Saving the Scot, page 13
“Will’s with him.” She laughed then. “I can hear the reverend praying. Poor Will.”
They both laughed, until a long wide stream of seawater seeped in under their door. Brandy Cat saw it and scrambled out of her grasp. “Ouch! Have a care, you wicked thing.” The cat leaped up onto the berth with her back arched and her fur standing on end.
Louisa and Mairi scooted out of the way, but there was no escaping the onslaught of water. Then she heard the thump of boots and a sharp rap on the cabin door. “Misses Robertson and MacQuarie?”
“Come in, Will.”
He swung open the door and leaned his drenched head inside. He shouted over the dull roar of the storm. “Captain wanted I should check and see how you ladies fared.”
“Tell Captain Sinclair we’re doing fine. We have complete confidence in him,” Louisa shouted back.
Will flashed her a smile. “Aye, miss.” He pointed to their lantern swinging wildly from the ceiling. “You’ll have to put that out, miss. Dinnae want any accidental fires.” He shut the door, and Louisa almost called him back just for the comfort of his additional company.
Mairi started to rise, but Louisa stopped her. “No, I’ll get it. I’m closer.” She reached up, but before she could close the flame, the door banged open, and Brandy Cat shot out of the cabin into the dark corridor.
Mairi cried out. “Will’s left the door off the latch!”
“It’s all right.” Louisa stumbled sideways once, then lifted the lantern off the hook. “I’ll go get her.”
“I dinnae think you should leave.”
She lurched toward the door, bracing herself against the jam. “I willnae be long. The cat cannae have gone far.”
Keeping one hand on the wall and the other holding the lantern aloft, Louisa crept toward the galley. “Here, kitty. That’s a good Brandy Cat. Come to Lou— Come to Mairi.”
A flash of cat tail disappeared into the dark storage room that led to the galley. Damn, someone had left the door open. She lifted her lantern inside the storage room and called to the kitty again. The door through to the galley was shut tight, but someone had left open the hatch to the lower deck. The ship took a steep pitch to the side, and her lantern went out. Bonnets.
She set the lantern on the floor and called into the abyss. “Are you down there, Brandy Cat?” The ship took another hard roll, and Louisa lost her balance, her boots slipped on the sea-washed floor, and as her arms churned for something to grab onto, she tumbled down the steps, banging her elbow, her knees, and scraping her back. She landed in a heap at the bottom of the steps, staring up at darkness. A moment later, she heard the hatch slam shut with a crash.
Dark. Everything dark. No air. Oh, dear God. She had to get out. Get out now. She scrabbled to her knees and groped for the stairs. Which way was up? With no light and the ship tossing about, she became disoriented. She crawled up two, three steps, but the ship pitched forward and, as there was no railing, she slid sideways off the stairs and ended up sprawled on the floorboards. She picked herself up and tried climbing again. At the eighth step, she banged her head. Using all her might, she pushed up against the hatch covering. Either it was locked or something was holding it down. Something heavy must have fallen on top of the hatch. She banged and shouted, “Help! Let me out! Please, let me out!”
She called, and called, and called, and called. Nothing. Her elbows hurt, her knees stung, and the scrape on her back might be bleeding. The ship pitched again and she clung to the steps to keep from tumbling off. Reasoning it was safer to remain on a level surface than risk breaking a limb in a fall, she climbed back down into the abyss.
A furry thing jumped on her lap and she screamed. “Damn it to hell and back, Brandy Cat.” The cat dug its claws in her arm. “This is all your fault.” She hugged the cat tight, glad for its company and not wanting to lose her again. She was trapped, but she wasn’t alone.
“It’s going to be fine, cat. Captain Sinclair will come for us. You’ll see. He promised and he is a very stubborn man, which makes him impossible. But the good thing about stubborn men is that they always do what they say they are going to do. I know this for a fact.”
He would. He would come for her, but what was she to do in the meantime? She closed her eyes tight. If Ian was here with her, she wouldn’t be so afraid. If he held her in his arms, like he had the night he’d taken her dancing…
Easy. I’m here and nothing can harm us.
His words—that night he’d tried to cure her, the night he’d taken her dancing—came back to her. That soft, rumbly, just-right voice of his that made her insides quiver.
It’s a big room. Filled with light. Can you no’ see it lass?
She’d been panicked, ready to flee, but he’d held onto her tight. Even now, she could almost feel his big arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, his warm breath in her ear.
Have you never been to a ball, lass?
She’d lied to him, told him she’d been to many balls, when she’d only been to two. And they could hardly have been called balls.
Then you ken what it looks like. Can ye hear the music, too? Can you hear them playing…what is that? A waltz?
He’d started to hum some unrecognizable melody, tuneless and off key. She laughed at the memory. His singing had been dreadful, but the sound of it had calmed her then and, she realized, it calmed her now.
He’d wanted to cure her. Well, maybe he had. Ian’s words rumbled in her ear as if he were with her at that very moment. Dance with me. He swept her into his arms and they waltzed, turning and whirling around the dance floor. One hundred candles hung from chandeliers illuminating the couples spinning dizzy circles around them.
Do you hear the storm, lass?
“I only hear you, Ian. Only you.”
…
The wind seemed to have abated some and the waves no longer washed over the deck. Even the pitch and yaw of the ship had evened. Off to the east, he saw the blessed sun shoot its first rays of dawn across the horizon. They had lived to see a new day, thank Christ. Ian eased his grip on the rail and chanced a look at Purdie still steady at the helm. The old seaman pulled a half-toothless grin at him.
They’d done it. They’d outrun the goddamned storm. Still, he had a niggling feeling that something or someone was out of place. He searched and spotted the lean form of his quartermaster lashed to the fo’c’sle railing.
“Mr. Peter, see that all crewmen are accounted for.”
“Aye, sir.”
The winds continued to howl, and he had to shout to Purdie. “I’m going below to check on our passengers.”
Purdie gave him a sharp nod.
He untied and tore away the batten, then pounded down the staircase. The hallway table and benches had shifted during the storm, blocking the stairs. In the future, he would have them nailed down. For now, he shoved them aside. Will, Reverend Wynterbottom, and Miss Robertson had gathered in the corridor. Miss MacQuarie was probably cowering inside the cabin sick with fear, poor lass.
“Captain,” Reverend Wynterbottom called. “I’ve been praying to God for the safety of the ship and all its crew.”
“Your prayers are answered, Reverend.”
“We’re out of danger?” Miss Robertson clutched Will’s arm, steadying herself. He detected alarm in her voice—understandably so. They’d lived through a harrowing ordeal.
“Aye. We seem to have outrun the storm. Anyone injured?”
“Miss Robert—I mean Miss MacQuarie,” Miss Robertson stammered.
“What?” Ian stiffened, that internal sense that something was not in its place, not straight, not true, spiked razor sharp. “What’s happened?” He strode down the corridor to the ladies’ cabin door. “Where is she?” He spun around and fired a look at Will. “What’s happened to her?”
“The cat ran off and she went to look for her, sir. We called for Miss MacQuarie, but we cannae find her.”
“Which way?” he shouted.
Miss Robertson pointed forward, toward the passage to the mizzenmast, a passage that should have been lashed shut. He’d have Will’s hide for leaving it unattended right after he took Miss MacQuarie over his knee for not being where he had ordered her to be.
He lurched toward the darkened passage and, finding the door open, ducked inside. Turk kept supplies in this area. It should have been sealed up tight to keep things dry. The door on the far side that led to the galley remained sealed. He felt his way around. “Miss MacQuarie,” he called. Nothing. He banged his knee on a sharp edge in a place that should be clear of items, and bent to feel. Damn, a crate containing provisions had toppled, blocking his way through. She must have gone in a different direction. If he couldn’t get through, certainly she couldn’t.
He backed out of the storage area and was about to rethink his search when he remembered the hatch in the floor leading to the lower deck, one Turk rarely used, but that crate had fallen on top of it. Shite. He raced back inside and practically fell over the crate. “Reverend Wynterbottom,” he shouted.
He heard the distant echo of, “Yes, Captain.”
“Bring me a lantern!”
He tried to shift the crate. Bloody hell, what was inside the thing and why hadn’t it been lashed down? He shoved and pulled and, damn, the thing would not budge. His heart pounded in his chest. If some bampot had left the hatch open, she could have fallen to the deck below, hurt herself. Shite, she could have broken her neck, the blasted wee bizzum.
“Miss MacQuarie!” He heard a faint cry. “Dinnae fash, lass. I’ll reach you soon.”
Reverend Wynterbottom arrived with the lantern.
“Hang it above and give me a hand with this, aye?”
The old clergyman was stronger than he looked and together they raised the crate back up on its end. He found the rope dangling on the wall that should have held the thing in place and handed it to Wynterbottom. “Fasten that on your side, sir.”
Ian flung open the hatch door and called down, “Miss MacQuarie.”
“We’re here, Captain,” she called back.
We? He snatched the lantern from above and took the steep steps down backward. Halfway, he lowered the lantern, casting light on Miss MacQuarie sitting on the floor in her trousers, the cat attached to the front of her like a barnacle. He reached the bottom step and knelt at her side.
“Are you injured?” It was then he saw the tracks on her dirty face, evidence she’d been weeping.
“I—hic—knew you’d come for us.”
He gathered her in his arms. She buried her face against his neck and sobbed. The itching feeling that something was not in its place eased.
After a few minutes, Reverend Wynterbottom called down. “Everyone all right?”
“Aye, Reverend. You can return to your cabin and let Miss Robertson know Miss MacQuarie is well.”
The blasted cat made a yowling protest and scampered up the stairs. Miss MacQuarie pulled away from him. “You’re all wet. You should get into some dry clothes before you catch your death.”
He had been drenched in seawater for so many hours, he was no longer aware of his waterlogged state. Until now.
At her insistence, he allowed her to climb the steps on her own. When they reached her cabin, she said, “Please let me out on deck. I cannae bear to be down here—”
“Aye, lass.” He understood. After a night in what would have been her personal hell, she needed the air. She needed the sun. As they made their way out onto the deck, he could see that she was favoring her right leg. He swept her into his arms and headed toward the fo’c’sle.
“Where are you taking me?”
“The surgery. I’ll fetch someone to see to your injuries.”
“Turk, the cook? Absolutely not!”
“Lass, ye’ve got some bad scrapes and I need to know you’ve no broken bones.”
“If you let me walk on my own, you’ll see it’s just bruises and scratches.”
He reluctantly set her on her feet.
“Go put on dry clothes. I’ll be on the quarterdeck for only an hour or so, then I’ll go to my cabin and sleep, aye.”
What she proposed didn’t feel right, but then Miss MacQuarie often jumbled his usually calm state of mind. She hobbled toward the aft. It was then he saw at least six of his men stop what they were doing and gape at her. Shite. They were staring at her frigging trousers.
“What are you looking at?” he shouted. “Go about your duties, men.” His eyes fell back to her fine-looking rump, and he felt his cock thicken inside his uncomfortably soggy drawers.
…
Still reeling from the hours she’d spent trapped below deck in the dark, Louisa sat for some time on the box housing the skylight. She thought of this place as her personal perch. After all, Captain Sinclair had allowed it. He hadn’t given anyone else leave to spend time on the quarterdeck.
Mairi visited her once. She’d tried to convince her to go below and dress decently. But Louisa couldn’t find the strength to stand, nor did she want to leave the sun at that moment. She’d promised Mairi she’d “be along soon.” That had been when the sun still hovered over the eastern horizon.
Now it was halfway to noon, yet she continued to reflect on her night spent trapped in the dark hull.
Though the ship had been in danger of being swamped by the storm, she had assured herself that Captain Sinclair would come for her. She’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d told her so. She knew the look of a stubborn man when she saw one. Her father and her brothers Connor and Nathan all had that look when they were most determined and they’d never failed. Only death would keep them from succeeding once they’d set their minds to something. Blasted pigheaded men. Impossible most of the time, but when it came down to it, she knew she could count on them, just as she knew she could count on Captain Sinclair.
She’d never spent so many hours trapped in a dark space. Even when her brothers had locked her in the closet, their boyish pranks had only lasted minutes, though they’d felt like an eternity. Someone had always answered her cries to be released. Louisa had screamed until she’d made herself hoarse last night, but no one had come.
Yet she hadn’t been alone. Ian had been with her in spirit, holding her, dancing with her, rumbling in her ear and making her laugh. Ian, the antidote to her irrational dread. Big, tall Ian with his dark wavy hair and his blue, blue eyes. He’d taken her dancing in their pretend ballroom and her paralyzing anxiety had, for the first time, dissipated on its own. He hadn’t cured her. But Ian had taught her how to manage her panic, how to conquer her own fears.
The storm last night had been twice as strong and had lasted twice as long as the first storm they’d encountered in the channel. Mr. Peter assured her that no one had been seriously injured—like her—just a few scrapes and bruises.
“Nothing a plaster and a tot of whisky wouldnae fix,” he said, holding out a wooden cup and cloth bundle. “I brought you a cup of tea and bannocks for your breakfast.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Peter.”
“Dinnae thank me. Captain Sinclair asked I should bring it to you,” he whispered.
She found her smile. “Why are you whispering?”
He pointed downward at the captain’s mess below them. “He told me not to tell you he sent the tea,” he rasped, and screwed up his face in a smirk. He was trying not to laugh.
She lowered her voice to match his. “Why would he no’ want me to ken he sent the bannocks and tea?”
Mr. Peter leaned back on his heels, folded his arms, and cocked up an eyebrow. “Did he tell ye aboot his cousin Declan?”
“He hasnae talked much about his family.”
Mr. Peter lifted his chin. “Ask him aboot Declan’s dreams.” He swooped off his hat, made a ridiculous bow, and sauntered down the stairs to the deck, jamming his hat back on his blond head as he went.
Louisa waited a moment before taking the stairs down to the deck and entering the captain’s mess. Captain Sinclair bent over the dining table with a map spread out before him. His head popped up and he straightened, his expression carefully schooled into that blank stare Scotsmen wore when confronted with imminent death.
“Miss MacQuarie.” His eyes dropped to her trousers and bounced back up to meet hers.
She lifted the tea and bannocks. “Were these your idea or Mr. Peter’s?” she asked, testing him.
He returned to studying his map. “I asked Mr. Peter to bring you something,” he said as if the gesture were of little consequence.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It was nothing.”
“I havenae properly thanked you for finding me—”
His head jerked up, lips flattened into a tight line and eyes flashing ice-blue anger. “You were in the wrong place—I specifically—why—” He took a deep breath. “Why can you not do as you’re told?” His brow buckled, taking on a truly puzzled expression.
“I’m sorry.” She really was. It had been her own fault for thoughtlessly dashing after the cat, putting herself in danger and Captain Sinclair through needless worry. “Will you forgive me?”
He stared at her without moving for an uncomfortably long time. At last he swallowed and nodded. “Yes. If you promise to do as I say for the duration of the voyage,” he added.
She stopped grinning and said, “Yes. I promise.” And she really did mean it. She would do exactly as he said…unless it was impossible.
He pointed the compass he was holding at her bottom half. “And take off those trousers before you distract my men. You’re a walking catastrophe.”
“Yes, of course.”
She had already turned to leave when he added, “You know, I was prepared for a bucket of nonsense from Miss Robertson. Even her brother warned me she was a handful. I didnae expect any trouble from you. But you’ve been twice the bother.”
Apprehension seized her by the shoulders and spun her back around. Did he know? Did he suspect? Louisa examined his face for any clue. He remained still for several moments, and then a broad toothy smile stretched across his handsome face that nearly reached his ears. He chuckled and shook his head. “You certainly have made this trip interesting, Miss MacQuarie.”
