Saving the Scot, page 19
“How is your arm?” She secured the bedclothes over his lap.
“It’s still there. What happened?”
“Your wound got infected, and Turk had to remove the bit of lint that was causing the problem.”
He scratched his head with his good hand. “That would explain why I dreamed I was being crucified.” He thought for a moment and then asked, “Did you wipe my nose?”
Her green eyes slid sideways. “Maybe just a little.”
He sighed. “Am I not allowed any dignity?”
Her back went ramrod straight, indignant, as if he’d insulted her. “I’ll have you know you endured the procedure valiantly and with very little protest.”
“You mean I didnae cry for my mother?”
“Not even once.” She smiled then, a bashful smile he’d never seen before. He should stop being an ogre. She looked weary and had, no doubt, lost sleep on his account. “Who is Rory?” she asked.
Ian’s heart thudded in his chest. “Who?”
“You said you lost Rory.”
He swallowed hard. Denying Rory’s existence did not sit well with him. Nor did discussing the child.
“Never mind,” she said. “You were heavily drugged with laudanum at the time. I’m surprised you didnae talk aboot unicorns and fairies.” She laughed then and Ian laughed halfheartedly.
To change the subject, he said, “I’m hungry.”
…
Three days later, he was well enough to dress himself and take his meals at the table like an adult. He and Peter had finished taking their readings, and they estimated they were about ten miles off the coast of Georgia.
“Another week perhaps?”
“If the weather holds,” Peter said.
“When we get to New London, I want you to take the ship to Boston as we planned, and then return for me.”
“What will you do?”
“I will escort Miss Robertson and Miss MacQuarie to Mr. Kirby’s home.”
“Do you never find it odd?” Peter asked, his normally smooth brow deeply furrowed.
“Do I find what odd?”
“Miss Robertson and Miss MacQuarie.”
“What’s odd about them?”
“They seem…reversed.”
“What the hell are you talking about, man?”
Peter held both hands out, signaling him to calm. “It’s just that Miss Robertson is supposed to be from a good family and Miss MacQuarie, well, she’s an actress.”
“So?”
“Would you not expect Miss Robertson to be the one to have the manners of a gentlewoman?”
Calling into question Miss MacQuarie’s station rankled Ian. “I’m surprised by you, Peter. Of all people. Just because Miss MacQuarie has her sights set on a life in the theater doesnae mean she’s of low birth.”
“Sorry, I didnae mean to imply—”
“I should hope you did not.” Ian straightened the map and moved the compass to the right corner. Peter’s comment aggravated him more than he’d like to admit. He’d had similar misgivings, but for reasons he didn’t like to examine too closely, he’d set them aside.
“Em, you were saying, sir,” Peter said. “You’ll be escorting the ladies. And who will go with you?”
“No one. I’ll be fine on my own.”
Peter cocked his head to the side and gave him that look.
“What?”
“Am I still captain of the Gael Forss?”
“Aye. You’ve done a fine job in my stead. I knew you would.”
“Good. Then, as captain I insist you take another crew member with you as escort.”
Ian opened his mouth to object, and Peter cocked his bloody head again.
“Fine,” Ian bit off. “I’ll take Will. Miss MacQuarie is fond of him.”
“And are you fond of Miss MacQuarie?”
“I beg your pardon.” He took a menacing step around the table.
“Did your cousin Declan not dream you’d marry a lass in trousers?”
Ian did not like Peter’s tone.
“And was Miss MacQuarie not wearing trousers the day we battled the pirates?”
Ian pointed a cautionary finger. “Tread carefully, sir.”
Peter had the audacity to laugh at him outright.
“Ye’d better run,” Ian growled, “or yer going to lose those pretty white teeth of yours.”
Peter fled but paused at the doorway and shot back, “Ye ken Declan’s dreams never lie.”
Ian hurled a stale bannock at Peter’s head. He ducked and it hit Miss MacQuarie between the eyes. “Och!”
“Sorry,” Peter said and bolted, leaving Ian red faced and seething.
“I believe this is yours,” she said, handing him the bannock.
“One day I’m going to lose my patience with that loon and give him the thrashing of a lifetime.”
A merry chuckle bubbled up from deep inside her. God, she looked lovely—lovelier than usual—and the sight of her made him forget his anger.
“How is your arm?”
“Fine.” To demonstrate, he gave it an experimental flex, the range in motion twice what it was yesterday.
“Then you’re well enough to come below while I read to the crew?”
The answer to her question was yes and she knew it. But he wasn’t ready to share her with anyone just yet. He feigned fresh pain. “My arm gets to aching as the day wears on. I ken I need your tending after supper. Your voice is a tonic to my suffering.”
“If that is what you wish,” she said, and lowered her lashes, hiding her green eyes from him.
He caught a hit of her lavender scent and knew he needed to touch her. “Come here to me.”
“I dare not come closer, as I think you have more vigor than you admit to.”
He crept a step closer to her. “Nae, lass. I’m as weak as a kitten. No threat to you.”
“Sir, by the look in your eyes I would say I am in more danger than ever.”
“What you see, I fear, is a fever. Put your hand to my head and check.” He stepped closer still and lifted her silky palm to his forehead.
“Oh, aye. That is a fever, but no’ the kind of fever any medicine will improve.”
He slid his good arm around her slender back, pulled her close, and spoke low in her ear. “Tell me what is the cure, my sweet lass, and then give it me.”
She kissed him then and his body hardened. He was sick with want and he would have his cure splayed on his floor, bent over a table, sitting on his lap—it mattered not how, other than he needed her naked so that he could lick every inch of her skin, kiss every freckle, stroke her in all the places that made her gasp with delight.
She pushed away. “No. No more kissing. I must speak to you about something first.”
“And then kissing?” he asked, grinning at her like a fool.
She huffed. “This is serious.”
“Sorry. Proceed.”
“Reverend Wynterbottom will accompany Miss Robertson and me to Mr. Kirby’s home. She’s grown rather attached to him and wishes for him to attend her wedding breakfast.” She prowled around the perimeter of the room like a cat. “After the ceremony, the reverend will see me to New York.”
“The reverend is a fine man when he’s sober, but he’s no substitute for a skilled soldier.”
“Must I remind you that you have only one functioning arm and that arm is, I’m guessing, not your sword arm?”
He didn’t like that reminder, but she was wrong. They could take his arm, his legs, and his ears and he’d still be twice as lethal as the next man. “By the time we reach New London, I will be fit to be your protector.”
“Ian,” she said and the velvety sound of his name on her lips made him burn. “We must part. You know that.”
“Aye.”
“Better to make the cut quick and clean and spare each other pain, is it not?”
He swallowed hard. She was right. He didn’t like that she was right, hadn’t let himself imagine what life would be like once she was no longer aboard the Gael Forss, but she was right, and it made the thing inside him itch for order. He straightened the map on the table, pushed a chair back into place, and turned the handle of the teapot to the right. “That’s a problem, you see. Because I find I need to see that you arrive safely in New York.”
“It would spare my heart if you would not,” she said, and Ian saw her eyes glisten.
“It would soothe my heart if I would,” he said.
Chapter Nine
They sailed into port at New London, Connecticut, on August 21st exactly as Captain Sinclair had promised her to the day. She hadn’t exchanged many words with him since she’d asked him to abandon the notion of escorting her to New York. The few times they had spoken, she’d hinted at it, but he’d remained unmoved. Unlike the many previous disagreements they’d had, Captain Sinclair didn’t seem angry. His demeanor was melancholy, if she were to guess. Perhaps that’s how a long voyage affected some people. Especially when you’d grown friendly with passengers you might never see again.
Mr. Peter told Louisa and Mairi it would be hours before they could go ashore, so they took their time with their toilette. During the crossing, fresh water had been too precious to waste on bathing. The ladies had had to stand in shallow tubs and sponge themselves from a basin of water. But once they weighed anchor in the calm waters of the Thames River—for like the port city of New London, its river had been named after its English counterpart—Will hauled a hip bath to their cabin and filled it with hot water.
Heaven.
They used their time luxuriating in the bath, applying powders and scents, dressing in their best gowns, pinning their hair into intricate whirls and curls, and finally adorning their heads with their best bonnets. Will knocked on their door and announced that the time had come.
“I’m going to miss you, Will,” Louisa said. “You’ve been very kind to us.”
“Oh, ye willnae miss me yet. I’m to travel with the captain as his personal ay-dee-kam.”
Louisa ran ay-dee-kam through her head a couple of times before retrieving the translation. “Do you mean his aide-de-camp?”
“Aye. That.”
“I see. Well, are you washed and ready to go?”
“Captain checked, but you can check, too, if ye like.” He bent his head and pulled the flaps of his ears forward so Louisa could inspect behind them. The fact that Captain Sinclair had checked tugged at her heart. He would be a good father and a good husband. It’s too bad he had to be a soldier. And it was very unfortunate that he would suffer when her father discovered her lie. Because General Robertson would find out. Maybe not right away, but eventually. She would do anything to change that. She’d even give up her own ambitions if she could change Captain Sinclair’s outcome to something that would make him happy.
She and Mairi followed Will up on deck and joined Reverend Wynterbottom who was shaking hands with Danny Sinkler and Turk. She didn’t see Captain Sinclair anywhere.
Mairi hung over the railing and scanned the dock, which looked and smelled like the Leith Docks in Edinburgh where they’d started their voyage. “Do you think he’s here?” Mairi asked.
“Who?”
“Mr. Kirby, a’ course.” Mairi continued to search. Would she be able to pick him out of a crowd based on the painted miniature alone?
“I doubt he’ll know to meet us.”
“That’s him.” Mairi shook Louisa’s shoulder. “That’s him.” She pointed to a tall gentleman wearing a short top hat, a dark brown cutaway coat and waistcoat, black tied neckcloth, and turned-down boots over tobacco-brown trousers. He removed his hat revealing a mop of loose light brown curls. He lifted his open face to the ship. Mairi leaned out and waved her hand high. “Mr. Kirby!”
The moment Mr. Kirby connected with Mairi, his face lit up with an astonished smile. He waved his hat high above his head. “Miss Robertson!”
Mairi grabbed Louisa’s hand. “He sees me,” she squealed with delight. “He’s here and he’s waiting for me.” She turned to Louisa, tears in her eyes. “I’ve never been so happy in my life. Thank you.”
Louisa embraced Mairi and they both wept, the feelings of the moment too overwhelming for them to sort.
From behind them, Captain Sinclair said, “Are you ready to meet your fiancé, Miss Robertson?”
“Yes,” Mairi said.
Captain Sinclair offered Mairi his hand and escorted her down the gangway. Louisa waited and watched. The dock was too noisy for her to hear their conversation, but it was clear from the look on Mr. Kirby’s face, Mairi had mesmerized him immediately.
Mairi lost her balance for a moment and wobbled. Captain Sinclair had warned them they would be unsteady on their feet once they disembarked, but it would only last a few minutes. Mr. Kirby was delighted to catch Mairi and hold onto her. He cradled her in his arms as if holding a life-sized doll made of china. Had she just watched two people fall in love? And did Mr. Kirby know how very lucky he was to have Mairi and not her for a wife?
Captain Sinclair strode back up the gangway and called to her. “Coming?” He reached out a hand. She was tempted to slip her gloved one in his. She had a fleeting desire to repeat with Captain Sinclair the scene Mr. Kirby and Mairi had just played out. But that was not the drama in which she and Captain Sinclair had been cast. Mr. Kirby and Mairi were cast in a comedy. Louisa and Captain Sinclair’s play was a tragedy.
…
She didn’t want him to come along. Too bad. That wasn’t her decision. Ian was in charge, and he didn’t bloody care what Miss MacQuarie wanted. She might be done with him, but he wasn’t done with her. Not by a long chalk.
He offered her a hand thinking she might appreciate some help to shore. But no. The bothersome hen shooed him away. She shooed him away. Well then, fine. She could steady her own goddamn self down the gangway.
It always took Ian a moment to find his land legs. However, he neglected to keep in mind that Miss MacQuarie was not at all prepared for solid ground. As soon as they stepped off the planking, he heard Miss MacQuarie utter a very unladylike curse word.
When he turned to find her crumpled on the ground, he uttered the same curse word only louder. “Oh, Christ, lass. I’m sorry.” He scooped her up, set her back on her feet, and held her there while she tottered from side to side.
“Bloody hell. The land stays still, but I cannae stop moving.” She clutched his bad arm for support.
“Ow.” He peeled her gloved hand off his arm one finger at a time. “Dinnae panic. It’ll go away in a second.”
She swatted him with her purse thing. “I’m no’ panicking and stop manhandling me.”
He released her and she immediately teetered backward. Ian caught her with his good arm and righted her again. He growled in her ear, “Stop fighting me.”
He felt her body sag against his.
“Sorry,” she sobbed.
He stared down his nose at her. She was obviously out of sorts. He didn’t know why but he deeply regretted being so impatient. “I’m sorry, too.” He waited for a moment, then said, “Can you stand on your own now?”
She stepped away from him, sniffed and took a brave breath. “Yes. I think so.”
“Good. Let’s go find Mr. Kirby and Miss Robertson. They said they’d wait by the dray with the baggage.”
He forged a path through the crowd of people standing on the dock and did his best to shield Miss MacQuarie from being jostled about. When at last they reached the dray, he got that uncomfortable itch. Something wasn’t right. Shite. Where the hell was Will? He shouted his name.
“I’m here, Captain.” Will waved to him from the back of the dray. The lad had made a sort of nest for himself among the trunks and baggage.
“Good lad. Stay with the luggage. See that it gets to the house safely.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Here.” He handed Will a few American coppers. “In case you need ’em.”
“Do ye ken we’ll be attacked by Indians, sir?” Will asked gravely.
Ian kept a straight face. “Perhaps. But I trust you’ll handle them brawly.”
Will puffed out his narrow chest. “Aye-aye, Captain.” The driver snapped the reins and the dray pulled away. Ian waved farewell.
Miss MacQuarie said, “Why ever did you let Will think there would be Indians?”
He smiled down at her and shrugged. She might grasp the fundamentals of navigation, read Shakespeare, and speak Spanish, but wearing trousers didn’t make you think like a man. She’d never understand Will’s need to be one today.
Oblivious to the rest of the world, Mr. Kirby and Miss Robertson stood gazing into each other’s eyes wearing soppy grins that made them appear to Ian like twin dafties. He shook his head in disgust and asked Miss MacQuarie, “Do you want to interrupt them, or should I?”
She made a gracious sweep of her hand. “You may do the honors, Captain.”
Ian stepped forward and cleared his throat. Twice. No response. He called to Mr. Kirby, a shout that startled other people milling about, but had no effect on the smitten kittens. He asked Miss MacQuarie, “Do you want to take a crack at it?”
She slipped her arm through Miss Robertson’s and said, “Darling, is this your Mr. Kirby? You must introduce us.”
At last the lovebirds awoke from their stupor. Miss Robertson made introductions, and Mr. Kirby stammered through what must have been a welcoming speech he’d rehearsed.
“How did you know we’d arrive today?” Miss MacQuarie asked.
Ian knew the answer before Kirby owned it.
“I didn’t, actually.” The man dipped his head. “I’ve come to the docks every day for the last week…hoping.”
He knew in his head he should be happy for the man. Kirby had applied for a wife, and a wife had been delivered to him. A bonnie wife and from the looks of her, a willing wife. Yet a part of him resented the man’s good fortune. What had Kirby done to deserve Miss Robertson? Then he remembered: they called her the General’s Daughter from Hell. Miss Robertson had been nothing but biddable during the crossing. Had she reformed, or was she saving her worst for after the wedding? Perhaps he should feel sorry for poor Mr. Kirby.
