by L. L. Muir
“Ah. I see yer point. Perhaps ye can spread the word that the cabin boy has also been enlisted.”
The big man took two steps and glared down into Trem’s face. “What kind of man would risk an innocent lad’s life?”
“One who is determined to save an innocent lass.”
The boatswain’s eyes darted to the sleeping form on the bed. He took a deep breath, and sighed. “I would rather ye used me in the boy’s stead, sir.”
Trem shook his head. “Just do a thorough job spreading the word, aye? There’s a good man.”
The sailor finally stepped back, but seemed in no hurry to leave. “Anything I can do for the lady?”
“Pray, I suppose.”
The man nodded sharply as if he’d been given an order, then spun on his heel and left. Trem closed the door and lowered the bar across it. The sun was going down. It would be dark soon, and he only expected one more visitor that night.
“Where are ye, Mr. Peebles,” he whispered.
Sherlock Holmes would have been quite disappointed with him, to have unearthed so few clues thus far. Surely, there would be a hint or two in the trunk, but since the lass had wakened, Trem had no right to rifle through her things. As soon as she was alert and able to speak, however, he hoped to comb through the contents with her.
He was cautiously optimistic she would, indeed, wake again. He simply had to take good care of her until she did. As he’d heard folks say on the telly, he would make certain she drank plenty of fluids when possible. But if she grew feverish, he had no ken what to do about it.
He returned to her side and, careful not to wake her, laid his hand on her brow. To his great relief, her porcelain skin felt no more warm than expected. He only hoped she would remain that way throughout the night. Her cheeks glowed a healthy pink, as did her lips—no longer tinged with blue as they had been in the dingy.
He pushed her hair away from her head and fluffed it a bit with his fingers, hoping it would dry quickly. On a hook near the head of the bed, he hung the lantern that held a fat candle. It would keep the chill away, and he closed the wee metal door to keep the light from shining in her eyes. Then, with nothing more he could do for her at the present time, he blew out all the candles but one on the table and decided to rest his eyes while he waited for Peebles to come calling.
He was beginning to remember what it had been like to have a human body, with a very human need for rest. So he untucked the tail of his plaid, wrapped the excess around his shoulders, and settled into the captain’s chair. He propped his bare feet on the table next to his dirk, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the familiar smell and rolling whispers of the ocean.
“Remember…remember…remember,” it said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Trem awoke and was immediately alert, as if someone had run a fingernail along the bottom of his foot, though no one had. All candles had burned out. The cabin was dark as pitch. The floor bucked up and down to remind him he was still aboard the galleon. Off to his left, the lass slept in an inky silence.
He reached for the dirk and was relieved to find it where he’d left it. Silently, he got to his feet, prepared for whatever might come.
If Trem had still been a spirit on the moors of Culloden, he would assume he’d been roused by a wish, a prayer, a sentiment spoken for him specifically. It was a more common occurrence in the early years after the battle. When such things happened, the spirit would rise and come to stand before the mortal, bound together by that sentiment, if only for the span of a heartbeat or two. Then the spirit would be free to wander away at will.
It had happened to Trem thrice. The first two times he’d been wakened by his own sister. The first, nearly five years after the slaughter. She’d come to offer a prayer and a torrent of tears. Two decades after that, she came again to say she’d be joining him soon in Heaven. And for a moment, he’d been able to wrap his arms around her and feel, again, the bond they’d shared as children. He still wondered if she’d sensed something, for she’d seemed much more at peace when she’d left the battlefield that day.
A short while later, it was his sister’s daughter, his own niece, who brought a sprig of flowers and a kind word. Other clansmen had come, searching, reverencing, but none who had called him by name. Until Soncerae…
Now, after the passage of so much time, it sent shivers up his spine to be wakened again with no reason. Just awake, but startlingly so. The hairs on his arms stood painfully on end.
He inched his way to the bed and knew, even in the darkness, the lass was awake. But blessedly, she held her tongue. Perhaps she sensed danger as well.
The moonless night gave no reference for the windows, no backdrop for shadows. The candle in the lantern had been spent, so whoever was in the room with them had no better visibility than Trem. Unless they were familiar with the layout, they wouldn’t know exactly where to find the woman.
Pressing a hand over her mouth would only startle her, so he reached down and patted her arm, located her head, and gently pressed a finger across her lips. She nodded beneath his touch, the clever lass.
A foot shuffled to the left of the bed. Trem gripped the dirk tight and hurried to place himself between the sound and the bed. A thud. A grunt. And something clattered to the floor. With no vision to help him, he simply swiped the knife through the air, willing to attack first and ask questions afterward.
The blade dragged across something, then was free again. The hiss of air being sucked through teeth was followed by quick footsteps, but he wouldn’t leave the lass’ side to pursue the villain. The door suddenly opened but there was still no light—only shades from his imagination. The fleeing figure blended with it all, making it impossible to guess its size. Man, woman, boy. There was simply no telling.
The door bounced gently against the wall and swung closed again. But two things were clear. Whoever had tried to kill the lass was desperate to see her dead. And they weren’t afraid of Tremayne Watson in the least.
With his empty hand, Trem reached behind him and patted the lass’ foot, hoping the action would reassure her. Thankfully, she followed his lead and said nothing. After all, they didn’t know how many others might still be in the room.
If someone hoped to lure him away from her by sending a man running from the cabin, they’d be mistaken. He braced himself for whatever might come at him. Then he listened.
The only sound of breathing came from the lass at his back, and even that was difficult to hear over the shushing of the ocean. Ropes strained and complained. The planks of the wooden hull creaked, but it all coincided with the movement of the ship. He simply had to listen for what was out of place.
He chided himself for nodding off to sleep without lighting another candle. And hadn’t he barred the door? Was there another way into the room?
Pin pricks of pain bit into his shoulder muscles from his tense stance. Then, to his relief, footsteps sounded outside the door—the footsteps of someone who didn’t care about being heard.
They pounded on the wood.
“Come in, Captain,” Trem called.
The door opened and the captain stepped inside, lantern in hand. The wee door was faced away from the man and the light was nearly blinding to Trem after straining so hard to see anything at all.
“Only the captain,” he barked.
Titus turned and waved someone else back outside, pushed the door closed, and looked around the room. “How did you know it was me?”
Trem shrugged to relieve the tense muscle in his shoulder. “None other than the captain would dare stomp around so boldly in the middle of the night.”
The man nodded. “You’ve had trouble?”
“Aye. How did ye ken it?”
“I set a man on the stairs to keep watch. He said the door slammed and someone ran out.”
“Did he see whom it was?”
The captain shook his head once. “Too nervous to follow, now that we know there really is a killer aboard. I think we all believed the wo
man had jumped. Until now.” He tilted his head to see past Trem’s shoulder. “Any change in your patient?”
“Auch, still unconscious, I’m afraid.” He didn’t know if the lass still listened, or if she’d nodded off again. But he hoped his declaration was warning enough. We can trust absolutely no one.
“Tell me what you need.”
“A bell or two, for the door, to start.”
The other man nodded. “You can’t stay awake the remainder of the journey. I’m happy to take a watch…”
Trem shook his head. “No offense, sir, but I must trust no one.”
“I understand.” The man did look a little disappointed, but Trem believed it was only a natural response to the slight against his ego as Captain. His good humor quickly returned. “Anything you want, just ask. I won’t have the Queen of Scots associated with murdered passengers if there is anything I can do about it.”
The man sounded sincere enough, but even so, Trem couldn’t remove him from his list of suspects. It frustrated the devil out of him, knowing he was moving in the wrong direction. Any Sherlock worth his salt would be narrowing his list by now, not adding to it.
CHAPTER NINE
After a store of candles, a large cow bell, and two sealed bottles of wine were delivered, Trem finally closed the door for the last time. The bar he’d placed across it earlier had obviously been slid back out of the bracket on the wall—done easily enough with a thin blade through the gap—but the brackets on the door had prevented the wood from falling and waking him up.
He slid the trunk against the door, replaced the ineffective board, then tied the bell on the end of it. If anyone slid it out of the way again, the movement would push the rope off the end and the bell would fall, loudly, to the floor. At least he hoped it would.
Before Trem was content, however, he lifted the end of the trunk and scattered a handful of salt rocks beneath it from the captain’s stash. The truck could still be pushed out of the way, but it would make a bloody racket.
He brushed his hands together and turned to find Miss Campbell propped up on her elbows watching him. “Ye’re awake,” he said, smiling.
“Ye’re real.”
He swallowed an obstruction. “Ye’re right,” he finally said. Her comment had caught him up short. Until that afternoon, he hadn’t been real to anyone but Soni in three centuries. It took some getting used to, like a new coat that drew unfamiliar attention.
Now that she was alert, it felt awkward to move so close to her, but he did it anyway. After all, he was supposed to be a doctor, and he couldn’t check her over from across the room.
He pressed the cup of water to her lips, then pressed his palm to her forehead. Not overly warm.
“How do ye feel?” Her hand was cold to the touch, so he tucked it beneath the blankets and she settled her head back on the pillow.
“I feel like a fool, I suppose.” She turned her head away, embarrassed. Even in the candlelight, he noticed the blush.
“Auch, now, none of that.” With a gentle hand, he urged her to face him. He couldn’t get enough of her eyes being open again, looking at him. His favorite of her expressions, however, was the first one he’d seen, in the water, when she’d been delirious with relief—like he was the answer to a prayer. “Foolish is the one who pushed ye overboard in the first place, lass. I don’t suppose ye got a look at the blackguard?”
She shook her head. “Ye call him foolish, not evil?”
He shrugged. “Aye, both. But foolish because I will discover the villain and make sure he can never harm anyone again.”
She smiled briefly, then her eyes grew wet as she sobered. “Ye’ll have to excuse me, sir. No one has ever tried to hurt me before.”
He tucked the blankets around her shoulders, pushed her hair away from her cheek again, and, with his finger, caught a tear escaping down the side of her face. “I vow, Miss Campbell, that no one will hurt ye again.” He pulled his sash aside and crossed his heart with her tear. “So long as I am with ye.”
She bit her lip and nodded with more tears threatening. But her blinks became longer and longer, until finally her eyes remained closed. “Oh, aye,” she mumbled. “I’m supposed to be Mary Campbell now.”
~
There would be no more sleep for Tremayne Watson that was certain.
By rights, he should never have been able to sleep in the first place after saving the life of a bedamned Campbell. But since she was a woman, he couldn’t have simply let her drown, even if he’d known her clan ahead of time. There was every chance he might have paused for a heartbeat or two, but nothing else would he have altered.
His current frustration was something different altogether. He’d known she was a Campbell and still he’d made a vow to protect her. He hadn’t forgotten he’d faced Campbells on the battlefield. He hadn’t lost his urge to spit after speaking the name.
But he’d vowed anyway.
A grand gesture, to be sure. And now he feared Soncerae would be calling him back before he’d identified the villain! If so, the next time the lass woke, she’d be alone again, at the mercy of her attacker, as good as dead!
“Please, Soni, leave me be,” he whispered to the ceiling. “What good is the vow if I’m nay allowed to see it through, aye?”
No answer came. The sloshing of the sea never changed its cadence. No feet shuffled on the quarter deck above him. And the floor remained solid below his still-bare feet. Another full minute passed with him holding his hands out to the side for balance, in case he was snatched away. Finally, he let them fall, and a slow smile grew on his face.
Perhaps I’m meant to solve the mystery after all. And the first step would be to find out the lass’ true identity.
CHAPTER TEN
Esme woke to the piercing rays of the sun leaking around the window shutters. The pallet beneath her swung forward and back, forward and back, and she was grateful her stomach was empty for the moment.
She lifted up onto her elbows and surveyed the room she’d only seen by candlelight the night before. The captain’s quarters they must be, she thought, considering the bright brass fixtures and carved wood details on both pillars and ceiling. The intricate carving that framed the black leather chair gave it the look of a kingly throne. A pirate king, perhaps? Once upon a time?
Or perhaps the transport of passengers from one continent to the other was lucrative enough for such a lifestyle. She’d overheard Mr. Peebles speculating just such a thing after dining with the captain a few weeks into their journey. Now she realized he hadn’t been exaggerating.
She felt even more a fraud to have the chamber to herself, if only for the moment. If she remembered right, the captain had come to the door in the night, but had left again. In fact, he’d left her alone with a stranger, and her an unmarried woman! What had he been thinking?
Rescuer or not, the Scot was still unknown to her. And she feared her reputation among the crew and passengers would be destroyed. But she couldn’t very well complain. After all, he’d vowed to protect her, and wasn’t her life more important than her reputation?
She sighed and winced at the soreness of her throat and chest. It reminded her just how close she’d come to being left to drown, and a shiver rattled through her bones. Although she still feared for her life, she couldn’t help but revel in the knowledge that she had survived to live another day—thanks to the brave Scot who had not only saved her, but had vowed to protect her.
She was truly blessed, and believed her father was looking down on her from Heaven, helping her out of the mess he’d left her in.
Her chintz gown was folded and lying on the wide table in the center of the room. A peek beneath the blankets proved she had nothing more than her shift covering her. So, even though it took all her energy to do so, she sat up, stretched her toes down to the floor, and stood. She ignored the pounding in her head and the weakness in her knees and forced her way to the table. Leaning a hip against it for balance, she hurried into the gown, hop
ing no one would come through the door until she was covered. Then, holding on to the same hope, she made use of the chamber pot.
Relieved, and feeling light as a feather, she carefully made her way to the shutters, opened a window, and emptied the pot into the wake below.
The bright morning sun smiled into her face and she was forced to turn away lest the light split her skull in twain.
“What the devil are ye doing?”
The deep growl came from the opposite side of the room, but she could see no one. She lowered her gaze to the jumbled mess barring her exit, and found a man sitting amongst the clothing strewn about an open trunk. Every bit of it looked familiar!
“What am I doing?” Heaven save her, the man had been in the room while she’d used the chamber pot! “What the bl…” She checked her tongue. The real Mary Campbell had probably never used the word bloody in her life. “Pray, sir. Why are ye still here?”
He seemed a bit groggy as he climbed to his feet, which gave her hope he’d slept through her toilette.
“Forgive me, lass. I was surprised to find ye out of bed, let alone fussing about the place, aye?” He pointed to the pirate throne. “Here, now. Sit ye doon.”
He gestured for the chamber pot and she realized she’d held it poised above her shoulder as if she might use it as a weapon. Rather than hand it over, however, she bent and placed it on the floor by the outer wall. If he intended to use it in front of her, he was mistaken.
She straightened, and it felt as if the lid had come off the top of her head and her soul was escaping.
“Easy now,” the man said quietly as he hurried to catch her. “Slow movements, aye?” With his strong hands beneath her arms, and his warm body much too close to her own, he escorted her to the large chair and helped her ease into it. The seat was so deep, her knees kept her from reaching the back of the chair, so the Scot collected the pillow from the bed and stuffed it behind her, until at last, she was able to relax and remain upright.