Saving the Scot, page 15
He pulled a book from the shelf without looking, hung the lamp over his bed, and dropped his head on his pillow. He would do everything he could for Rory, everything a father should do. He would provide for him and for the boy’s gran. He would pay for his schooling and, in the event of Ian’s untimely death, Rory would receive a sizable insurance payment. In that way, he was a responsible sire.
But could he love the boy? Could the boy love him?
Memories of his own father mingled with his thoughts. Laird John, the hours he’d spent patiently showing Ian how to bait a hook, hold a sword, fire a gun, ride a horse, clean a rabbit, track a deer—hell. His da had been a soldier once, but had left that life to raise a family. Had his father set aside his ambitions to raise his sons properly? Guilt gnawed little bites from Ian’s bowels.
He tossed the book aside and rose. Something was out of place again. Something needed righting, straightening, squaring before he could sleep. He touched every object on his desk, the pen box, ink, sander, blotter, all aligned and balanced. Next, the book spines. A few had shifted. He straightened those. The box on his chest of drawers, it was crooked. He squared it with the top. Yes. No. That didn’t do it.
Something was still out of place. Shite. Where was Miss MacQuarie? He flung on a coat to cover his shirtless body and ran, barefoot, outside and down the steps to the lower deck. Startled heads popped up from the table. He must appear a madman.
“Where’s Miss MacQuarie?” he demanded, unable to quiet his breathing.
“In her cabin, sir,” Will said. It sounded more like a question than an answer.
“Are you sure?” Ian went to the door and knocked. “Miss MacQuarie?”
No answer. He flipped the latch and pushed open the door, on the verge of exploding into a million pieces if she wasn’t—
The lass sat up in bed, hair tousled, eyes blinking. She was here. The gnawing sensation in his bowels stopped, the world righted, and Ian could breathe again.
She brushed the hair from her face. “What’s happened?”
She looked so beddable it made his todger grow heavy. “Nothing, I—I was just checking. You left so suddenly.”
“I’m fine. Really.” She sniffed and swiped at her eyes.
“Have you been weeping?”
“You needn’t concern yourself, Captain.”
He left the door open and cautiously stepped into her cabin, feeling like a trespasser, yet needing to know what had upset her or he would not be able to sleep. “Did the talk of soldiering unsettle you, lass?”
“A little.” She pulled the bedcovers up to her chin. His presence was making her uncomfortable. He should leave.
“We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Perhaps I can put your mind at ease.”
“Very well.”
“Good night, Miss MacQuarie.” He made a slight bow and realized his coat was hanging open and his bare chest was visible. He buttoned the top button. “Sorry.”
“Good night, Captain.”
He walked back to his cabin dazed, as if he’d been clubbed in the head with a war hammer. Where was his brother Alex when he needed him? Alex would have told him to stop acting like a numpty weeks ago. And Declan, plague take him, had better have a different dream about the woman in trousers or Ian would have to drown his cousin. Declan’s wife, Caya, wouldn’t forgive him, but Alex and Magnus would understand.
…
Louisa stared at Captain Sinclair’s back as he departed. What was that about?
Mairi entered the cabin and asked the same question.
“Dinnae ken.”
Mairi folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “A man barges into your room half crazed with fear that he may have misplaced you, and you dinnae ken why?”
“Well…” The burden of her dilemma was too much for her to shoulder alone. And it was, after all, their shared secret. Mairi was as much a part of this folly as Louisa, even though Louisa was entirely to blame. “You’d better sit.”
Mairi lowered herself onto her berth. “You’re scaring me. What’s amiss?”
“Tonight, at supper, Captain Sinclair told me that my da has promised him a commission in the army as a reward for seeing that I get to Connecticut and wed Mr. Kirby.”
Mairi glanced at her gown hanging on the wall.
“Dinnae fash yourself, Mairi. I willnae change my mind. You’ll be the one to wed Mr. Kirby. It’s just that once Da finds out about us, he’ll take it out on Captain Sinclair.”
“I see. And you’re feeling sorry for him.”
“Aye.”
“And guilty.”
“Aye.”
“Me, too.”
“You? But it was all my idea. You shouldnae feel guilty.”
“But I do.” Mairi started to blubber. “Every time the reverend says my name I feel like I told another lie. And I realized that’s what I’ll be doing forever. My entire life will be one big lie.”
Louisa went to Mairi and tried to comfort her. “It’s all right, Mairi. We’re doing this thing for love and that cancels out the sin. Besides, after you and Mr. Kirby are married, you’ll love your husband and your children so much, God will forgive you for everything.”
Mairi sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Promise?”
“I promise. You’ll see. Everything will work out fine.” Louisa sounded more confident than she felt. More lies added to the pile. Soon she would drown in them.
The next morning after breakfast, Louisa went for a walk on the quarterdeck. She had hoped to escape Captain Sinclair’s notice, but no such luck.
He bounded up the steps to meet her. “Good morning, Miss MacQuarie.”
“You’ve come to talk to me about the army, I suppose? Put my mind at rest?”
“Aye. I wanted you to understand that having a strong military is important for the stability of the government.”
Oh, for all God’s glory, did he think her head was filled with feathers? “I know that.”
“Of course, you do. What I mean to say is that soldiers always face the possibility of danger. It’s their duty to fight—”
“Fight, yes, soldiers fight.” Exasperating man. “Captain Sinclair, despite the fact that I am a woman, I know what soldiers do. I know the importance of a well-trained army.”
Captain Sinclair put one hand on his waist and clamped the other over his mouth, turned full circle, and paused. He took a few moments to prepare himself before he spoke. He even made a few false starts before he said, “Miss MacQuarie, often when we converse, I get a good feeling, as if things are pleasant between us, but eventually I always say or do something that upsets you, and I have to start all over again, as if we’re strangers.”
Regret for being so impatient weighed heavy on her conscience. He was trying hard to be a good captain.
“Please. It’s not what you say or do, it’s how I react. The fault is mine, not yours.”
“Could you not tell me what upsets you? Do you not trust me enough to confide in me?”
“Some things are private.”
“Aye. That much is true. But I wish you would consider me a friend.”
His words soothed and hurt at the same time. His opinion of her mattered. Very much. But if he knew all her secrets, he would hate her and think her the worst person in the world. She would be his enemy, not his friend.
He let his head drop. She’d disappointed him by not accepting his offer of friendship immediately, and it made her heart ache to think she’d caused him more pain. “I do think of you as a friend, sir.” His head bobbed up and their eyes met. “I only hope I can be as worthy a friend as you are to me.”
His eyebrows dove together and he let his eyes slide sideways. “I confess that sometimes I think of what it would be like to be more than friends.” His eyes found hers again.
Honesty. He had made a gift of honesty. The least she could do was return it. “I have had similar thoughts.”
Captain Sinclair drew in a long, ragged breath and exhaled on a smile so broad, so sunny, it brought tears to her eyes.
She smiled through them and shook her head. “I think you are a flirt, sir.”
“An honest flirt,” he said, still grinning that irrepressible smile. He shot a look at the sky and said, “It’s hot out here. Come inside the captain’s mess. It’s cooler, I think. You can help me figure out where the devil we are.”
Once inside the mess, Louisa removed her sunbonnet and set it on the bench under the window that faced the back or aft.
“Do you mind if I remove my coat?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
He smirked as he did so. “Once again, I wasnae dress properly when I visited your cabin last night. I hope I didnae shock you.”
“Not at all. I have brothers. I ken perfectly well how men are made.”
Captain Sinclair had a sudden coughing convulsion. She stood and gave him a few sharp thumps on the back. “Better?”
“Aye,” he croaked.
“You look like you’re choking to death.”
He let out a strangled, “Went down the wrong pipe.” He coughed again and recovered. “I’m fine now.” He went around to the map and placed his hands on the table to support himself. “I’ve taken my readings, and I estimate we’re in the middle of the Sargasso Sea.”
“Sargasso Sea. Sounds exotic.” She joined him at his left shoulder. Rather than stepping aside to make room for her, he turned out, opening a space between himself and the map, welcoming her to occupy it. His right index finger tapped a spot halfway between the western coast of Africa and a group of islands southeast of the Floridian peninsula. “But we’re so far south of Connecticut.”
“We’re riding the ocean currents. They circle down and around. Once we reach this mark”—he tapped a spot above the islands—“we’ll catch a ride on the Gulf Stream. It’s strong and fast. Barring any unforeseen weather, it’ll swing up along the American coastline to Connecticut in no time. You’ll see.”
Louisa was achingly conscious of his body curling behind her, giving off heat, and a delicious scent of cloves. She tapped the spots of land on the map. “I’ve heard these islands are thick with pirates.”
“Pirates cannae catch us. They’ve tried but never succeeded. The Gael Forss is far too fast.”
“You’re awfully confident.”
He spoke low and easy, his lips caressing her right ear. “I would never let anything happen to you.”
Had he simply spoken the words outright, she would have taken them at face value. But the rumble of his just-right voice carried a hidden meaning, and though she wasn’t clear what that hidden meaning was, the mystery of it made her shiver.
“Captain Sinclair, are you trying to seduce me?” she asked, sounding far, far too breathless.
“Do you want to be seduced, lass?” He slipped his hand around her waist and drew her backside against his hips.
The sensation robbed her of her reason, her strength, and every thought in her silly head. She closed her eyes and leaned back against his chest. “Yes, please.”
He gave a deep chuckle, spun her around, and covered her lips with a searing kiss.
Louisa Robertson was going straight to hell.
…
She was so tempting. He tried to resist. God knows he tried. He resolved every morning not to give in to his base desires, not to subject Miss MacQuarie to his ravenous need to touch her, taste her, consume her, but she called to him like a siren, and if he didn’t lash himself to the mast, he would crash on her rocky shore.
The part of his tiny brain—for it had shriveled considerably since leaving Edinburgh—hoped she would stop him because he didn’t have the strength of will to pull away. But she was clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer, her delicate tongue venturing past his teeth, touching his, and withdrawing quickly as if he might bite. Her inexpert kisses made him smile. She’d exaggerated her experience with men, too.
“Lass,” he said trailing light kisses along her jaw. “What do you want?”
“More,” she whispered.
“More of what?” He nipped at her ear.
“More of you—oh.”
Her exclamation of pleasure made him go hard as brass, demanding that he take her. Now. He could do it, too. She was ready to lie down for him. He could feel her yielding even now. He knew how to bring her to the brink, to make her scream his name, to wrap her legs around his hips and dig her heels in his ass while— Shite.
He lifted his head from the tops of her breasts that were plumping up with each heaving breath. “Do you have any idea where this will lead, lass?”
Her eyes were closed in reverie, and if he could pay someone to paint a picture of her just like this, he’d nail it to the ceiling above his bed.
She groaned her answer, “No.”
He stole another kiss, as hard and as explicit as he could make it. “Disaster.”
It cost him dearly, but he pulled himself away from her. She wilted for a moment, and he steadied her, holding her upright by her shoulders. He realized he’d backed her against the table and pinned her there, her bottom shoved up onto the map. Christ, he was a frigging animal.
“Why?” she asked. It was a plea really.
Because I want to toss you to the floor, spread your lovely legs, and mindlessly pound into you until I spill my anger into your body.
He took a moment to clear his head enough to form a civil sentence. “Because I will ruin you.”
“But—”
“No more fabrications about all the men you’ve kissed. I dinnae believe you.”
Her fingers fluttered to her lips. “Was it that awful?”
“God no. Yours are the sweetest kisses I’ve ever tasted.”
“Then why will you no’ kiss me?” She was close to tears, and he hated himself even more.
“Because,” he shouted. He reined in his temper when she flinched. “Because I cannae stop at kisses, lass. I would take everything from you, and give you nothing in return.”
Miss MacQuarie, proud and stubborn Miss MacQuarie, lifted her chin. “I dinnae want anything from you.”
“You should. You deserve a prince. I’m nothing but a beggar.” He thought she might leave then. March out of the dining room like she always had when he’d disappointed her or angered her. But she stood her ground.
“You.” She jabbed her bloody finger in his chest. “You started this conversation, sir. You. Not me. You.”
He stepped back, an instinctive response to her attack.
“You wonder why we start each day warm and end it cold. You wonder why I dinnae trust you, why I dinnae tell you what troubles me.” She continued stabbing away at his chest, digging a hole in his left nipple. He took another step back and fetched up against the wall. “You are the reason why, sir. You are more changeable than the weather. What is the meaning of kissing me like that and then stopping? It’s wrong, I think. A cruel kind of tease.” She gave him one last poke.
“Ow.” He rubbed at the spot.
Miss MacQuarie, outraged and looking more beautiful than ever, like some fearsome avenging angel, jammed her lethal fists on her hips and growled. “I have no intention of trapping you into an unwanted marriage, if that is what you fear, Captain. As I’ve told you before, I dinnae want a husband. I especially dinnae want a soldier husband who marches in and out of my life when it suits him, fathers children and then ignores them, leaves them to grow up without his love or attention.” She made a sound of disgust and turned away.
Surprisingly, she didn’t leave. They remained in those positions, motionless, for what seemed like forever, the sound of her angry breathing filling the room, drowning out the other ship’s sounds, drowning out his fear.
“Is that what your father did?” he asked as gently as possible.
She took her time answering and when she finally spoke, it was to the window seat. “Even when our father did come home, he wasn’t truly with us. We were like furniture to him. He ignored our mother, too. He’d lock himself in his office for hours or bury his head in the newspaper at the table.” She sighed then, picked up her bonnet and sat on the window seat.
Without drawing too much attention, he leaned a hip on the tabletop.
“Once, my brothers and I wrote a little skit and performed it for him after his homecoming supper. We reenacted a scene from the battle at Quatre Bras.” She glanced up. “Not that he told us anything about the battle. We learned about it from an account we’d read in the newspaper.” She leaned back against the window. “I think we thought that if we were good little soldiers, he’d love us.” She gave a bitter laugh. “He neither appreciated us nor our little skit.”
“It’s hard for soldiers to talk about battle. Especially with family.” Mercifully, no one had asked Ian about the war when he’d returned home and he’d never spoken of it. “War is not pretty and despite what people write in the newspapers afterward, there is nothing glorious about it.”
She turned wounded green eyes up at him. “Then why did he not come back to us when it was over?”
Ian shrugged. “Dinnae ken.” He cocked his head. “Your da fought at Quatre Bras? What regiment?”
Her eyes widened. “Were you there?”
“Aye. I would have died there, too, but Miss Robertson’s da carried me off the field. I owe him my life.”
She stood then, fixing to leave him. “Thank God for General Robertson.” She paused at the door. “I should like to read more of the play to the crew after supper, if you have no objections.”
“None at all. I may join you, if there’s room at the table. You draw quite a crowd.”
Good. He’d made her smile.
After she’d gone, he could swear he could still feel her, smell her, hear her, as if she’d left a ghost of herself behind to keep him company. Christ. Her father had been at Quatre Bras. He might have even fought alongside the man. MacQuarie. He wasn’t in Ian’s battalion. Probably one of Gordon’s Highlanders. They’d taken more casualties than the 42nd that day.
