Saving the Scot Read online

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I hear you’ve been captaining your own ship these last years.”

  The general’s mood had shifted and Ian eased himself back into the chair. “Aye, sir. The Gael Forss. It’s fine work, the shipping trade, but as you know, I prefer the life of a soldier.”

  “A passenger vessel?”

  “We can accommodate a few passengers, but mostly we ship goods up and down the coast and to and from the Continent.” Ian relaxed into a comfortable conversation with the general, confident the meeting was going well.

  “And America?”

  “The Gael Forss will sail for Boston next month, sir.”

  “I…have a favor to ask of you.” The general looked unsure of himself, something Ian had never witnessed in the Tartan Terror.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “It’s a personal favor, really.”

  Personal? Alarms went off in Ian’s head. Had an ill wind shifted the meeting off course? “Anything, sir.”

  “Good. I knew I could count on you.”

  Shite. He’d just agreed to do whatever the hell the general had on his mind. He hoped it had nothing to do with treason or murder.

  “I need you to escort my daughter to Connecticut to meet her fiancé.”

  Disappointment rose up the back of Ian’s throat and he swallowed hard. “You want me to take your daughter to Connecticut aboard the Gael Forss, sir?”

  “Aye.”

  Bloody frigging hell. A goddamned child minder. That’s the commission the general had in store for him. His daughter’s chaperone. Sweat beaded on his forehead and the knot in his neckcloth Peter had tied so perfectly was beginning to choke him. “I see.”

  “Now, I know you were hoping for a commission. Do this favor for me, deliver my daughter into the hands of her fiancé, and there will be a choice assignment waiting for you when you return.” The general rose and held out his hand. Apparently, everything was settled and the meeting was over.

  Dazed, he stood and shook hands. “Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” he said, as a matter of form.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be present to see my daughter off. I’m leaving today for Belfast. Her brother Connor will take care of the arrangements. She’ll have a companion, of course. I trust that’s no problem.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “Good,” the general said. “Again, my thanks. I have complete confidence in you. Good day, Sinclair.”

  Ian saluted, turned on his heel, and exited the office.

  Peter waited in the hallway looking expectantly at him. “Did you get the commission?”

  He blinked. “Aye, but first I must complete the Thirteenth Labor of Hercules.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. I need a drink.”

  …

  Louisa sat on the edge of her bed and read the note her father had left before his hasty departure for Belfast. It couldn’t be true. Surely there was a way to stop this madness before it was too late. She sighed a stage-worthy, “Ah, me. What am I to do?”

  Mairi removed Louisa’s shoes and tsked with disapproval. “The bow on your left slipper has come loose.”

  Louisa sighed again. “It’s tragedy, pure tragedy.”

  “Och, it’s no’ so bad. I’ll give it a stitch and it’ll be good as new.”

  “Not my shoe. This.” She thrust the offending note at Mairi.

  “What? The letter from the general?”

  “He’s gone and done it. He’s sending me to America to marry. The contracts are signed and passage has been arranged.”

  Mairi’s eyes flew open wide. “America,” she gasped. “You’re goin’ to America?”

  “We both are. I wouldnae leave you behind,” Louisa assured her.

  “Me?” Mairi put a hand to her chest.

  “A’ course you’re going wi’ me. I cannae go alone, can I?”

  “Oh, oh, miss. Is it really true? We’re going to America?” Mairi fanned herself, her face a portrait of rapture. Louisa had never seen such a reaction from her normally levelheaded maid. Excitement seemed to be building inside her at an alarming rate and Louisa worried the girl might swoon.

  “Bonnets, Mairi. This isnae good news. It’s a disaster. He’s making me marry some…” Louisa struggled to get the word out. “Man.” She stood and paced the room, angry with the general, irritated with her maid, and furious that events had brought her to this precipice.

  “Who?” Mairi asked, startling Louisa out of her vigorous pacing.

  “What?”

  “Who is it you’re to marry?”

  Louisa referred to the letter again. “A Mr. Edward Kirby. Oh, God.” She flung herself backward onto her bed, lifted the letter in the air, and waved it like a flag of surrender.

  Mairi took the letter then and read. When she’d finished, she looked at Louisa quizzically. “Whatever is there to fash aboot? This Mr. Kirby sounds like a good sort of fellow. He’s a young man, got his own business—a foundry—and he’s doing fine by it. He’s even got a big house and servants, forby.”

  “I dinnae care if he’s the Prince of Egypt, I willnae marry. Ever.”

  “Ye want to be a spinster all yer life?”

  The mere sound of the word sparked Louisa’s fury. She sat up and pointed an accusing finger. “Dinnae ever use that word in front of me, Mairi. You ken I hate it. It’s a nasty, dirty word people use to shame women for not finding a husband, as if that’s the only way for a woman to live, to attach herself to a man like his favorite hound, dependent upon him for food and shelter, left begging at his feet for an occasional pat on the head, and then forgotten in some corner of the house. Well, that’s no life for me. Ever. I’ll not be someone’s hound and I’ll not be called a spinster. I’ll be my own woman. I’ll run away if I have to.”

  “Go an’ boil yer heid, ye dafty. Ye cannae run away. What would you do?”

  “I could do lots of things. I could teach or run a shop or be a lady’s companion. I could even be an actress,” Louisa said with some reservation. She hadn’t really had an opportunity to prove herself a competent actress, but she thought she could, given the chance. “I thought to run away to London and try to be an actress there. The problem is, no matter what I do, Da would just send one of my brothers to drag me home again.”

  “You ken very well the stage is no place for a proper young lady such as yerself. That’s what got you into this mess, is it not?”

  Louisa reached for Mairi’s hand and pulled her down to sit next to her on the bed. The girl was her maid, yes, but she was also Louisa’s only confidante and, as they were equal in age, both being twenty-two, the one person who understood her completely. She let her head rest on her friend’s shoulder.

  “Oh, Mairi. I wish you had been there. It was the most glorious feeling to be standin’ on that stage in front of hundreds of people, everyone watching you, listening to you, loving you. If only Da had watched me just a wee while, he might have loved me.” She corrected herself. “I mean, he might have liked my performance.”

  “Och, he’s worried for ye, is all. Things will be fine. You’ll see. No doubt Mr. Kirby is a worthy fellow.” Mairi rose and collected the slippers for mending. “Lord knows, I’d give my eye teeth to trade places with you.” She chuckled and said more or less to herself, “Aye, that’d be heaven, it would.”

  The ghost of an idea tickled at the back of Louisa’s brain. “What did you say?”

  “Pah,” Mairi flapped a hand. “I was talking havers.”

  “No. You said you’d trade places wi’ me.” Perhaps she had read too many Shakespeare plays but… “Were you serious?”

  Mairi straightened, her brow buckled. “Wed a rich man like that and never have to work again? Have servants wait on me for a change? A’ course I’d want to be you.” She shook her head and continued toward the door, still laughing to herself. “Who wouldnae want to be you?”

  In the next moment, a fully formed plan popped into Louisa’s h
ead and unfurled like a rug. She jumped to her feet and called, “Wait.”

  Mairi paused at the door. “Yes, miss?”

  “Come here.” Breathless with excitement, Louisa pulled out the chair to her dressing table. “Sit.” When Mairi didn’t move, she ordered, “Sit down.”

  The maid sidled toward the chair and lowered herself. “What’s got into you? I dinnae like the look on your face.”

  “Hold your wheesht and close your eyes.” She whipped off Mairi’s mobcap and the maid’s mess of auburn ringlets spilled over her shoulders. Louisa scooped them up and pinned them on top of her head, allowing a few ringlets to feather the sides of her face. Next, she clipped a pair of glittering earbobs into place, and pinched her cheeks into rosy peaches.

  “Ouch.”

  “Keep your eyes closed.” At the last, she buttoned a white lawn chemisette with a high ruffled collar around the girl’s neck. “There,” she said. “Take a keek.”

  Mairi stared into the mirror spellbound. Even Louisa had to admit, the transformation was astounding. Given the right adornment, Mairi was undeniably beautiful. The corners of her maid’s mouth curved up. “Oh, miss.” Then her eyes flicked from her reflection up to Louisa and her smile disappeared. “Oh, miss.” The timbre of her voice had changed from awed to appalled. “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Oh, no-no-no-no-no.”

  Louisa arched a brow. “Oh, yes-yes-yes-yes-yes.”

  …

  The bell above the door tinged as Ian entered the bookshop on St. Mary’s Wynd. He removed his hat and inhaled the familiar smell, that heady combination of leather with a trace of vanilla and printer’s ink. This was his favorite place in Edinburgh, the one spot where he could set aside his cares and silence the thing in his head that constantly demanded order.

  He exhaled, let his shoulders loosen and his mind slow.

  The bookseller acknowledged him from behind his counter with a raised hand.

  “My order’s come in, then?” Ian asked.

  “Only yesterday, sir.”

  Good. And just in time. The Gael Forss was set to leave in two days. At least he’d have something enjoyable to read during the crossing. He should purchase the book and be on his way, as there was still much he must accomplish yet this afternoon. Plus, he’d promised to stop at his sister Maggie’s house to say goodbye to her and the children.

  Ian gazed longingly at the shelves, bowed in the center, laden with treasure waiting to be excavated. And the golden letters embossed on the soft leather spines called to him, daring him to peek inside their covers. Well, maybe he could spare a few more minutes. What would be the harm? In any case, his sister would forgive him for being late if he arrived with gifts of books for his niece and nephew.

  He asked the bookseller, “Have you a recommendation for a lad of twelve years?”

  “The American author, Washington Irving, is popular. I have one copy of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”

  “I’ve heard of it. A ghost story, aye?” Ian smiled to himself. Young Malcolm would love it. Ian located the book, checked the binding, and tucked it under his arm. Now to find a suitable story for his nine-year-old niece, Belinda. He took a leisurely stroll down the first two aisles of shelves, randomly pulling down books to examine their fly pages and check the publication dates, but mostly for the sheer pleasure of holding them in his hands, testing their weight, and running his fingers over the textured leather.

  The rustle of skirts made him lift his head. Peering through the books to the next aisle, he caught a flash of pink. Pink was a young woman’s color. And was that lavender he smelled? Those three things—skirts, pink, and lavender—fired Ian’s need to investigate. He strolled to the end of the aisle and poked his head around the corner.

  He staggered backward upon seeing her. That she was young and pretty didn’t surprise him. He had a nose for beautiful women. What did surprise him was the look on her face. She stood smiling down at the pages with a dreamlike quality Ian had only seen on women in the throes of passion. Unmistakable carnal delight.

  “What the devil are you reading?” The question was out of his mouth before he could censor his words.

  Her head snapped up and wide green eyes, as bright as any gemstones he’d ever seen, stared back at him. And for a moment, he thought he’d been stabbed in the heart.

  “I beg your pardon?” Her response to his rude question sounded more like a challenge.

  “Forgive me.” He fumbled for something to excuse his impertinent behavior. “I…you seemed to enjoy…I mean, you were smiling and…I wondered what book could bring you that kind of…em, pleasure.”

  She clapped the book closed and hugged it to her breast. “What I read is none of your concern, sir.” Her eyes darted to the left. Was that guilt?

  Ian tilted his head to the side to examine the spine, which she promptly covered with her thumb, but not before he’d gotten a good keek at the title. “Moll Flanders,” he said, unable to check the surprise and, admittedly, the disapproval in his tone. A novel recounting the numerous lovers taken by a notoriously promiscuous woman was not a book a young and—Ian absently hoped—unmarried woman should be reading.

  The green-eyed lass—belay that—the very, very pretty green-eyed lass lifted her chin. “Not that it’s any of your business…” She glanced about the shop and lowered her voice to an angry hiss. “But I happen to enjoy Daniel Defoe.”

  Did she know the pink patches blossoming in her cheeks counteracted her attempt at defiance?

  “As do I, but—”

  “But what?” she demanded, her chin lifting another quarter of an inch.

  “Moll Flanders is awfy scandalous, is it no’?”

  “Indeed, it is.” She gave a sharp schoolmarm nod, as if she’d just smacked the back of his hand with a ruler. “And that is what I like about it.” She swept her skirts around and turned on her heel. “Good day, sir.”

  He didn’t understand why, but something compelled him to stop her, to keep her from walking away, walking out of his life. “Miss, if I may beg a favor?”

  She paused but didn’t face him.

  “Would you suggest a book to please a nine-year-old lass?”

  She spun. “Your daughter?” He thought he detected disappointment in her question.

  “My niece.”

  Her head wobbled as if deciding whether she should indulge him. “You might try The Nutcracker and the Mouse King by Mr. Hoffman. You’ll find it at the end of this aisle.”

  Ian bowed. “My thanks.”

  She dipped a quick curtsy.

  It took Ian less than a minute to retrieve The Nutcracker and the Mouse King. Maybe because she was pretty, or because she was shockingly interested in Moll Flanders, or maybe because she had challenged him so boldly, whatever the case and for whatever reason, he had every intention of continuing his conversation with Miss Green-Eyes. Perhaps, after introducing himself properly, she would meet him for a stroll in King’s Park tomorrow morning. The bell over the door jingled, sending a jolt of alarm up his legs. He rushed to the front of the shop and glanced about. Moll Flanders was left behind, forgotten on a table near the door.

  “Where did she go?” he asked.

  The bookseller frowned. “Who?”

  “The young woman with the green eyes and the cloak and the…” Damn. Why hadn’t he asked for her name?

  “I dinnae ken the lady, sir,” the bookseller said with a blank look. “Will you be adding those books to your order?”

  No matter how carefully Ian planned, nothing ever turned out as he envisioned. He’d expected to die on that field in Flanders seven years ago. He’d expected General Robertson to grant him a commission when he strolled into his office two weeks ago. And he’d anticipated spending his last two evenings with a saucy green-eyed lass he’d met in the bookshop this afternoon. No surprise to him, none of his expectations had been met. Fortunately, life had taught him to accept disappointment like a man and move on.

  But nothing, absolutel
y nothing, could have prepared Ian for what awaited him at the Leith Docks this afternoon.

  His niece and nephew had loved their gifts and thanked him with kisses. His sister Maggie had grumbled that the ghost story would surely give Malcolm nightmares, but she’d thanked Ian, fed him, and had sent him on his way with a tin of ginger biscuits, his favorite. He ate half of them in the carriage on the way back to the ship while contemplating the green-eyed lass he’d met at the bookshop—a strange, intoxicating mix of bold and bashful.

  Upon reaching the docks, he paid the driver, collected his purchases and his half-empty biscuit tin, and headed toward the ship. A stout elderly woman stood before the gangway blocking his passage. She jammed her fists on her hips and demanded to know, “Are you Captain Ian Sinclair of His Majesty’s Royal Highland Regiment?”

  He smiled genially at her scowling face. “I am,” he said, trying his best to coax the woman out of her bad humor. “I mean, I was. I’m no longer in His Majesty’s service.”

  “I’ve been looking for you for six years,” she said, her expression still accusatory.

  His effort at charm had no effect. He must be losing his touch. “And now you’ve found me. What can I do for you, madam?”

  “Will you be claiming the child?”

  Child? What child? “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you no’ receive my daughter-in-law’s letters?”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “My son’s widow, Alice Crawford. She wrote to tell you she was with child—your child. Did you no’ receive her letters?”

  Alice Crawford. The name sounded familiar but…a sickly feeling crawled up the back of his legs and settled in his stomach. He remembered spending several nights with a war widow named Alice the week before he’d left for Flanders with his regiment.

  “No, I received no letter from… Are you saying she’s borne a child by me?”

  “Aye. A son.”

  The initial shock having receded, Ian grew skeptical. “Why did Alice no’ come to find me?” he asked, his voice having hardened.

  The fire in the older woman’s eyes went out. “She’s dead,” she said dully. “Died in childbirth.”