Forgetting the Scot Page 17

  The boy led them out of the captain’s quarters and across the deck, careful to keep to the railing so as not to be in the way of the crew. They came to the hatch leading below deck, the same hatch from which the women had escaped, only instead of a ladder, there was now a staircase. Lucy handed Peter Hercules and went down first. Virginia, however, balked at the opening.

  Peter seemed to sense her discomfort instantly. “It’s no’ there anymore, Your Ladyship. The pen where they kept you, we took it down and burned the wood for good measure.”

  Virginia nodded her understanding and descended. From the section of the ship accommodating the crew, they walked past the galley and food storage, past the mizzenmast, and proceeded through a door into a passageway.

  “Passenger berths.” Peter swept his arm. “Three individual small cabins on one side and one large cabin on the other. They’ve been fitted for paying passengers with bunks and bedclothes.”

  Lucy found Alex and Jemma already settled in the large cabin.

  “You can take this one, Mr. Snowdon,” Peter said, showing the clerk one of the smaller cabins.

  Snowdon’s eyes widened when he peered inside.

  Peter turned to Virginia with a smirk reflecting what she was thinking. Snowdon’s accommodations on Gael Forss were far superior to his last sea voyage. She glanced around for her belongings but didn’t see her trunk in any of the other cabins.

  “Which one would you like me to take, Mr. Peter?”

  “Your Ladyship will be staying in the fo’c’sle. This way.”

  Virginia followed Peter up and onto the deck, happy to see the sky again, even if the sun refused to shine today.

  “We fixed up two more rooms for the ship’s surgeon and his surgery. Only we dinnae have a surgeon, yet. Mr. Ian—” Peter winced and corrected himself. “Captain Sinclair thought, being a viscountess and all, you might want this cabin to yourself.” He opened the cabin door on a plain but spacious and light-filled room. Her trunk had been stowed next to the berth. “It isnae as fancy as the passenger cabins, but it’s bigger and it’s above deck.”

  The tightly wound knot of nerves in her belly uncoiled. She wouldn’t have to sleep below. Peter and Captain Sinclair had been sensitive to her fear. “Thank you, Mr. Peter. Or should I address you by your rank?”

  “I’m quarter master, but Mr. Peter will do.” He shielded his mouth as if someone might overhear and leaned toward Virginia. “I’m also part owner of Gael Forss.”

  “You are an exceptional young man.”

  A few minutes later, Lucy joined Virginia on deck. In a flurry of shouts, the crew released the ropes tethering the ship to the pier and raised anchor. While Gael Forss drifted away from Thurso Harbour with the tide, Captain Sinclair called to the crew and they gathered around him on deck.

  “What is Mr. Peter doing?” Virginia asked.

  Lucy shrugged. “Looks like he’s passing out cups of whisky to the crew.”

  “Why?”

  “For luck,” Alex said, joining them with Jemma asleep in his arms. “Seamen are a superstitious lot. They take a tot of whisky when they launch on the tide to guarantee a safe voyage.”

  Captain Sinclair’s clear baritone rang out, and the men quieted. He spoke words in a thick Scots burr that Virginia couldn’t make out. It sounded like a poem of sorts.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “In plain words, he’s wishing the ship to steer clear of rocks and sands and pirates, and…” Alex cocked his head. “And that a good shot of whisky will rid the ship of evil and keep us all free.” He smiled down at Lucy and wrapped one arm around her shoulder to pull her close to him.

  “I suppose that’s the best thing to wish for,” Lucy said.

  Jemma woke and started to fuss. To appease her, Alex walked her about the deck pointing to things and naming them for her entertainment.

  “He’s good at being a father,” Virginia said.

  Lucy smiled. “He’s good at being a husband, too.”

  It was meant as a saucy remark, a private jest between mature married women, and she made the obligatory knowing laugh. The laugh was a lie, though. She had no idea what it was like to have a good husband. Magnus, on the other hand, would be a good husband. He would be good at everything, she had no doubt.

  She and Lucy turned to the railing to watch as the distance between the ship and the coast of Scotland grew. She scanned the dock. Searching.

  “I was certain he would wave to me.” She realized with a start that she had spoken her thought out loud.

  “I have no doubt it pains Magnus not to escort you to London,” Lucy said. “But it’s for the best. For you and for him. For everyone, really.” When Virginia didn’t respond, she continued, “Magnus has become…too attached, Ginny. He’d likely lose his head, do something rash, and possibly hang. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “No. Never. You’re right, of course.”

  She closed her eyes and, silently this time, said goodbye to Magnus and Scotland and her heart.

  …

  The space was too small for Magnus’s body. It was dark, as well. The bolt-hole in the ship’s hull had been designed for storage, not for humans. He couldn’t even sit without stooping. The only comfortable position was lying on his back atop his plaid with his bag as a pillow. Peter had smuggled him aboard in the wee hours of the morning, when it was still dark. The boy had chosen this spot to stash him, as it was rarely visited by any crew member.

  “Stay here and dinnae make a sound until I come for ye,” Peter had said and left Magnus with a bottle of ale and a loaf of bread he’d pilfered from the galley. He’d left a chamber pot as well, but Magnus couldn’t figure out a way to use it while lying down. Ignoring Peter’s explicit rules, he had, on three occasions, crawled out of his tomb-like berth and stood to piss.

  He slept in fits, the movement of the ship and the creak of the bilge pump on the other side of the wall lulling him into semi-consciousness. Then he’d wake again to the ship’s bell and pounding footsteps from above. He also had no idea how many hours had passed and could only guess at the time. At last, he heard Peter.

  “Mr. Magnus. I ken you can come out now. We’re far enough, Mr. Purdie willnae turn the ship around.”

  Magnus slid out from his hidey-hole and stretched. He leaned backward until he heard the satisfying pop and crackle of his spine.

  “Yeck.” Peter held up the oil lamp and made a disgusted face. “Is that what happens when you get old?”

  “I’m no’ old, ye loon.” He wanted to smack Peter upside the head as he deserved, but he was still indebted to the cur. “Go on. Lead the way up top.”

  He gathered his belongings and followed Peter quietly up two flights onto the deck. He breathed in the salt air and let the wind whip his hair about. Bloody hell. Less than one day trapped in that hull. How had Virginia kept her sanity for ten weeks?

  A few shadowy shapes prowled the deck, the night crew. They paid him and Peter no mind. The moon had set, and the ship was shrouded in darkness save the few oil lamps placed fore and aft.

  “What time is it?”

  “Midnight, I ken.”

  “Everyone asleep?”

  “Aye.”

  “Which is the viscountess’s cabin?”

  Peter set the oil lamp down and folded his arms. “I shouldnae tell ye.”

  Magnus gritted his teeth and growled. “I’m in no mood for your games. Which cabin is hers or I’ll tear this ship apart looking for her.”

  The bloody loon actually raised his fists as if to challenge him. “The viscountess is a lady. If you plan to trifle with her, you’ll have to go through me first.”

  That the lad would have defended his mistress in the face of the thumping he would surely get, dispelled some of his agitation.

  “Nae, Peter. I would never do anything to harm her. I’ve vowed to protect her with my life until she’s delivered home safe.”

  Peter lowered his fists slowly. After a moment, h
e pointed to the fo’c’sle. “She’s in there.”

  “Is Lucy with her?”

  “The suite is hers alone.”

  “Thanks, man. Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” He collected the oil lamp from the deck and slipped through the fo’c’sle portal. The lamp cast light on two doors. He tried the right and held the lamp aloft. A table, a narrow berth, and a row of cabinets lashed shut. No one inside. He tried the left. The handle was on the latch.

  He leaned against the door, rapped his knuckles, and rumbled, “Virginia. Wake up, lass.”

  He heard the rustling of bedclothes behind the door. She was here, within reach. In a moment, he would slip his arms around her and—

  The latch clicked and the door opened. The golden light of his oil lamp glinted off the copper head of his Goddamned cousin Alex.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” he asked, anger rocketing to his limbs at the possibility Alex was sharing a bed with Virginia.

  “Better question, mate,” Alex said in a deadly tone. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Alex shoved him in the chest, a challenge that required an immediate answer. He shoved Alex back.

  That’s all it took.

  The altercation was quick and brutal, a bare-fisted scuffle between men as close as brothers. Afterward, they sat side by side on the steps leading to the helm. Alex leaned backward, pinching his bleeding nose shut. Magnus rested one elbow on his knee and nursed his throbbing eye with a wet rag.

  “You realize,” Alex said, sounding stoppered, “my da is going to kill you when you get back.”

  “Aye.”

  “This doesnae change the fact that Lady Langley is married.”

  “Aye.”

  “We’re still bringing her home.”

  “Aye.”

  Alex straightened and tested his nose for leakage. Finding no blood, he asked, “Then what the hell are you doing, man?”

  “First, why were you in her cabin?”

  “Jemma’s being difficult. She’s got a belly ache from the motion of the ship. Lady Langley offered to help. I couldnae sleep with Jemma fussing so I traded bunks.”

  After a long silence, Magnus said, “I think Langley means to murder her.”

  “Cousin, I know you well. You’re not a man prone to fancy. But do you think it’s possible you imagine Langley is trying to kill Her Ladyship because it’s the only way you can justify wanting another man’s wife?”

  He dropped the useless wet rag and gently prodded his eye with a finger. He was going to have a keeker no matter what. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Did Uncle John tell you about the men who came looking for her?”

  “Pismire and Mudd. Aye.”

  He related his story about following the men, the bits and pieces of their conversation he’d overheard, and the actions that had necessitated their deaths. “I ken that’s not proof, but why else would they come all the way north if they werenae sent?”

  “If you had left at least one of them alive, we could have asked him, ye numpty.”

  “I couldnae help it. I was in a rage.”

  “This is the reason my da didnae want you to come along. If you lose your temper like that in England, you’ll hang.” Alex shook his head and sighed. “I cannae fault you. Same thing happened to me with those teuchters that tried to rape my Lucy. Kill first. Ask questions later.”

  They were quiet for a few minutes, listening to the snap of the sails, the creaking timbers, and the constant shoosh of the water as the ship cut through the surface of the sea.

  “Killing those men,” Alex said, “it felt good, aye?”

  “God forgive me, cousin. It felt great.”

  Two hours later, Ian stood at the bottom of the stair shading his eyes from the morning sun. “How did you—?”

  “I snuck on board night before last.”

  “Nae.” Peter appeared behind Ian. “It was me, sir. I smuggled him aboard.”

  Ian rounded on Peter and shouted. “Does it mean nothing to you that I’m captain?”

  Peter didn’t flinch under Ian’s blast. Instead, he sighed. “I’m the cupid.” He sounded resigned to an onerous task.

  The trio of cousins uttered a chorus of, “What?”

  “Mrs. Swenson made me cupid for Mr. Declan and Miss Caya and they fell in love. I thought I would be a good cupid for Mr. Magnus and Lady Langley.”

  “Lady Langley is married. You ken that.”

  “I do, but I read what is a cupid. A cupid can make anyone love even if it makes no sense.” He held a hand to his heart and recited,

  “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind

  And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

  Nor hath love’s mind any judgment taste;

  Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.

  And therefore is love said to be a child

  Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.”

  Dumbstruck, the three cousins stared down at Peter as if he had, in fact, sprouted wings.

  Peter shrugged a bony shoulder. “Shakespeare.”

  …

  Virginia dreamed she was lunching in the solar of Bromley Hall, when Cutter, the butler, entered and announced that her baby had arrived. A small, squat woman bustled into the room holding a bundle.

  She fumbled for her spectacles. “Is that you, Mrs. Swenson?”

  “Here’s your wee bairnie, Your Ladyship.” Mrs. Swenson placed the heavy bundle in her arms.

  “What’s his name?”

  No one would tell her. When the bundle whined and squirmed, she unwrapped the blanket and found a wolf cub with blue eyes and gray fur.

  She reached for the ball of fur and, as the dream dissolved around her, she found Hercules whining and wiggling in bed with her. Hercules’s tail beat the bedcovers, his excitement rapidly growing.

  She sat up and rubbed the crick in her neck, having slept in her clothes at an odd angle. The sunlight fell across a slumbering Lucy and Jemma on the other side of the cabin. Sleep. The three of them had very little of it last night. It took forever, but they’d finally gotten Jemma to close her eyes. Soon after, they heard shouts and thumping from above. It sounded like men brawling. Whatever it was, the commotion woke Jemma again, and Virginia and Lucy had had to start all over.

  She undid her braid and combed her fingers through the tangles of the night. Hercules wiggled and whined at the door. “Coming,” she whispered, and finished rebraiding her hair. She pulled her spectacles from her pocket and put them on. “Let’s go do your business, little man.” She had no idea where that would be on board a ship, but she’d find out soon enough.

  She and Hercules slipped out of the cabin and down the hallway. She scooped the dog under her arm, hitched the hem of her gown higher and tucked it into her belt, then made the climb up the steep stairs to the open deck. Hercules spilled out of her arm and, nose to the floor boards, began his desperate search.

  She spotted Alex and Captain Sinclair’s broad backs blocking her view of whomever they were talking to. Good. Alex was up. She could return to her cabin and change her gown before breakfast. Perhaps she could rest a bit more, as well.

  Hercules bounded toward the two brothers, and Alex and Ian parted to greet the tiny maniac. It was then that her world tilted and everything that was real became unreal.

  Magnus shouldered his way between his cousins and strode toward Virginia. He was smiling and looking bigger than usual, God-like and, to use Caya’s word, very virile. Thank goodness, she had been rendered immobilized or she might have flung herself into his arms. How had he come to be on board? Had they returned to Thurso in the middle of the night?

  Magnus stopped in front of her.

  “There you are,” she gasped.

  “You didnae think I’d let you go without me, did you?”

  His left eye was swollen and red. “What happened to your—”

  Still smiling, he shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Does Laird John know you’re he
re?” Her voice sounded unusually high and tremulous.

  Magnus squinted his one good eye and scratched his beard. “Weeeeell, no’ exactly. I mean, by now I ken he knows. I left a note. But he didnae give me leave.” He laughed. “I’ll catch hell when I get back.”

  She remembered the last time she’d seen him, covered in blood and looking angry, not at all like himself. “Did you tell your uncle about those men?”

  The humor went out of his eyes. “I frightened you. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not sorry. They were going to kill me.”

  “I know. That’s why they’re dead. If I have to kill a hundred more, I’ll see you safe.”

  “Magnus!”

  He ignored the call. Instead, he touched the tail of her braid with one finger. “Your hair, the color ’minds me of honey.”

  “Magnus!”

  He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and back. His smile returned, and he dipped his head. “Viscountess.” Then he trotted toward the captain’s quarters.

  She smiled. He refused to say, “my lady.” He couldn’t bring himself to refer to her as Lady Langley. Instead, he called her Viscountess, which she rather enjoyed. Almost as much as when he called her “love.”

  A bell rang signaling a change in shifts, and a stream of men emerged from below, barefoot and in shirt sleeves. The smell of fried sausages wafted up through the hatch with them. Time for breakfast.

  No longer tired in the least, she floated to her cabin, washed her face, and changed her gown. Her heart had broken when Magnus hadn’t come to the pier to say goodbye. That rascal. He’d been hiding below deck the whole time. She felt giddy like a girl. He had saved her life twice. Twice. Magnus Sinclair was, and always would be, her champion. He’d vowed to see her safely to England and, at the risk of his Laird’s ire, he’d remained true to that vow.

  She passed several crew members on her way to the captain’s quarters for breakfast. They weren’t filthy and lecherous like the pirate crew. They wore reasonably clean and mended clothing that covered most of their bodies. They knuckled their foreheads and mumbled polite good mornings to her.

  Mr. Peter opened the portal door with a sweeping bow, inviting her in. “Good morning, Your Ladyship.”