Saving the Scot, page 12
He thundered down the fo’c’sle stairs and took the forward hatch down to the crew’s quarters. He’d ask Turk to prepare a celebratory dinner for Purdie, Peter, and himself and order extra ale for the crew. No sooner had he reached the bottom step than he heard a deep, but not unfamiliar, feminine voice.
“Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say.”
And in a lighter voice, “Knock, sir! Whom should I knock? Is there any man has refused your worship?”
“Villain I say”—in the deep voice—“knock me here soundly.”
Ian hurried forward to investigate. Seated around the crew’s mess, the oil lamp shone down on eight of his twelve crew members leaning forward in rapt attention, all eyes worshipfully riveted on Miss goddamned MacQuarie. She was reading to his crew. He recognized those lines. Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.
“Knock you here, sir!” In her Grumio voice. “Why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir?”
“Villain, I say”—as Petruchio—“knock me at this gate and rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate.”
A burst of laughter from his crew. And then he saw the traitor. Peter. How could Peter have allowed this to happen? He knew damn well that—well, maybe Peter didn’t know, but he should know that this was not the place for Miss MacQuarie, sitting here being ogled by his crew and—
Mr. Peter bolted out of his chair. “Captain, sir.”
Miss MacQuarie stopped her reading and the rest of the crew stood. They all looked guilty, and Ian knew why. He knew what must pass through any man’s mind when they focused on Miss MacQuarie.
“Miss MacQuarie has favored us with a dramatic reading, sir,” Peter said. “The Taming of the—”
“Shrew, yes.” Ian looked pointedly at Miss MacQuarie. “I’m certain everyone found your reading diverting, but I must insist my men return to their duties.” He knew them all by name, but at this moment, he was too angry to speak directly to any of them.
He simmered impatiently while they took turns mumbling their compliments and thanks to the woman he was going to strangle as soon as he got her alone. When her admirers had dissipated, he growled, “A word with you in the captain’s mess, please, Miss MacQuarie.”
“A’ course, Captain,” she said sweetly. “Would you please hold this.” She handed him the book, plucked up her skirts and began walking up the staircase. When her boots reached the step level with his eyes, he blinked. In place of the lovely turn of ankle—a treat he had anticipated—he glimpsed the bottom of, of, of…was she wearing trousers under her petticoats?
He bounded up the stairs after her and followed hot on her heels, straight down the gangway, through the portal, toward the captain’s mess. On the way, he recollected the last time he’d visited home. It was Beltane and Ian had met his cousin Declan on the fairgrounds in Thurso. Declan had told him about a dream he’d had. He was always having daft dreams. The trouble was, Declan’s daft dreams had a habit of coming true.
It had been an unscheduled visit. He’d surprised his family. His cousin Magnus had asked if the reason for his sudden appearance was to announce his plans for marrying. When Ian had denied any such plans, Declan had frowned and said, “What aboot the girl in the breeks?”
“What girl in breeks?” Ian had replied.
“The one you love. I dreamed you married her.”
Damn.
Inside the captain’s mess, he shut the door behind him, suddenly aware he was gripping the book so hard he thought he might leave marks on the cover. He placed it on the table.
“Is something wrong, Captain?”
Something was wrong all right.
Miss MacQuarie put a hand on his arm, and he shook his head like a dog.
“Captain Sinclair?”
He swallowed audibly and pointed to her boots. “What are you wearing under there?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Trousers,” he demanded, knowing he sounded like an imbecile but needing to know. “Are you wearing trousers? Under your skirts, I mean.”
She turned away from him and circled the table. “I fail to see what trousers have to do with me reading Shakespeare to your crew. But yes, I’m wearing trousers.”
He closed his eyes and raked his fingers over his scalp, accidentally pulling strands of hair free of his queue.
“You look unwell, Captain. Is it the migraine again?”
Ian shook his head vigorously. “No. You’re not in the right spot. You’re out of place.”
“Do you mean I shouldnae be in the crew’s mess?”
“No. Yes.” He pointed at her boots again. “What is the purpose of the trousers?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, well, it gets windy on deck and you were rightfully angry when the breeze took Miss Robertson’s skirts. So, I put them on to spare your sensibilities.”
He staggered backward. “My sensibilities?”
She took a step closer. And another. And another. His heart rate slowed, and the muscles in his chest released their suffocating hold on him. The closer she came, the more he calmed until she stood directly before him.
“You should sit.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and for a moment, everything fell into its proper place again. Even Miss MacQuarie. The threat of imminent doom flew away and the bundle of tension fisting in his stomach unfurled. He felt two stones lighter. The only thing tethering him to the floor was the look in her eyes.
He gathered her in his arms and kissed her. Placed his rough, wind-chapped lips on her innocent-looking pink ones, and ground his unshaven beard against her rose petal-soft skin. She didn’t stiffen or resist. Instead, her whole body softened and molded against his hard edges. Her arms slipped over his shoulders and those slender fingers played with the back of his neck. She tasted of tea and honey and strawberry jam. But he needed more. He put a thumb on her chin, pulled her mouth open and dove inside with his tongue. The act seemed to surprise her, like she’d never been possessed by a man in this way. But hadn’t she said…hadn’t she implied that she was experienced? He released her lips to look for the answer.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Oh. Is that how it’s usually done?”
He inhaled a moment of confusion. “Have ye never been kissed before, lass?”
Her mouth formed that perfect O again. “Of course, I have. Hundreds of times.” Then she laughed as though they’d had a big misunderstanding. “What I meant was, is that how you usually kiss, Captain?”
Doubt crept into his belly and took up residence. “Aye. Most of the time.” Bloody hell. Had he done it wrong? “I’m a wee bit rusty, though.”
“I am, too. Shall we give it another go?”
…
So, this is what kissing was. She’d always imagined she would feel awkward pressing her lips to someone else’s. The whole idea of it seemed silly to her. But this wasn’t silly at all. Captain Sinclair’s kisses were anything but. They were…they were like wearing trousers on stage. Only better. Much, much better.
Am I doing this right?
His tongue, it was in her mouth, slipping over her teeth and tangling with her tongue. She tried to follow, but it was like trying to keep up with one’s dance partner when one didn’t know the steps. Dizzying, but thrilling.
Oh God, am I doing this right?
He was trembling, but not from nervousness. He didn’t seem at all nervous. He seemed sure of himself. His whole body vibrated with life. Was this…was this?
She pulled free of his kiss. “Is this passion?”
Captain Sinclair was breathing hard and his eyes had a sort of glazed look, like she’d woken him from a dream. “What?”
“Is this the passionate part? Are you feeling desire for me?”
“Aye. Aye. I-want-you-oh-God.” The last bit ran together before he claimed her mouth again. He backed her against the wall. And that’s when he placed his hand on her left breast. Dear Lord. She’d done it again. She’d driven him mad with desire. Common sense told her to stop everything, push Captain Sinclair away, and march out of the room before she lost her dignity, her maidenhead, and her trousers. Not necessarily in that order.
But kissing Captain Sinclair was deliriously wonderful. Her whole body hummed with a warm, tingly sensation like a big swallow of brandy. Only brandy had never made her nipples ache. Nor did it make the private spot between her legs tighten.
He released her lips again and thank goodness. She needed air to clear her head. He dragged his bristly cheek across hers and his heavy breathing roared hot in her ear.
“Say my name,” he whispered. “Say my name.”
A simple request but by the way he’d asked, she thought he must need it to live.
“Captain Sinclair,” she whispered back.
He nuzzled her neck, the bristles tickling. “No.” He shook his head. “Say my name.”
They’d shared their Christian names at supper, normally a shockingly intimate thing to do, but as it had been couched in a game, she hadn’t thought it too outrageous at the time, yet now…
“Ian.” She drew his name out like an incantation.
He uttered a soft groan and dragged a kiss from under her right ear all the way down to the top of her left breast.
She let out a gasp of her own which only fueled his determination. His head rose up and he straightened to his full height, towering over her, then slipped his hand down the front of her bodice and scooped one breast into his palm. She cried out when he squeezed her nipple, but he smothered her cry with another demanding kiss.
Her corseting seemed to frustrate him because he released her lips and her breast with a growl. He cupped her bottom with both hands and drew her belly up against a rock-hard lump in his trousers. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Mairi. Oh God, Mairi.”
She shuddered. That wasn’t her real name. That was her pretend name. The part she was playing aboard the Gael Forss. It sounded wrong and upsetting when he said it, as if he were thinking of someone else while he made love to her. He ground his hips against her and moaned the name again, and like snuffing out a candle, the fire inside her died.
“Stop.”
He froze instantly. “Is something wrong?”
“Let me go.”
He eased away from her and moved his hands to her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I was too forward.”
“No-no. Just let me go. I need to go back to my cabin.”
Slowly, reluctantly, he released her and stepped back. She couldn’t look at him. Tonight, her acting felt more like lying and it sickened her.
“Good night,” she whispered and fumbled with the door. He reached over her and turned the handle.
As she fled, he called after her, “You forgot your book.”
But she couldn’t go back. She didn’t dare. She might confess her lies and that would ruin everything.
Mairi and Reverend Wynterbottom were engaged in a game of draughts at the table Will had set up in the corridor for their meals. Louisa didn’t think clergymen played games like draughts, but then she didn’t think they drank spirits, either. Certainly draughts were the much lesser of those two evils.
They barely noticed her when she squeezed past the table into her cabin. Grateful not to have to speak to Mairi, Louisa closed her door and undressed. Mairi would have read her disquietude immediately and pressed her for the reason. Rather than share the reason with her friend, she wanted to keep this particular pain to herself. She’d keep the kiss to herself, as well. Tuck it away in the corner of her memory and take it out later, when she’d gotten past this uneasy feeling.
Odd. She was perfectly happy being Miss MacQuarie to Captain Sinclair, but when she’d heard Mairi’s name on his lips spoken with such passion, it had upset her beyond reason. She didn’t want to be Mairi to him. Just like he wanted to hear her say his name, she wanted to hear him breathe, “Louisa,” in her ear.
Louisa left the lamp burning and crawled into her berth already occupied by Brandy Cat. Once she closed her eyes, she was back in the captain’s mess, his hand cupping her breast and his beard scrubbing her neck. Brandy Cat’s deep purring echoed his just-right voice rumbling, Say my name.
Chapter Six
That was a close call. He’d very nearly debauched Miss MacQuarie in the captain’s mess. He should ask Turk to check him for fever. He was not himself at all. Then again, maybe he was himself. Maybe he’d been the same self-indulgent, reckless sod all along. Maybe the sober man, the rational man who was always in control, was just an act he maintained to hide the real Ian Sinclair, the destructive monster that had gotten a young woman pregnant and forgotten, and a child fatherless for six years. Jee-sus. Alice Crawford had lost her life giving birth to his son.
He staggered into his cabin and shut the door. A cursory check told him nothing was out of place, yet that sense of total disorder continued to plague him. He’d encountered a severe bout with the compulsion to square and count things after he’d recovered from his wounds at Quatre Bras. He’d thought he’d finally rid himself of the bothersome and sometimes bizarre behavior. Now it was back again. It became particularly pronounced whenever he was reminded that he was a father. A frigging father. He was the last person on earth who should be entrusted with the care of a child.
Back in the captain’s mess, just for a moment, while he’d had her in his arms, everything had been right. Everything had been in its place. Then… He gritted his teeth. Then Miss MacQuarie had upended his cart once again, blast that woman. He fell into his desk chair.
Trousers. Frigging trousers. Blast his cousin Declan and his doaty dreams.
A knock on his door brought him to his feet again. “Come.”
Peter swung the door open and leaned inside. “Mr. Purdie would hae a word wi’ ye, sir.”
Ian jammed his hat on and moved to the door. “Anything wrong?”
“Dinnae ken.”
As soon as he went out on deck, he sensed the change in pressure.
“Ye feel it?” Mr. Purdie asked, standing on the starboard rail.
“Hurricane?”
“Could be.”
“I thought it was too early for hurricanes.”
“Rare, but not unheard of.”
“When?”
“I’d say four, maybe six hours. It’s coming in from the east. If the wind kicks up, we may be able to get south of it before it catches us.”
“Mr. Peter,” Ian said, trying to disguise the panic welling inside his guts. “Crowd all sail she can carry. We’re going to outrun this.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And have the men ready the ship for gale-force winds.”
“Right away, sir.”
This was the inevitability he had prepared for and dreaded. A severe summer storm could toss them off course and cause them the loss of a week or more. A hurricane could sink a ship. Well-stocked longboats would hardly do them any good, as they’d be impossible to launch in a storm if they needed to abandon ship. But all those concerns were for six hours from now. His most immediate concern was to minimize Miss MacQuarie’s inevitable panic when they battened the hatches.
He encountered the reverend and Miss Robertson seated at the table in the corridor engaged in a game of draughts.
“Ah, Captain,” the reverend said. “Care to take my place? Miss Robertson has beaten me three times already this evening.”
“Thank you for the offer and I’m glad to see you feeling well. I came down to tell you to expect bad weather. It would be best if you remained in your cabins until Will gives you the all clear. Meanwhile, I suggest you stow your valuables. Things could get rough. Where’s Miss MacQuarie?”
“Asleep, I think.” Miss Robertson looked a shade paler. “Shall I wake her?”
“Best leave her sleep.”
Miss MacQuarie opened her cabin door and poked her head out, her hair in a long braid over her shoulder. “Will you lock the hatches?” she asked, already sounding alarmed. “Will we be trapped down here?”
“We dinnae lock them, Miss MacQuarie. We batten them—cover them with tarpaulins so the water doesnae flood the lower decks. You’ll be able to get out anytime you like, but I ask you, for your own safety and for the safety of my crew, to please stay below.”
Even in the dim corridor lit only by a single lantern, he saw the look in her eyes, like a horse about to bolt. He squeezed past Miss Robertson and reached for her, knowing full well she was dressed only in her nightgown. She didn’t retreat. “Miss MacQuarie, look at me.” Her eyes flicked his way and focused. “I will come for you. I promise. If there is any danger, I will come for you. Do you understand?”
She blinked. “Aye. You’ll come for me.”
He attempted a reassuring look, one like his father had used when he was a lad and had been afraid of lightning. “It’ll be windy. Perhaps you should wear your trousers then. For me.”
She managed a quivering smile. “Thank you, Ian,” she whispered and he felt the blood shoot up from his limbs to his crown.
Jee-sus.
He was going to have to bed this woman or lose his mind.
…
After being tossed from their berths several times, they chose to huddle together on the floor of their cabin. Louisa wrapped one arm around Mairi and clutched Brandy Cat in the other. From above: thumping feet, crashing waves, howling wind, and shouting crew members. All around her, the ship’s timbers screamed protests at the sea as it rolled and pitched. Most disturbing was the yawing, the side to side movement as if the ship’s prow, like a snake’s head, was turning left and right searching for a way out.
Captain Sinclair might have been joking about the trousers. Nonetheless, she chose to wear them. Mairi shook violently, and Brandy Cat dug her claws deep into Louisa’s chest. She would have marks to remember this night, if they lived through it.
“Dinnae fash, Mairi. Captain Sinclair promised he would come for us if there was any danger.”
“Well, he’s no’ here, so there must be no danger, right?”
“Do you ken Reverend Wynterbottom’s all right?” Louisa asked more to make conversation than because she really wanted to know.
