Saving the Scot, page 16
The man’s neglect, intentional or unintentional, had had a profound effect on Miss MacQuarie. What had she said about a soldier husband? He fathers children and then leaves them to grow up without his love or attention. In a way, he was like her da. He’d left his son, albeit unwittingly, to grow up without a father’s love or attention which, to Miss MacQuarie, was a great sin against his child.
Too late to go back and make that right again. As a lad, whenever he’d done something stupid, broken something or hurt his sister’s feelings, his father would say, “Some things, once done, cannot be undone, but one can atone.”
For the rest of his life, Ian would atone.
…
Louisa flopped back on her berth and let her hammering heart slow to a dull throb. She had to stop talking to Captain Sinclair lest she reveal too much. But he had a way of wheedling things out of her with his blue-gray eyes and his blasted kisses. God, why did he have to kiss her? And worse, why did he have to stop kissing her?
I will ruin you.
So-bloody-what? She was an actress. People expected actresses to have loose morals. No one expected them to be virginal. Better to be ruined by Captain Sinclair’s sure hands than by some clumsy, fumbling oaf. Didn’t he know that?
She’d begged him to ruin her without consequence. Still he refused. There must be something wrong with her. She wasn’t the most attractive woman in Edinburgh, but men often looked appreciatively at her. And he had seemed to like her kisses.
Yours are the sweetest kisses I’ve ever tasted.
Louisa didn’t want sweet. She wanted passion, lust, and wickedness. Captain Sinclair’s body had vibrated with desire, and for a moment, while he was kissing the top of her breasts, she’d felt very wicked. Perhaps she hadn’t been wicked enough.
Do you have any idea where this will lead, lass?
He’d said kisses would lead to disaster as if it was a bad thing. Her body had told her disaster would be deliciously sinful. Her body had reacted similarly when she’d snooped among her brother Connor’s belongings and found a book with drawings of men doing ludicrous things to women, sticking parts of their bodies into parts that ought not fit…or did they? It would have been disturbing but for the looks of pure rapture on the faces of the caricatures. Obviously, this kind of activity was pleasurable beyond measure.
Had the artist drawn from memory, or did he have real live models performing these acts specifically for the purpose of the manual? She closed her eyes and pictured Captain Sinclair’s handsome face and well-formed body in place of the rotund fellow in the drawing and her face and body for the voluptuous Venus figure.
If the captain was as ardent as the man in the drawing, if he hadn’t stopped himself this morning, he would have shoved her skirts up to her waist, unbuttoned the fall of his trousers and…would his look like the one in the drawing? She’d seen her brothers’ dangly bits when they were boys, but the solid column of manhood Ian had pressed against her had been much, much larger.
Mairi appeared at the cabin door. “There you are.”
“Were you looking for me?”
“No’ very hard. After all, ye cannae have gone far.” Mairi rolled her eyes at her feeble jest. “Will’s right behind me with water for the wash.”
“Miss,” Will grunted and carefully sidled through the door sideways, trying not to splash any of the overly full buckets of water on the floor. He was not entirely successful. “Sorry.”
“Just set them down. I’ll return the buckets later,” Mairi said.
After Will left, Louisa rose and closed the cabin door. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”
She collected her dirty shift, stockings, and pantalettes and dropped them in the bucket of warm water along with Mairi’s things. She’d never had occasion to wash her own clothes before this journey. Mairi’d shown her how to do it using the Castile soap she’d brought with her instead of the irritating lye soap they had on board. It wasn’t difficult or objectionable work. It just took time, which she had a lot of.
“What did ye want to ask me?”
“After you and Mr. Kirby marry, do you expect there to be passion? In the marriage bed, I mean.”
“Aye, I ken what ye mean,” Mairi said flatly. “There best be passion in our marriage bed. I’ll make certain of it.”
“It’s up to the woman?” It never occurred to Louisa that women were the ones to create the passion.
“It’s best when both are eager, but sometimes, if the man isnae, em, ready”—Mairi drew the word “ready” out as if it was especially significant and continued—“the woman might have to work harder.”
“What did you mean by ready?”
“You know, when his todger is…” She used her index finger to point straight up.
“Oh, yes of course. And by work harder, what is it that you do?”
Mairi giggled. “I dinnae ken. I never had to. The coal man was always ready for me.”
“What if the man is ready but doesnae want to be passionate with me—I mean the woman?”
One of Mairi’s eyebrows jumped up. “Did the woman offer herself to the man?”
Louisa had trouble looking Mairi in the eyes. “Well, she didnae tell him to stop.”
“But the captain stopped himself?”
“Aye.” Louisa dropped the pretense. “Oh Mairi.” She abandoned her washing and flounced down on her mattress. “It was a disaster. He kissed me and it was…” She sighed. “It was wonderful, and he said things that made my legs wobbly.” She sagged. “And then he stopped. He refused to ruin me.” Louisa pounded a fist on her thigh. “Blast that bloody man.”
At half eight Will knocked on their door, presumably to collect their supper tray. “Come in,” Mairi called. Captain Blue-Eyes opened the door.
He held her copy of The Taming of the Shrew. “Your audience awaits.” He grinned that crooked smile of his, as if he’d won some sort of game they were playing, which infuriated her. It also made her laugh in spite of herself. He glanced at the undergarments hanging to dry in the corner. His eyebrows reached for his hairline and he blushed. She’d never seen the captain blush before. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Em, I’ll wait out here.” He withdrew to the corridor.
On their way through the galley, Captain Sinclair said, “They drew straws, ye ken. The losers pulled duty up top. The winners are waiting for you in the crew’s mess for an hour’s performance.”
The smile in his voice was warm and generous. At the risk of recalling their previous altercation, she asked, “Why are you allowing me to read to your crew?”
They paused in front of the door leading to the mess, his hand resting on the latch. “You caught me unawares last time and I reacted badly. I apologize. Reading is a healthy diversion for the men. As long as I’m present, I approve.”
He opened the door and she was met with applause. Applause, and she hadn’t even begun. The sensation was glorious, exactly like she’d experienced on stage. All eyes on her, listening, eager for her to speak. And like before, a tremor of excitement or nerves—she couldn’t distinguish—danced a crazy jig inside her stomach. This was her entrance.
She gave them an abashed smile and curtsied low, evoking nervous tittering from grown men. One of them, a man she recognized from the last time she’d read, a sailor with the leathery brown skin of an old man and the sparkling bright eyes of a youth, said, “We thank ye for gracing us with your lovely presence this evening, miss.”
“It is my honor, sirs.”
“You were never so complimentary when I read to you,” Captain Sinclair barked, causing a round of laughter.
“Yer no’ as pretty, sir,” a young man in the back shouted, doubling the hilarity.
Good natured as he was, Captain Sinclair laughed along with them. She examined the men illuminated in the lamplight, open smiling faces turned up to their captain, their leader. They adored him. But, of course they would. He led them with a firm but just hand, demanded discipline, rewarded their loyalty and good work. Exactly the sort of man her father the general would like. Exactly the sort she would like.
He motioned for them to quiet and said, “Right then, one hour. Everyone on their best behavior for the lady,” and added the specific warning, “No bawdy remarks, Lewis.” He offered her his hand and indicated a chair set on top of a crate, a makeshift stage of sorts. Using him for balance, she stepped up onto her perch and began where she’d left off.
Captain Sinclair stepped back out of the circle of lamplight, melting into the shadowy corners of the compartment, but he was still there. She sensed him. Watching her. And she loved it.
She finished Act II to a round of applause and bowed. To her gratification—probably too much to her gratification—Captain Sinclair shouted, “Brava! Brava!”
The next two evenings, Louisa read Acts III and IV. Captain Sinclair escorted her to the crew’s mess after supper, remained there until she’d completed her reading, and returned her to her cabin afterward. The crew had even welcomed Mairi and Reverend Wynterbottom, making room for them at the much-coveted bench nearest the front. It was all so perfect, their appreciation, their adoration. Just as she imagined life would be like as a celebrated actress.
Perhaps what brought her the most satisfaction was the crew’s animated discussion after her readings. In the morning, as she strolled around the deck taking in the air and exercising her legs, she could hear the men discussing the play as they went about their chores, assessing the worth of Bianca’s suitors, deliberating over whether Baptista was a good father, and speculating whether Petruchio wanted Kate for a wife or if he was using her for sport.
The fourth evening, as she was reading the final lines of Act V, the men were more attentive than usual, leaning forward, eyes wide, mouths open.
She read Petruchio’s line, “Why there’s a wench: Come on, and kiss me Kate.”
The men released a collective, “Ooooo.”
She stifled a chuckle, and continued with the next three lines. She could not, however, resist a glance at Captain Sinclair when she read Petruchio’s line, “Come Kate, we’ll to bed.”
The line, of course, drew a swell of, “Aaaaah,” from the men, followed by a round of self-conscious laughter. She read the final lines, closed the book, and stood to thunderous applause—well, thunder, because the men were stomping their feet.
“Will ye sing us a song, Miss MacQuarie?” one sailor asked. Several others joined in with, “Aye, a song, if you please.”
She’d never sung in front of an audience before. She rifled through her memory for an appropriate tune, and all she could think of was “The Maiden of Bashful Fifteen,” a rather bawdy song her brothers often sang. She looked to Captain Sinclair. “If the captain has no objections?” He shrugged. “All right then, I’ll give it a try.
“Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen,
Here’s to the widow of fifty;
She received smiles of recognition on the very first line.
“Here’s to the flaunting extravagant queen,
And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.
A few of the men started swaying and clapping.
“Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.”
Some joined her for the second round of the chorus. It was then she saw Captain Sinclair cover his eyes and peek through his fingers. Did he not like the song? Was she singing poorly? No matter. She had an audience and she was going to finish. After the fourth verse, everyone was on their feet, swaying and waving their tankards. She finished the last line of chorus on a flourish and met with raucous applause. She bowed several times, until Captain Sinclair stepped forward and formally thanked her for her outstanding performance. He treated her like a real actress. He believed in her.
As the mess area cleared, Captain Sinclair asked, “Would you care to take the night air before you retire, Miss MacQuarie?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Once on deck, she asked, “Did you not like the song, Captain? You didnae sing along.”
“First, you ken perfectly well, I cannae sing to save my life.” She laughed. “Second, no one expected a bawdy drinking song from a lass like you, least of all me.”
“First,” she said. “I dinnae mind your singing at all. I particularly like your voice. Second, what do you mean a lass like me? Do you think I’m so innocent I wouldnae understand the innuendo?”
He coughed like he was choking on something.
“Are you all right, Captain?” she asked, knowing full well she had managed to shock him just a little.
He recovered and said, “Aye. I mean to say, nae.”
They took the steps up to the quarterdeck and were quiet for a while, enjoying the balmy tropical breeze. “Do you think Kate was a shrew?” she asked.
“She was battling to be who she was, not what others wanted her to be. I dinnae see that as being a shrew,” he said.
“But at the end of the play, when she bends to Petruchio’s will, do you think he has broken her?”
“Nae. I ken Petruchio recognizes he’s found his match, and Kate kens he sees her as his equal.”
“You are unlike any man I’ve ever met before, Captain.”
He turned to face her. “And you are unlike—”
Peter trotted down the gangway and called up to them. “Captain, sir.”
“Aye, Mr. Peter.”
“Mackay’s spotted a ship off starboard.”
Ian’s head snapped left, tension gripping his body.
She scanned the horizon where the stars met the black ocean waters. Nothing.
Peter bounded up the steps in three leaps to join them on the quarterdeck. “There, sir. Eleven o’clock.”
Following the direction of Peter’s outstretched hand, she saw it. Like stars riding on the horizon, only yellow in color instead of white. Two of them so close together they looked like one. Running lights.
“Tell Mackay to keep an eye on them. We’ll stay our course until we can determine their heading.” Captain Sinclair’s orders were firm but calm. Purposefully calm.
“Aye, Captain.” Mr. Peter pounded down the stairs and strode away.
“Pirates?” she asked, probably sounding like a ninny.
“Occasionally, we encounter other ships. It’s rare, but it happens. More than likely, it’s another cargo vessel headed for the West Indies.” He sounded as though he was reassuring her that there were no monsters under her bed. “We’ll know by morning if they’re friend or foe.”
“And if they’re foe?”
“I willnae let anything happen to you or Miss Robertson. After all, my future depends on getting your friend to Connecticut in one piece.” He laughed as if he’d told her something hilarious. In truth, his words, like a carving knife, stabbed deep into her belly.
Chapter Eight
Ian sent Miss MacQuarie to her bed, then ordered the running lights extinguished and had the crew quietly pass the word to load and prime their weapons. He ordered the gun crew readied, as well. He spoke the truth when he told Miss MacQuarie it was unlikely the ship they spotted was a pirate ship, but Ian was no fool, and he wasn’t about to get caught with his trousers around his knees. The Gael Forss held twenty-one souls. His chief responsibility was to ensure twenty-one souls reached the Connecticut coast alive.
Mr. Peter wisely shortened shifts. They needed the crew well rested and ready for battle should the need arise. Sleep eluded him, even though he tried. He lay in his cabin sifting through potential dangers and the strategies for avoiding encounters with hostile forces. Every time he closed his eyes, they would bounce open with a new threat and all the possible outcomes therein.
Eventually, he gave sleep up for lost and prowled the ship, taking time to have a word or two with every crewman, answering questions, making a casual joke, providing reassurances. Peter had set Will and Danny to lashing down anything not bolted to the deck. A direct hit by a cannon could easily send the heaviest of objects flying. He touched everything, his men, the guns, even Turk’s pots and pans. Everything must be in its proper place. Everything.
Shite. Where the hell is Miss MacQuarie?
She had better be in her cabin. Asleep. Or he would…have a stern word with the maddening woman, his actress, his star. He reached her door in a matter of seconds. Closed. He put his ear against it. No sound. Tried the handle. Locked. He could knock but then he’d wake her and have to deal with the meddlesome baggage when he was already plagued with worry.
He started off toward the stairs when a door opened behind him.
“Captain Sinclair?”
He froze in place. It was her. He responded without turning around. “Aye, lass.”
“Did you need something?”
He turned and saw her standing in the corridor, lantern in hand, wearing her shift. He took her in. All of her. Bare feet, bare arms, dark hair tumbling down her front, splaying where her breasts proudly protruded, breasts freed of their corseting, he registered.
“I was just checking…” He’d better leave now. His todger was growing heavier by the second.
She dipped her chin and made an effort not to smile. “Were you making certain I was where I was supposed to be?”
Jee-sus. How did she know him?
He started toward her. She set her lantern down and stood her ground until he reached out one long arm and hauled her slip of a body against his. He sank the fingers of his other hand into her hair, tugging her head back. Her eyes closed and her lips parted. He had to claim her mouth now, quick, before it was too late. The thing inside him that signaled when things were out of place warned him, Don’t let this one slip away. Capture her, tether her to your soul, keep her forever.
“I’ll see that you’re safe,” he rasped.
“I trust you,” she said and rose on tiptoe.
He kissed her deep and hard and fast, like he wanted to take her. He palmed one round buttock and pressed himself into that lovely cleft where her thighs met. Where, if he could slide into her, everything in the world would be in its proper place.
