What the Scot Hears

by Amy Quinton

  Stonebridge pulled out a folded paper and flattened it on the table before them. MacLeod had seen numerous like it pasted about town. Its title read, “Earl of Liverpool in Towne! Gross spending of public funds ensues!” and included a picture of five extremely fat lords and ladies with Everton toffee puffing up their cheeks and hanging out of their mouths while they bowed on bended knees before a youthful Prime Minister. “As I’m sure you have noticed, the Prime Minister arrived in town four days ago. Tonight, he will be attending a party at the home of the Marquess of Hastings as the guest of honor. The men we hunt would not dare miss such a gathering.”

  Stonebridge glanced to MacLeod once more.

  “I’ve managed to board the ship both nights, but haven’t come close to combing through all of it.” MacLeod shrugged. “It’s a bloody large boat.”

  Stonebridge smiled. “I imagine so. Did you find any hard evidence?”

  “Some. But circumstantial, at best.”

  Dansbury spoke up then. “I suggest we board tonight. With four of us there and the crew on leave, we can broaden our search and cover the remainder while they’re away. Then we can surprise the officers when they return from the party.”

  “Four of us?”

  “Lady Bea. She won’t be denied.” Dansbury answered with a grin.

  The duke raised one brow in question.

  “She’s more than capable.” Dansbury answered his unspoken question.

  The duke, had he been the type, might have rolled his eyes at this. Instead he simply said, “We’ll meet outside the Duke’s Dock Warehouse at dark, the southern side of the building.”

  MacLeod hunched into his coat. The breeze off the water was bitterly cold this evening, stinging his eyes and nose with its frosty bite. And this time, he had not been drinking copious amounts of alcohol to stave off the piercing wind; no liquid heat burned in his gut to help shield him against the penetrating chill. Despite the late hour, sailors and businessmen hustled up and down the wharf, mostly intent on their personal destinations and away from the ships floating on the water, though conversation was constant. A laugh here, an argument there, an occasional offer from a prostitute, there was no peaceful solitude to be found in a place such as this.

  Despite all the bluster, he heard the shrill call of gulls in the distance and the muffled clang of a buoy’s bell as it mutely tolled the pattern of incoming waves.

  A sudden gust of wind caused him to shiver and brought the smell of briny sea. A tornado of cotton circled around his booted feet. MacLeod tucked tighter into the doorway in which he stood, his nose tucked into his scarf, while he waited for the rest of his team to arrive.

  MacLeod stretched his cold, cramping fingers, then tightened them into fists. Two knuckles cracked for his efforts.

  He was getting too old for this shite.

  MacLeod looked over at Stonebridge, who stood beside him in quiet contemplation, seemingly impervious to the icy weather. Lady Beatryce and Dansbury had yet to arrive, having been tasked with ensuring the HMS Nightingale was suitably vacant so they could board.

  MacLeod had the impulse to ask about Grace, the duke’s new wife, but he bit off the urge, somewhat surprised by the maudlin thoughts hounding him to do so. Besides, the current atmosphere was decidedly not conducive to general conversation. Instead, he turned his attention to the people as they passed; most were working men and somewhat destitute, based on the state of their clothes. Liverpool had such a strong financial center, rivaling even London these days, but clearly these men were not a part of it.

  Time passed all too slowly. Then, twenty minutes later, Dansbury and Lady Beatryce finally arrived and gave the all clear.

  Despite their precautions, MacLeod couldn’t help but wonder about Amelia’s plea that they were walking into a trap. How accurate was her information? Could she be trusted?

  And how would Kelly play into all this? After hours in the saddle and numerous conversations with Dansbury and Stonebridge, he struggled to paint Kelly a full-fledged traitor despite all evidence to suggest so.

  Ten minutes later, all four of them were on board and searching the ship in absolute silence. Each was assigned a different floor, for the ship was huge. They were looking for proof, anything concrete to tie these men with the Society for the Purification of England, though even circumstantial evidence would be welcome.

  MacLeod was on the lowest level, searching the kitchens, of all things. He didn’t really expect to find anything, but one never knew. They would leave no stone unturned.

  MacLeod methodically searched every nook and cranny, every pot and pan, every cupboard and every drawer of the galley. He found evidence, though it was circumstantial at best; every plate, glass, and piece of silver was stamped or etched with the logo for the Society for the Purification of England.

  What boastful arseholes. They clearly weren’t afraid to flaunt their allegiances.

  Next, MacLeod made his way into one of the aft cargo holds and was surprised to find it reasonably bare, apart from half a dozen barrels surrounding the room. MacLeod looked inside the nearest vat and discovered it filled to the brim with gunpowder, which was deuced odd.

  After checking all the barrels were filled with the same, MacLeod checked his watch and realized it was past time to reconvene with the others. He jogged out of the room and climbed the ladder, taking the rungs two at a time. Once on deck, he headed straight for the others.

  Stonebridge spoke first. “I found nothing in my search.” He looked to Dansbury. “You?”

  Dansbury shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  Lady Beatryce had kept watch on deck.

  They all looked to MacLeod. MacLeod tossed a napkin to the Duke. “All the dinnerware, flatware, glasses, and linens are either stamped, embossed, or embroidered with the Society logo.”

  Stonebridge shook out the napkin and studied it with a grim look.

  “But that’s not the most interesting discovery. The aft cargo hold is empty of any supplies save for a half dozen kegs of black powder. I haven’t checked the forward hold, but I think we should; it’s not accessible from where I was searching.”

  The duke nodded his head. “Agreed.”

  This time the three men headed to the front of the ship and down another set of stairs to get to the forward hold.

  The situation was the same. Barrels of powder lined the outer walls of the room.

  The duke stood in the middle of the room, looking about. “I don’t get it. Did you not find any supplies in the kitchens besides tableware?”

  MacLeod shook his head. “No.”

  Stonebridge looked to Dansbury. “You say these men having been living on the boat? Have you seen any supplies coming or going?

  “Yes, by all accounts there were regular supplies coming and going, enough to provide for fifteen men. But why would they empty the boat?”

  “They might if they knew we were coming,” suggested MacLeod.

  Grim faced, Stonebridge looked to his men. “We need to leave.”

  “Aye.” MacLeod agreed, an uneasy feeling unsettling him.

  “Something’s not right,” Dansbury said at the same time.

  The three men climbed the ladder to the surface and raced to the ladder leading down to the boarding ramp, Dansbury in the lead and Stonebridge bringing up the rear. Dansbury whistled to Lady Beatryce who, donned in trousers and a waistcoat and boots, caught up with them. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  Dansbury was about to answer, one foot poised to step on the top rung of the ladder, when a man called out. “Leaving so soon, Duke?”

  Everyone spun about and looked aft, all eyes landing on the man standing on the poop deck. Moonlight glinted off the unmistakable barrel of a gun, which appeared to be pointed straight at Stonebridge.

  A second man opened the blind of a lantern, illuminating the area above the helm where both men stood. A second gun was trained on MacLeod.

  Several more lights blinked on behind them from the fore of t
he ship.

  Goddamn, they knew we were coming.

  “Lord Foster, so kind of you to welcome us,” answered the duke as calmly as if commenting on the weather.

  Lord Foster nodded in response. “Had we known you were coming, we might have been better prepared for your arrival.”

  The duke looked around and laughed. “I believe it’s fairly safe to say you knew we were coming.”

  Lord Foster shrugged. “Perhaps.” He turned to look at Lady Beatryce. “Lord Dansbury. Tsk, tsk. Bringing your lady on a mission, placing her life in danger? How liberal.”

  It was Lady Beatryce who answered the taunt. “This lady can handle herself.” Dansbury simply stood back and crossed his arms, a smug smile and an obvious look of pride firmly in place; he was clearly confident in her skills

  There was a slight pause, Lord Foster clearly hadn’t expected that. He turned his attention to Dansbury, “You should have taken care of Kelly when you had the chance.”

  Dansbury muffled a curse. The implication in that statement obvious to them all: they’d been betrayed once again.

  Lord Foster looked to MacLeod. “Alaistair MacLeod. Should have listened to your lady friend, aye?”

  MacLeod spit on the deck. “Fook you.” Not polished or charming, but perfectly clear and straight to the point.

  He could have sworn he saw the duke’s shoulders shake from a sudden burst of laughter, and he certainly heard Lady B and Dansbury doing so.

  “So, Lord Foster, what is your plan? What do you hope to achieve this night? You cannot possibly believe you will come out of all this unscathed.” said Stonebridge.

  The man rocked on his heels, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to pace. “Ah, I take it we won’t be able to convince you to join our cause, then?”

  Dansbury snorted. “What gave it away?”

  Lord Foster paused for but a moment. “I assumed you could be reasoned with.”

  The duke shook his head in apparent exasperation. “What part of my character suggested I would ever entertain such a thing? Do I seem like the traitorous kind to you?”

  “Every man has his price.”

  “Not this man.”

  Lord Foster touched his fingers to the bridge of his nose as if a headache threatened. MacLeod was happy to oblige. The traitor sighed and continued, “Ah, I see.”

  “I should hope so,” added Dansbury.

  “Well, I’m afraid, then, that I have bad news for you all. Either you join us, or you all have to die.” Without warning, Lord Foster turned to the man holding the lantern. “Shoot the big one, Mr. O’Connor, then toss the others into the brig.”

  Lord Foster turned his back on them all then, but paused in the act of walking away. “Bring Lady Beatryce to me.”

  “You bastard!” shouted Dansbury.

  MacLeod dove for the deck just as a shot rang out, embedding itself in the deck behind him.

  He rolled as soon as he hit the ground, but not before another bullet hit him square in the chest.

  A woman screamed in the distance as MacLeod jerked once, shaken by the impact. As he began to lose his hold on consciousness, he heard the unmistakable sound of another shot, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

  MacLeod smiled. All hell was breaking loose.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chaos erupted on the deck of the HMS Nightingale.

  Amelia Chase had shot a man, possibly killed him. And she could not care less. Hell, she hoped she’d killed him, that bastard who’d shot MacLeod.

  Unfortunately, as the man had collapsed to the deck, his lantern had smashed to the ground, spreading flames and whale oil all about, ultimately setting fire to the poop deck and the nearby mizzenmast.

  So perhaps unfortunately was an understatement that did not accurately reflect the situation at hand.

  The fire was a concern. It put all their lives in further danger, obviously. And it was quickly spreading, the whale oil an effective fuel for burning. Still, despite the danger, Amelia recognized that it proved a useful distraction as she ran, for in the wake of bedlam no one paid her any mind.

  Amelia fell to her knees beside MacLeod as people clamored and shouted all around her.

  “MacLeod, darling. Wake up! Oh, please, please be all right,” she yelled as she reached for him.

  Amelia clasped his familiar face between her hands. He breathed still, his cheeks warm and flush with life. Amelia let out loud gasp of relief.

  MacLeod let out a soft moan, then slowly opened his big, beautiful green eyes. His lashes were ridiculously long for such a large man, and his eyes glinted with fire, a reflection of the flames climbing the sails behind her. So beautiful, yet utterly reflective of the exigency of their situation.

  The ship was burning! And shouts and shrill screams seemed to echo from every direction while random gunshots and small explosive sounds peppered the air in haphazard bursts of noise creating quite a deafening racket, but most importantly, MacLeod was alive!

  “Speak to me, darling. Can you get up? We must go,” she yelled, urgency taking over her temporary relief.

  “Aye.” MacLeod tapped his chest, a dull thump sounded. “Cuirass. Still hurts like hell, though.”

  Amelia briefly touched her forehead to his and let out a soft laugh, relieved. He’d heeded her warning. She clamored to her feet and helped him to his.

  He was unsteady but a moment, then his training took over. “Lass, we need to go now. There are barrels of black powder below.”

  MacLeod grabbed her wrist and turned toward the stairs that would lead them to the lower levels and the gangplank, but Amelia resisted his advance as she remembered what she’d discovered in the brig far below.

  Or rather whom.

  “Wait! MacLeod—it’s Kelly.” She pulled on his arms, begging him to listen. “He’s in the brig, badly beaten. You must save him. He’ll die otherwise.”

  “Fook!”

  MacLeod ran one hand through is hair and spun around in frustration, then he grabbed her by both arms, “All right, but you must go, now. Get yerself to safety. I’ll take care of Kelly…”

  Amelia shook her head in denial. “But you’ll need me. I know it.”

  MacLeod cupped her cheeks and brushed away the tears she didn’t even realize were falling. “Lass, you must go. I canna worry about ye as well…”

  Just then, Dansbury, Lady Beatryce, and Stonebridge appeared on deck, the three of them running towards them, obviously bent on securing their friend.

  Both Dansbury and Stonebridge wore twin expressions of relief on seeing MacLeod on his feet.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Dansbury as he ran and gestured towards the stairs that would lead them to the gangplank below. He slid to a halt beside them when neither Amelia nor MacLeod made a move.

  Lady Beatryce carried on.

  MacLeod thrust Amelia into his Dansbury’s arms and yelled, “Get Mel to safety, now. I have to get to Kelly!”

  Dansbury nodded once, his grip on her arm secure. The duke said, “I’ll go with you,” to MacLeod.

  MacLeod touched his hand once more to Amelia’s face, a goodbye of sorts, then turned around and ran for the forestairs. Amelia watched until he disappeared before she reluctantly allowed Dansbury to drag her aft and off the ship. Every instinct screamed at her to stay with MacLeod. Yet, she knew if she stayed he would worry, which would help none of them in the end.

  Practical as always, despite every irrational emotion pounding in her head to be otherwise.

  But once on the dock, Amelia could not be persuaded to go any further. Practicality only took her so far. She had to clap eyes on MacLeod. She simply had to. For some inexplicable reason, she felt like her staying there, watching and waiting, would help him. Ridiculous, to be sure, but it mattered not.

  Dansbury saw Lady Beatryce off, yet he stayed behind with Amelia. He didn’t even try to convince her to leave, prudent of him.

  Ten minutes felt like an hour. In that time, the ship had become
a raging inferno. Flames slithered up all three masts and licked up the walls supporting the poop deck.

  Another five minutes and the first of five different Fire Brigades arrived. Horses pulled huge fire engines, each manned by seven to ten men. Within minutes, they had lined up in a row alongside the ship and began furiously pumping water through the hoses. Their efforts seemed futile, a flame lit by whale oil was quite difficult to put out even with five hoses pumping continuous water. They worked valiantly, none the less.

  And still there was no sign of MacLeod.

  Amelia was drenched with the water that seemed to spray in every direction while she desperately sought to see, her eyes hardly straying from the top of the gangplank so far above.

  Still, nothing.

  Bells rang, men shouted as they ran to and fro, her face burned from the heat of fifty foot flames, and the stench of burning wood filled her nose. Amelia ignored it all, her fingers clasped and twisting in her skirts before her. She felt helpless. Out of control.

  In her head, she chanted, Please, please, please. Hurry, MacLeod. Come back to me, darling. Please, Please, Please, over and over again while her eyes bored a hole in the top of that gangplank.

  Dansbury shouted, his arm pointing high over her shoulder, “There!”

  Up on the deck, so far up above, three men backlit by a wall of fire stood at the railing. The two men on either side were obviously carrying the third between them.

  She recognized MacLeod at once as the man standing to the left.

  Her heart leapt with fear. Their way out must have been blocked. It appeared the duke and MacLeod were tying a rope around Kelly…

  Oh God, they were going to climb down the hard way.

  For a few moments, nothing happened. It was apparent the men—Stonebridge and MacLeod, at least—were arguing. Amelia wanted to rail at them to hurry, but she dared not distract them. Though if they didn’t begin their descent very soon, she was going to climb up and toss them all over herself and leave the fire brigade to clean up the mess of their remains on the dock afterward.