Saving the Scot, page 9
On the fifth night of their journey, she discovered Captain Sinclair seated at the dining table when she entered the captain’s mess.
He bolted to his feet. “Evening, Miss MacQuarie.”
“Good evening, Captain. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Aye, well, I’ve been thinking about how small spaces bother you.” He held his neckcloth in his hand as though he’d just removed it. She chanced a look at his feet. Bonnets. He’d worn his boots. But he had left his coat behind and he did look a braw sight in the white shirt with his collar open. Captain Sinclair fidgeted. She wanted to tell him to be at ease but thought it might make him even more nervous.
“You recall, that first night, I told you I’d try and think of a solution?”
“Aye.”
“I have an idea. It’s an experiment I’d like to try—if you’re willing.” Her heart twisted around inside her chest. This somber man, who barely knew her, was trying hard to help her. She would have explained that there was nothing to be done, her da had tried all sorts of remedies, nothing had ever worked, but she didn’t want to disappoint him.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
Did she trust him? She trusted him to carry her safely to America, how much more trust did he need? It was herself she didn’t trust. Alone with this tall, graceful, powerful man, she might do something embarrassing like throw herself at him, or beg him to kiss her, or ask him to remove his shirt, please.
“Yes. I trust you completely.”
…
She trusted him. More fool, her. If she’d known what indecent thoughts were going through his mind at the moment—every moment for the last five days, she would keep as far away from him as possible.
“Good. Leave the book here and follow me,” he said, before he changed his mind. Before she changed her mind. He led the way out onto the deck. The wind had picked up. According to Mr. Purdie, they were headed into a storm tonight, hence the urgency for him to find a solution to Miss MacQuarie’s issue.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice loud enough to be heard over the snapping, creaking racket the rigging was making.
“To the fo’c’sle—the housing at the bow of the ship,” he shouted. Halfway down the gangway, the ship pitched forward into the trough of a rolling wave. Unprepared, Miss MacQuarie stumbled into him just as a wave crashed over the bow, sending spray onto the deck. He hunched over her body to protect her from the worst of it. The storm was approaching faster than he’d anticipated.
“Quick. Take my hand. We need to get under cover.”
She slipped her fluttering hand into his big rough paw. It was like holding a live bird, so delicate, so fragile, her palms smooth like fine satin. Jee-sus, what would they feel like on other parts of his body?
When they reached the fo’c’sle, he coaxed her into the open portal, a covered corridor too short for him to stand upright, at the end of which were two doors. One to Mr. Purdie’s cabin and the other to the surgery.
“Are you ready, Miss MacQuarie?”
“Yes.”
He held up his neckcloth. “I’m going to blindfold you.”
“Why?”
“Do you trust me?” he asked again.
They stood together in that cramped corridor. She’d placed a hand on the wall behind her to brace herself from being tossed about by the ship’s movement. Face turned up to his, her eyes searching, she said. “Yes. I trust you.”
“Turn around.”
At his command, she turned away, both hands on the wall. He slipped his neckcloth around her head, covering her eyes like a game of blind man’s buff. He tied it tight enough that it wouldn’t slip off. She touched it, adjusted it for comfort. “All right?”
She nodded.
Ian leaned down to her ear. “Let me lead you.” He opened the door to the surgery and guided her inside the tiny windowless space. “I’ll be with you the entire time. I’ll not allow anything to happen to you.” He pushed the door shut and the latch clicked.
Miss MacQuarie spun around. Her once-calm demeanor instantly became panicked with the sound of the latch. Her breathing turned to panting. Though it was pitch black in the closet-sized room, he was close enough to sense her reaching for the blindfold and he stilled her arms.
“Easy,” he said. “I’m here and nothing can harm us.”
“The door, is it locked? Can you open it?”
“It’s not locked. I can open it at any time. We can come and go as we please. I keep it closed to keep out the storm.” And to have you all to myself, he thought, and felt his trousers tighten around his privates.
“Where are we? What is this room?” Her voice, her entire body was lit up with fear. He could feel the heat coming off her. He knew that kind of fear, the kind that seized upon your mind, convinced an otherwise rational being that he would die, soon, and badly.
He held her shoulders, his grip gentle yet firm. “You cannae see the room, so I will describe it to you and you can imagine it in your mind’s eye.”
She continued to pant. “I ken we should stop the game now,” she pleaded.
“It’s a big room,” he said. “Filled with light.”
“No. No, I can tell by the sound. It’s too small. I cannae breathe. My heart, my heart.”
This skittish mare was going to bolt. He leaned closer to her ear. “Nae. The room is as big as a ballroom and lit with a hundred candles. Can you no’ see it, lass?”
He’d thought of the blindfold this morning when he’d recalled how she reacted when she’d boarded. She’d reminded him of a panicked horse about to kick its way out of its stall. They blindfolded horses to keep them calm. Perhaps the method would work on this filly. He sensed a change in her breathing. Was it working?
“Have you never been to a ball, lass?”
“Of course,” she panted. “Of course, I have.” She caught her breath again. “I’ve been to many 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 hummed a waltz he remembered from a time so long ago, it hardly seemed like his own life.
She made a little puff of amusement. He supposed he was behaving foolishly, but he had gotten her mind off the thing that plagued her.
“Are you laughing at my singing?”
“No.” She made a nervous titter. “Yes.”
He felt a surge of gratification. His method was working.
“Dance with me,” he said, and took her in an embrace.
Catching her unprepared, she sucked in a great gulp of air. He continued humming, sounding nothing like the tune in his head and everything like what a lunatic might drone. Her body continued to shiver, but she settled her arm on his shoulder, slipped that silky birdlike hand in his and let him sway her from side to side. Thank God he had good sea legs because the ship’s pitch and yaw did not match the rhythm of a waltz.
They couldn’t really dance. The room was barely large enough for two people. Cupboards on one side for equipment and supplies. A surgical table secured to the wall on the other.
“Is there a storm?” she asked.
“I only hear music,” he said, drawing another laugh out of her.
After another few bars of his abysmal humming she said, “You’re thinking. What are you thinking about?”
“I was remembering the last time I waltzed. It was five years ago, the first time we sailed the Gael Forss to England. We carried goods to sell, but the real reason for the trip was to take my brother Alex’s family to visit his wife’s father, the Duke of Chatham.”
“Your brother is married to the daughter of a duke?” she said incredulously.
“Aye.” As she grew warmer in his embrace, her perfume, a light scent of lavender, filled his nose.
“Did she teach you to waltz?”
“Nae. It was her brother, the duke’s son, Bulford, who taught us all—me and Alex and Peter and Magnus. On the surface, Bulford is like most English nobility. Fopdoodles, Magnus calls them. But in the end, Bull turned out to be a surprisingly good fellow, in spite of his silly beaver hat and ruffled cravat.”
“Who is Magnus?” He felt her breath tickle his neck and adjusted his hold on her, drawing her closer, dangerously close to his hardened body.
“My cousin. There are five of us who own the Gael Forss. Cousins Magnus and Declan, my brother Alex, me, and Mr. Peter.”
“Is he a cousin, too?”
He dipped his head next to hers so that they whispered into each other’s ears like lovers. “Nae. He was my da’s groom, but as I told you, he’s the reason we acquired the ship.”
“And you all live in Edinburgh?”
“Och, nae. My da is Laird of Balforss. We live in Caithness on the northern coast of Scotland. Have you ever been there?”
“Nae. What’s it like?”
He inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. “Caithness is a wild place with wide flat moors filled with red deer and grouse. My three times great-grandsire, James Sinclair, built Balforss House of stone and wood and…love. You can feel them when the house is quiet, my ancestors, brave men and women.” He smiled. “The River Forss runs through our property and at night, with the windows open, the falls sing you to sleep. To the west, mountains separate us from Sutherland, not the most neighborly folk, but they’re Highlanders like us. From the coastal cliffs of Balforss you can see the Orkney Isles like huge green rocks floating in the sea. Just about any time of the year, you’ll find sea otters and gray seals frolicking about just off the shore and along the shingle beach.”
“You miss it,” she said.
“Aye. Every day.” He pulled her even closer and breathed her in.
…
Louisa had waltzed before. Gentlemen had held her with gloved hands at arms’ length from their bodies and she’d been swept around ballrooms at a dizzying pace, but this was altogether different. This was more like a lover’s embrace. He held her close, so close her chest brushed lightly against his. Without his coat, the warmth of his body seeped through his light linen shirt. His shoulder muscles flexed and rolled under her left arm, and their hands, their bare hands, fit together as if they were made for each other.
He spoke softly into her ear, that rumbly just-right tone that made her insides stir. His breath riffled her hair and bathed her ear in heat. Something at the bottom of her belly, even lower, awakened like a flower opening to the sun. Now. Now would be the perfect time for her first kiss. And his were the perfect lips, those full, strong lips that never smiled.
Please, please. Kiss me now.
He pulled his head back and she floated to her tiptoes, waiting, waiting for him to kiss her.
“Miss MacQuarie,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Are you quite at ease?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you are ready to take the blindfold off?”
She lowered her heels to the ground and the ballroom he had created in her mind dissolved. What she thought were violins was really the high-pitched howl of the wind. The sickly sensation of the ship tossing up and down on the ocean tugged at her insides making her queasy. She let go of his hand and backed out of his embrace. The shock of fetching up against something hard made her heart leap.
Louisa tore off the blindfold and blinked. “Where’s the light?” Her voice bounced around the tiny cell.
Something touched her, tried to grab her. It said something.
“The door. Open the door,” she said.
It said something again, but she couldn’t make sense of it. She flung her arms out searching, clawing aside the bulk that stood in her way. “I have to get out. Let me out.”
Hitting a solid surface, she searched for a handle, a latch, anything to get out.
“Miss MacQuarie, no!”
Louisa flung open the door and staggered out into black wind, sea spray, and the shouts of men. The thing that had kept her in the small space grabbed at her again. She twisted out of its grip and ran into a wall of water that sent her sprawling face first onto the deck. She coughed up seawater, gasped, and scrabbled to her feet again only to be violently swept sideways into something hard. The dark thing grabbed hold of her and lifted her into the air. The sudden change made her dizzy. Lightheaded.
Louisa opened her eyes to blurry lamplight and Mairi patting her cheek. “Miss. Miss. Wake up, please.”
She was lying in her cabin below deck soaking wet. “How did I get here?”
“The captain.” Mairi moved aside, revealing Captain Sinclair, also soaked to the bone, standing in her doorway.
“Are you all right, Miss MacQuarie?” he asked.
There was a ringing in her ears that nearly drowned out the storm raging outside. She touched her head gingerly.
“You hit your head on the mizzenmast. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
With his dark hair plastered to his head, ringlets lashing his cheeks, and water dripping from his nose, he looked worse than she felt. She managed a reassuring smile for him. “It’s all right, Captain. I’ll no’ be going above deck in a storm again.”
He blew out a breath and, without looking directly at her, said, “Good. Get some sleep and I’ll…I’ll check on you in the morning.” He shut the door behind him gently.
“Poor man. You must have given him a fright.” Mairi helped peel off her wet clothes.
While she did so, Louisa wondered if someone was peeling Captain Sinclair’s clothes off. “I don’t remember how I got to the cabin.”
“The captain carried you.” Mairi dropped the last sodden stocking in the hamper. She handed Louisa her night rail with a yawn. “Put this on and sit. I’ll comb your hair.” Louisa gave a weak protest then sat and gratefully allowed Mairi to remove what pins still clung to the mess, now looking and smelling like seaweed, no doubt. “Whatever were you doing out on deck in the storm?” Mairi asked.
“The captain tried to cure me.” The brush caught on a tangle. “Ow.”
“Sorry. Cure you of what?”
“The problem I have with small places.”
“How?”
Louisa smiled. “He took me dancing.”
…
Idiot. Ian banged his head against the inside of his cabin door two more times as if he could take away her pain by inflicting his own. Jee-sus. She could have been swept over the side. He’d heard stories of the sea taking men twice her size into the deep. Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? His experiment was working. He’d had her calm, completely at ease, but oh, no. He had to push it, had to make her take off the blindfold.
Of course, she bolted, ye clot-heid. She’s a woman, not a damned horse.
He shivered in his cabin, seawater puddling on the floor. When he attempted to pull the soggy shirt over his head it stuck to his skin. After several tries, he ripped open the front and tore it off his body. More stupidity, but it appeased him. Momentarily. His boots were another matter. They refused to budge, held to his feet with suction. Fine then. He’d sleep in his wet trousers and boots, die of pneumonia for all he cared.
He flopped back onto his berth. The scene on the darkened deck kept running through his mind—the black wave, her head, the mast—all connecting, all at once, all just out of his reach. A lightning bolt of fear had lanced through his heart the moment she’d fallen, sapping him of what strength he possessed. It was a wonder he managed to collect her from the deck and carry her to her cabin.
He held up his hands. They were shaking. Get control of yourself, man.
The pain throbbed with his pulse, hammering from the inside of his skull, right behind his eyes which were shut tight at the moment because the spiteful sun was trying to get inside his head and burn his brain. It was the kind of migraine he had frequently experienced after Quatre Bras, the kind that crippled him for days on end. Nothing would give him relief. No amount of alcohol or willow-frigging-bark tea would shake it. Only time. Time and suffering.
He hadn’t had one this vicious for years. He’d thought they’d gone away forever. Apparently, they simply stockpiled venom and waited until the most inopportune time to strike.
“Sir?” Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Is it the migraine, again?”
Shite. It hurt too much to answer him.
A knife shot up the back of his neck directly through the top of his head when he tried to nod. The pitch and roll of the ship added to his nausea. Death might be a better alternative.
Peter covered the cabin window with a blanket and set a bin beside his berth. Ian was known to vomit when stricken with a blinding headache. “I’ll get Turk to look in on you after breakfast.”
Turk served as cook and surgeon aboard the Gael Forss. He was an excellent cook and a good enough surgeon, but aside from cracking open Ian’s skull and allowing his brains to seep out, there would be nothing the man could do for him. Ian’s objection came out as an inarticulate grunt. Too late. Peter had already left him to his misery.
The rest of the day he spent in a kind of delirium. Peter and Turk made visits to his bedside dressed as a golden retriever and a giant walking turtle respectively. Turk got him to swallow some vile concoction that made him vomit so hard he thought he’d started bleeding from his eyes. It was only tears, Peter reassured him. They managed to remove his boots and trousers with no help from him.
Twice he thought he heard her outside his door, the green-eyed voice with the breasts that should be freed of their corseting. The lady with the lavender body whom he would like to play like a drum, hard and fast. When he pictured her, the monster pulled away from the shore, revealing her lying naked on the beach like a selkie.
“The captain cannae see anyone today,” Peter said in a hushed voice.
The migraine came rushing back like the tide. Someone made a bleating sound. To his eternal shame, it came from him.
Minutes later, hours later, seconds later—what did it matter—he heard Green Eyes talking again. She was arguing with Peter, the feisty wee bizzum. The door opened allowing the evil daylight inside his cabin. With it came swishing petticoats.
