by Aileen Adams
There was little other choice. They were wasting time, time which could be better spent in other pursuits.
He lifted his chin in resolute determination as they approached the door to the warehouse. He had something very valuable—just how valuable to MacBride, they would soon find out.
13
The inside of the warehouse was dusty and dark. The swirling, cloudy window glass did little to allow light in, especially since the glass hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. Perhaps it never had been.
A glance at Broc told Derek he noticed, too, and was like as not comparing the place to the warehouse they’d taken such pains to care for back in Kincarny. The glass had fairly shone, the floor always swept clean. He’d paid several in the village to help with upkeep and had been happy to do so, seeing it as a way to provide wages to more than just the men serving on his ships.
As a result of this, the villagers had considered him sort of a benefactor, someone who added a great deal to the livelihood of the village in which he transacted business. He’d never once been vandalized, not even something as commonplace as a broken window.
That was not the case here.
Derek’s practiced eye noted the presence of rat droppings in the corners and webs near the ceiling. Dust covered most flat surfaces. The air was dry, dusty, stale with the odors of pipe smoke, sweat, and flatulence. The plank floor creaked underfoot as the two of them made their way to the small desk in one corner, piled high with what looked like orders.
A man sat in front of the desk, a large man whose girth strained the seams of his stained tunic.
MacBride, Derek surmised.
A man who clearly enjoyed life’s pleasures, so long as they had to do with food. He marveled at the strength of the stool on which the rotund man perched, wondering how much longer the thing could possibly last without giving out.
“Excuse me,” Derek began, his voice strong and confident. He could match wits with this slovenly creature, he had no doubt.
The man turned his head just enough to catch sight of his visitors through the corner of his eye. “Aye?” he barked. “I’m busy today, so make it quick.”
Derek exchanged a look with Broc. “My name is Derek McInnis, and I’m here—”
“Hold everything.” The man turned fully, finally showing his visitors a bit of respect. “You said McInnis.”
“I did.”
“Would ye be the Derek McInnis of McInnis Shipping, then?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and Derek instantly understood why others referred to him as shrewd. His brain was already weighing his options in this meeting without the benefit of knowing why Derek was visiting.
“I would that. This is my first mate, Broc McFadden.”
“And I’m Ian MacBride.” He extended a hand—large, dry, rough—which Derek shook firmly.
A strong grip, the grip of a man who knew who he was and what the world held for him. They were cut from the same cloth, to be sure.
“This is your warehouse, then?” Derek asked.
“Aye, for these twelve years,” the man replied with a great deal of pride. “I’ve seen Kirkcaldy grow in that time, you can be sure of it, and I like to think that growth is due in no small part to my business.”
“I’m certain you’re correct. I remember the village from my youth, and was shocked at how it had grown since the last time I passed through.”
“You’re from the area, then? I assumed you’d always made your home in Kincarny.”
“Nay, I was born and raised in the Highlands.”
“A Highlander?” The man’s eyebrows arched until it seemed they would leave his sweaty forehead. “Well, I must say that’s a surprise.”
“Why a surprise?” Derek laughed. “You expected a savage?”
“I admit, yer a bit more civilized than I’d ever expect from a Highlander.”
MacBride spat on the floor, an action so well-timed that Derek had to bite the inside of his cheek to squelch more laughter. A man such as this, speaking of civilized manners.
“I take that as a compliment.” He looked around the warehouse again, as though he hadn’t taken it in upon first entering. “You’ve done well for yourself here. Just the sight makes me long for what I’ve lost.”
“Aye, I’d heard of that.” The man’s face darkened before he spat again—this time in anger. “A foul turn, that was. And the beast who set the fire, a Norwegian pig.”
“Aye, but he met his end. I made certain of that.” Derek smiled at the memory of hearing the enemy ship tearing itself to pieces on the shoals. The screams of the men on board. He would never have rejoiced in such a turn of events otherwise, believing it bad luck to wish harm on another ship, but this was different. They had tried to kill him, his brother, his sister-in-law. “I only wish the harbor hadn’t suffered as a result.”
“The last I heard, they were rebuilding,” MacBride offered. “I hear they should be ready for new shipments by the end of next month, perhaps early May.”
The news lifted Derek’s spirits somewhat. They would rebuild, and life would go on. “That’s good to hear. I had worried.”
“And you? You’ll rebuild?” A note of interest leaked into the man’s voice, belying the true nature of the question. He was not merely asking out of courtesy. He understood without being told the purpose of Derek’s visit.
“If I do, I don’t believe it will be in Kincarny. I’ve family in the Highlands, as I explained, and I would prefer to remain close to them now.”
“You’ll be setting up along the northern coast, then? Perhaps Clachnaharry?”
The north wouldn’t do, though Derek wouldn’t expect a lowlander to understand the intricacies of clan relations. Traveling south was far less treacherous than traveling north of Duncan land, seeing as how those lands belonged to the opposition. He couldn’t possibly hope to run a stable business there, with threats from the Orkneys and others hanging over his head.
“Nay, I don’t believe so.”
“West, then?” MacBride offered.
Derek had the unpleasant certainty that he was being toyed with, something which didn’t sit well. He sensed Broc’s growing impatience, too.
It was time to get serious. “In truth, I had considered setting up here. In Kirkcaldy.”
The man blinked. “You canna be serious.”
“I am, sir. It seems to me there’s more than enough to go around. I have my own ships—three, as a matter of fact—and am confident that any of the merchants I’ve worked with in Kincarny would be pleased to open shipping lanes to Kirkcaldy if they knew I was in charge.”
“And where would that leave me, then?” MacBride sputtered.
“Exactly where you are, sir. I would have no need for your business, as I’d have business of my own. Of course, if any of my contacts have already made arrangements with you, I would be happy to step aside. I have no interest in taking anything from you.”
The truth was, Derek was nearly certain that MacBride would lose business even without his interference. Who would choose to ship with such a slovenly, undisciplined, and likely not entirely honest man such as the one before him when they had another choice? And Derek had always prided himself on honesty, forthrightness, and fair dealing. He was notorious for it.
MacBride’s demeanor changed. He hadn’t been exactly friendly or warm, but he’d been somewhat welcoming. Suddenly, he was blunt and unsmiling. “I don’t take well to competitors, no matter what you say now. A man’s mind can change rather quickly when silver is involved.”
“I have no doubt of this,” Derek agreed, dropping all pretense of friendliness in favor of a businesslike demeanor. “However, ask anyone I’ve ever done business with, and they’ll tell you the same thing: Derek McInnis is a man of his word. If that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t have built such a strong business.”
“If yer business was so strong, why come here? I don’t buy this story about family in the Highlands. It’s a good four days’ ride up t
here.”
“And far more from Kincarny, but that’s none of your concern.” He placed his hands on his hips, as did Broc. He looked forward to hearing his first mate’s thoughts on the situation, since his silent observations often proved invaluable. “I was considering an alternate plan, but your entire manner has persuaded me to think otherwise.”
“What would that be, then?” the man snarled.
“I had considered asking whether you could use another three ships, as I may be interested in selling them.”
Once again, MacBride changed in the time it took to blink an eye. He nearly licked his lips in eagerness, then took pains to disguise his interest. “That’s another story,” he observed.
“Indeed. I’m uncertain that I wish to sell, you see, and I’m not certain that I’d wish to sell them to you after the reception I’ve enjoyed here.”
MacBride rose, hefting his considerable weight off the stool with a soft grunt. “You think you’re going to wear me down until I give you whatever you ask for. Is that it?”
“I’ve said nothing of the sort.”
“Yer hinting at it, though.” MacBride’s cheeks went deep red before the color spread over the rest of his fleshy face. “I want ye out of here if ye think you can put the squeeze on me.”
“Fair enough.” Derek exchanged a look with Broc before the two of them left the warehouse, MacBride’s grumbled curses following them out the door.
“What do you think about that?” Broc asked once they’d left the harbor and were on the other side of the wide street separating it from the village.
“I think we got his attention. And he’ll be in touch before long,” Derek surmised, feeling rather grim.
When MacBride found him and pressed him for the ships, would he want to sell them?
Had he just set something in motion before being fully aware of who he was speaking to?
14
“What’s taking so long?”
Margery winced as the sharp bark of the tavern owner rang through her head.
Gone was the shy, quiet man who’d refused to step foot over the threshold of her room the night before—a room which belonged to him, after all.
In fact, he’d become very nearly threatening seemingly overnight.
He glared at her as she fumbled through filling four mugs with ale.
“I’m on my way,” she promised, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes as she finished pouring. She owed ale to four sailors at one table, bread, cheese, and boiled eggs to another table, and wine to a pair of men at a third table.
And there were more coming in all the time for their midday refreshment.
She had never worked so hard in her life, not ever. A day full of chores and gardening and washing was nothing compared to what she’d been through since dawn alone.
The tavern didn’t open for business until late morning, but the work had begun before the sun rose when Hamish had announced at the top of his lungs from his living quarters above the tavern that it was time to get out of bed and get moving.
Without a window through which to gauge the time of day, Margery had been fuzzy-headed, confused. How could she have slept a full night when she was still so tired?
The answer was clear when she’d hurried out into the tavern. It was still full dark outside, and dawn wouldn’t arrive for another hour.
“If you aren’t accustomed to this sort of work, it’ll come as a shock to ye,” Hamish had acknowledged when he brought out their simple meal—boiled eggs, bread, and wine. She had never been one to drink much wine, but it seemed as though this was the only choice she had.
The wine had warmed her stomach and her head, and had given her the fortitude to get through a morning full of grueling work. She’d scrubbed the floor and applied a fresh layer of straw to absorb spills and the spittle of countless men. She’d scrubbed down the tables, too, and washed the mugs and crockery. After that had come cleaning the hearth and building a new fire.
In the meantime, Hamish had worked in the kitchen. She wished he would let her do that, too, since the conditions in there were so unpleasant. It couldn’t hurt to give the entire room a good scrubbing—perhaps another day, after they’d closed for the night. As it was, by the time they opened for business, she was sore in places she hadn’t even known existed up until that very morning.
“We fell behind in the cleaning,” Hamish had admitted early on, as he’d raked out the filthy straw which had previously covered the wood floor. “After the last girl left, there was no way to keep up. The lads in the village want too much money for the work, and I can’t afford to pay both one of them, and a lass to help with the patrons.”
She had bitten back a sigh of dismay at that statement, seeing as how she was doing the work of two people but being paid barely enough for one. So that was why Hamish had been so amenable when she’d approached him the night before. He had been looking for cheap labor.
And at the rate she was going in delivering food and drink to hungry, thirsty men, he wouldn’t be willing to pay her for long. She was strong enough to perform menial tasks for hours on end, but running back and forth from the kitchen while remembering what several groups of patrons wanted all at once was enough to make her head throb.
She placed four mugs on one table, forcing a smile as the men seated there leered at her. They didn’t bother to hide it, either. No gentlemen, they, but she had at least gotten their order right, and was busy enough to have an excuse to hurry off and fill the next order.
When one of their hands brushed against her backside, she blushed in shame, but pretended not to notice the caress—or the raucous laughter the four of them broke into. She had never been so humiliated, not ever. She’d had no idea what men were capable of.
Derek had been right.
Him again.
When would she stop thinking about him? It was bad enough that he’d haunted her dreams throughout the short, broken night, that she had gone from imagining his strong arms around her to wondering what it would feel like to have his lips pressed to hers…
Crash!
“What in blazes was that?” Hamish screamed over the low roar of conversation in the increasingly packed room.
Margery’s stomach dropped as she looked down at the jug of wine she’d just dropped. It wouldn’t have broken had it not hit the leg of a table.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She bent to pick up the pieces, cheeks burning and eyes blurred with hot tears.
“That’s coming out of your wage, lassie!”
“I know,” she whispered, wishing she could melt into the floor rather than face him or any of the men around her ever again.
What had she been thinking, taking a position like this? She was no match for any of them, nor for the work which needed to be done. She wasn’t meant for this place.
“And hurry up with it, or I’ll take out even more!” Hamish bellowed. “You’re keeping the men waiting!”
She kept her head down and worked as hard and as fast as she could, wishing desperately for the day to be over though it had only just begun. They wouldn’t close until well after dark, when the worst of the village’s drunkards came out to share a jug of ale.
And she would have to serve them that ale and likely endure even further abuse.
She delivered bowls of stew—thin, almost like gruel, but they seemed to be grateful for it—and ran a hand over her head in an attempt to smooth her hair into place. She knew she must look a fright, all bedraggled and sweating as she was. She felt soiled, stained, and knew she wouldn’t be able to take a proper bath that evening. Just another sad fact in her increasingly sad life.
Just as she entertained that thought, her eyes locked on to a familiar face with eyes which seemed to burn as they watched her.
How had she not noticed him? He must have only just come in. There was no way that she could’ve avoided feeling his eyes boring into her otherwise.
Why did he have to be here? He would see for sure that she was n
o match for the work she had to do. He would see how right he was, and how very wrong she was.
You weren’t wrong. You can do this. You can do anything.
She wasn’t certain Beatrice knew what she was talking about. If she were there, watching her sister fumble through the simplest tasks and hearing the way she’d been threatened and humiliated, she might not sound so bossy.
She held her head high, blowing another strand of hair out of her eyes as she strode to the table at which he sat. “Alone today?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Where’s Broc?”
“Is that any of your affair?” he challenged, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
She bit back the retort she wished she could throw at him. She wished she could throw more than that. “I’m very busy. What can I bring you?”
“Ale, if you please.”
“Nothing to eat?”
His eyes shifted to the next table over, where bowls of stew were being eaten. “No, thank you,” he replied with a wry smile.
She couldn’t argue with his observation—the food looked barely edible.
On turning to fetch the ale, she passed a table at which a pair of men had been arguing quietly since their arrival. She hadn’t had time to slow down and listen to what they discussed, not that she cared very much. It was none of her affair. So long as they paid and avoided touching her, they could talk about whatever they wished.
Until one of them stood and slammed his fist into the face of the other.
She screamed and scurried away to the farthest corner, unable to stop watching even as her stomach churned at the sight of flying fists. She had never witnessed such violence before, had never heard the sound of a nose breaking or of a tooth being spit out of a bloody mouth.
Several of the surrounding patrons tried to break up the fight, only to be shoved aside in favor of more violence and blood.
It was only when Hamish wedged his way between the two of them that the fighting ended. “Get out of here, and stay out!” he roared, taking the two men by the collars of their tunics and nearly throwing them outside.
