some other duty, sir.”
Alisdair stared at the young man, seeing in his eyes a flat, obsidian look that warned he’d get no response to his original question.
“No,” he said, waving him away. “Do what you will.”
The door closed softly behind Brian, leaving the two of them alone.
“Well?” Alisdair asked. “Are you going to remain mute also?”
“There isn’t anything to say,” Iseabal replied easily, beginning to tidy up after his bathing and dressing. She smiled at him, a closed and bland expression no doubt meant to be amiable.
Alisdair realized that he’d seen that expression on her face before, when she’d greeted her father.
He was looking at her as if he’d never truly seen her. That studied glance seemed all the more intent for his stillness.
What could she say to him? The truth? Stark and unadorned, it would strip her of all defenses, just when she needed them the most.
My father did this to you. There, the crux of the matter. And she, as a Drummond, was anathema to his crew. The past days had proved that well enough. When she ventured outside the cabin, she was greeted by silence and distrustful looks. Rory acted as grudging intermediary, passing along news of Alisdair’s condition to Brian and relaying word of the plans to leave the Fortitude and begin building the settlement at Gilmuir to Iseabal. Only Rory had remained aboard the Fortitude now and she’d managed, until this moment, to ignore Brian’s antipathy.
She bent, picking up the empty pitcher in the awkward silence. They might never have been intimate or loving; the nights in this cabin could have been no more than a wistful dream.
