Ghosts of Culloden Moor 18 - Watson

by L. L. Muir

  “Why do ye whisper?” she asked.

  He shook his head, chiding her for speaking too loudly, she reckoned. “I think ye’ll be safer, for the time being, if those who would harm ye believe ye may never wake.”

  “Who are ye?” she whispered, as much to spare her aching head as to play his game.

  “Tremayne Watson…er, Doctor. My friends used to call me Trem.”

  She laughed quietly. “And now what do they call ye?”

  “Mmm? Oh.” He wrinkled his nose at her, then felt her forehead with his hand.

  “Why do ye do that?”

  He shrugged. “Checking for fever.”

  “And?”

  He smiled. “So far, so good.”

  An awkward silence followed, wherein the natural place for her gaze to rest was upon his bare chest. So she glanced around the room until she again noted the disarray by the door. “And why were ye going through my things?”

  His brows rose, his expression doubtful. “Yer things? I was under the impression the trunk belonged to Mary Campbell.”

  Panic rose up her throat and choked her, but she swallowed it down again. “I am she.”

  The Scot’s head tilted a bit and he closed one eye while looking her over.

  “No,” he finally said. “ But I’d like to ken who ye are, and why ye’re pretending to be Mary.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Esme considered a convenient faint, but too late. The Scot had already read the guilt on her face, and though he tried to hide it, he was feeling a wee smug.

  The splash of the sea spray, the creaking of the bed ropes, the tapping of the Scotsman’s boot—they all waited for her to respond. But she didn’t dare speak.

  Any hope of her ultimate success pivoted on her ability to act, but unfortunately, she was a horrible liar. And there was no use lying to a man who obviously knew the real Mary Campbell. So what was she to do? Tell him the truth?

  All would be lost! Five long weeks of torture she’d endured with a smile, and it was all for naught if the man chose not to keep her secret!

  Did she dare tell him all? Granted, he’d already saved her life, but could he be trusted not to ruin what was left of it?

  She bit her lip for a moment to prevent it from trembling—she refused to play on the man’s sympathies. But she needed to know what he was thinking.

  “Will ye expose me to the captain, then?”

  His brow lowered. “We can trust no one for the moment. Not even the captain. At least, not until the villain is identified. But our problem is this—I will only be able to protect ye for so long.”

  He was a complete stranger to her, this half-dressed Scotsman, and yet, when he used the words we and our, she couldn’t help but feel as if they’d made some pact between them. As if, when he’d first pulled her back to the surface, a pledge had been made on both their parts. It was a silly fancy, of course, and her mind couldn’t be trusted in her current state, but she couldn’t ignore the way she felt.

  An exciting sense of conspiracy, perhaps? Not unlike a marriage between strangers, this implied vow of faith was not so different from what she had hoped to share with her husband-to-be, who awaited her in Boston. Only this pledge was going to keep her alive.

  She watched the doctor discreetly when he wasn’t looking directly at her, and she had to admit she’d be a lucky woman indeed if her husband turned out to be half so braw as the one with his backside resting on the table before her.

  A well-muscled man he was—how could she not notice when his crossed arms were bare, and not more than two feet away from her? Close enough to smell the scent of him, wrapped around him like so much plaid. Luckily for the Scot, the ban on clan colors had been lifted, for it wasn’t long ago he would have been arrested, and perhaps hanged, for wearing the traditional Scottish garb.

  She was going to miss the sight of it. She’d miss the sound of the bagpipes as well, for how often would she hear them in Boston—a place that had so recently freed itself from Britain’s rule.

  No, she’d not often hear the pipes again.

  “Chin up, lassie. I’m not going anywhere just yet, aye?”

  She gave him an earnest smile so he wouldn’t be bothered with her own worries. “I was merely thinking of what lay ahead, that is all.”

  “I suppose, since ye’re not Mary Campbell, there is also no groom awaiting ye in Boston?”

  She straightened. “Aye, but there is.”

  His brows rose. His lips quirked to one side. “Perhaps ye should explain. Ye see, the more I ken, the faster I can find yer attacker.”

  Esme didn’t know what he hoped to hear, and she wasn’t proud of the ruse she’d been forced into. But that bond between them helped set aside her pride and tell him what she could.

  She took a deep breath and began.

  “My name is Esme Forsyth. Lord Angus Campbell hired me. He refused to be blackmailed into voting a certain way, and the man blackmailing him threatened his family. So he decided to send his daughter to America, to marry her off to a respectable family in Boston. But his daughter refused to leave England. In fear for her safety, he hired me to impersonate her, so his foes would believe her out of reach. “

  “So he hired ye to play the decoy!” The doctor stood and stomped around to the far side of the table, then rested his fists on the surface. “A despicable man, to put ye in such danger.” He tilted his head then, and looked at her with one eye closed, as he’d done before. “So, ye couldn’t have been verra surprised when ye were attacked yesterday.”

  She shook her head in denial. “Ye’re wrong! I was surprised! For the whole of the voyage, no one has said an unkind word, nor looked sideways at me. I might have been wary for the first fortnight, but after that, I suppose I let my guard down…”

  The Scot gave her a kind smile. “Ye’re a terrible liar, Miss…”

  “Forsyth,” she whispered. “That I am. But what I’ve said is true—”

  “I don’t doubt it is. But I worry ye’ll not be able to lie to yer would-be husband—at least not as convincingly as ye might hope.”

  She nodded, admitting he was right.

  “I worry what will happen to ye if he fails to trust ye, Miss Forsyth.”

  “I confess, I worry the same. But I have no choice—”

  “Come now, lass. In this day and age… By the by, what day and age is this?”

  “I dinna ken what ye mean—”

  “Never mind. Never mind. I only meant to say that, in a new country, ye may be able to reinvent yerself. Choose a life that will make ye happy—”

  “I’m certain that’s not how life works, Mr. Watson. I’m a woman, if ye haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh, believe you me, I’ve noticed.” He suddenly bit his lip and turned his back to her, for which she was grateful. It was certain she was blushing as red as a rose and as hot as a ready teakettle. She suddenly remembered awaking wearing nothing more than her shift, and grew hotter still.

  “Mr. Watson?”

  “Yes?” Still, he didn’t turn, as if he found the doorway suddenly interesting.

  “Tell me. Who removed my wet clothing?”

  “Clothing?” He sounded distracted, as if he wasn’t paying strict attention to what she was saying. So she repeated the question more clearly. “Oh, yes. Well… I don’t know her name. One of the female passengers…” He waved off her concern.

  “Not Mrs. Fredrick?”

  He grunted. “Mrs. Fredrick wouldn’t hurry to save her own supper, I’m afraid, so…someone else had to do it. You would have perished if I’d waited for that unpleasant woman.”

  “But you didn’t wait?”

  “No. Couldn’t wait.”

  “So you did it yourself.”

  “What? Nay!” He slowly turned to face her, his face as red as hers felt. And she realized Doctor Tremayne Watson had no more talent for lying than she did.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Trem chided himself for not staying on task. He hadn’t be
en brought back to life to play patty fingers with a bonnie lass, but to save her. And he’d already used fifteen hours, give or take, of the two days he’d be allowed. And the only thing he’d discovered was that she wasn’t who she said she was.

  She wasn’t who she said she was!

  “Miss Forsyth,” he began.

  “Aye?”

  “If this villain of ours is set on killing Miss Mary Campbell…”

  “Aye?”

  “Then it might be fair to assume that all we need to do is reveal to all those on board that ye’re not, indeed, Mary Campbell. That ye’ve been hired as a decoy—”

  “No.” She rested her head against the high-backed chair, her lips pursed stubbornly.

  “What do you mean, no? We’re talking about yer very life, woman.”

  She shrugged one shoulder, but her gaze never wavered. He could see he would have to take another tack.

  “What if I spread the information as a rumor?”

  “I forbid it.”

  He came back around the table and resumed his perch upon it, not to intimidate her, but to reinforce the fact that they were on the same side.

  “Miss Forsyth—”

  “When we reach Boston, sir, there can be no doubt that I am Mary Campbell.”

  Boston. Where her betrothed awaited her. Ah.

  “This marriage means that much to you?”

  She lowered her gaze and he could feel her stubbornness soften.

  “Of course, I’ve never met the man,” she confessed, “but I have more than one reason to marry him.”

  “Oh?” He tried to keep his voice from betraying his disappointment. It mattered not how much time he was allotted, he knew that for every moment of it, he would feel as if the lass belonged to him—or at least her safety did. It was only natural to feel a bit possessive, wasn’t it?

  “I’ve no money, sir. With my father gone now, I have no home, no family. No dowry, no prospects. Without a husband, I’d find myself in dire straits, no matter the country.”

  He couldn’t argue with her. The 18th century was a bit early for a woman to find independence and thrive. “And the second reason?”

  She lifted her head and looked him square in the eye. “I’ve given Lord Campbell my word.”

  He scoffed at that. “Lord Campbell hired ye under false pretenses, lass. Whatever yer contract, there is nothing binding ye now.”

  “But there is.” She avoided his gaze again. “The man owns all my father’s debts, and he’ll only forgive them if I go through with the marriage.” Her chin came up again. “And I refuse to dishonor my father’s name by running off to chase some dream of happiness. My family honor is all I have left in this world. Surely ye can understand that.”

  “I need air,” he said. “Don’t make a noise, do ye ken? I won’t go far, but I…need air.” He pulled his now-dry shirt from the improvised clothesline, tossed it over his shoulder, and strode quickly to the exit. He had to slide the noisesome trunk out of the way to escape, and hoped the thick door would make an effective barrier between himself and the memories that threatened to take all the joy out of his brief mortal holiday. But when he pulled the door open, he found Mr. Peebles poised to knock.

  A welcome distraction. And a chance to interview one of his suspects…

  ~

  Trem stepped out into the short hallway and hoped his shoulders blocked all view of the lass inside. He closed the door when the older gentleman stretched his neck for a better look.

  Peebles offered a pained smile. “How fares the woman?”

  “Alive.” Trem took his shirt from his shoulder and shook it out between them.

  Perforce, the gentleman stepped back. “Lucky girl.”

  “Aye. Thus far. But her attacker is still aboard, so we can only hope her luck holds, aye?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. The boy explained why you couldn’t come to me last night, but I’m afraid my foot made it impossible for me to come to you.”

  “The gout, then?”

  The man shuddered and nodded. In the natural light of day, he appeared rather ashen compared to the day before. Pain, no doubt. But there was more.

  Trem nodded in understanding. “I assume, then, ye volunteered my alibi yesterday out of a presumption I had medicines.” He closed one eye and studied the man further. “Ye no doubt planned for a six week journey, but possibly haven’t been as strict with yer dosing as ye should. My guess is ye need relief from withdrawal symptoms as much as from pain, judging from the fact ye’re sweating profusely in spite of the morning chill. Yer eyes are also watering, and ye seem agitated.”

  Feeling quite pleased with his Sherlockian assessment, he cocked his head and waited for the man to be impressed.

  “I have no idea what you mean, Doctor, but you’re correct about the pain medication. I have no more, and I’ve passed a rather unpleasant night. Obviously, I would consider our accounts settled if you could spare enough to see me through the last week of the journey. Of course, I have paid the captain for your passage, as I promised to do yesterday…”

  Trem still suspected he was right about the withdrawals, but since the man had done him a great favor, he thought it only right that he spare his dignity. There was little else he could do for him.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Peebles. A troubled night could indeed explain yer other symptoms, and I do wish I could relieve them for ye. Unfortunately, I arrived on this ship without so much as a medical instrument, let alone a supply of medicines. In truth, I have nothing more than a bottle of wine the captain gave me last eve. I’ll be happy to send the boy around with it after I break my fast.”

  The man’s countenance grew more and more worried as Trem spoke, and after a flare of temper crossed his features, he produced a small pistol from the folds of his coat and held it up between them. The hammer was cocked. A flint was in place. A dangerous thing in the shaking hands of a man in pain.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Peebles growled quietly, though they were alone for the time being. He nodded to the door at Trem’s back. “Inside, sir.”

  Trem folded his arms and stood his ground. “Nay.”

  The flare of temper returned. “Open the door, Doctor. I’ll have a look for myself, or you’ll be sewing up your own gullet.”

  “I’ll allow no one inside, sir. I’ve vowed to protect the lass—”

  “I don’t give a hang about the woman! Open the—”

  Trem grabbed the top of the pistol and swung it away, while hoping to place the meat of his hand between hammer and flint before—

  Peebles pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Esme heard Mr. Peebles’ voice before the door ever closed behind the Scot, so she made her way back to the bed and managed to climb upon it without too much trouble. She’d felt stronger after being upright for a wee while, but she was quickly wearing down. And by the time she stretched out on the hanging bed, sleep sounded like a right grand idea. If she held with the doctor’s plan, she should be playing the role of unconscious patient if anyone made it through the door. And at the moment, it sounded as if Mr. Peebles wanted just that.

  It felt a bit cowardly to pretend, but she hadn’t the strength to argue with that frightened part of herself, the part that wanted to hide from the world until she was safely arrived in Boston. Her very heart hurt to think that someone truly wanted her dead—even though it wasn’t Esme Forsyth they wished to harm. And it brought tears to her eyes to think her attacker had been someone she’d been interacting with for over a month.

  Were people so capable of hiding wickedness? Should she truly trust no one?

  She was certain, if she entertained a wicked thought, everyone would know the instant she thought it!

  Something hard slammed against the cabin door so violently, it sounded like a pistol shot. She sat up, prepared to investigate, but then she heard voices again. Low voices. Not too alarmed. So she eased back to the pillow again. When the latch lifted, she had her eyes c
losed before the door had a chance to open.

  A single set of footsteps. She only hoped they were the doctor’s. When they didn’t come directly to her, she peeked through her lashes.

  Tremayne Watson rifled through her trunk, pulled out a long stocking, and began wrapping it around his hand—his bloody hand.

  “Ye’re bleeding!” She sat up quickly, prepared to help, but the room began to spin.

  “Haud yer wheesht,” he hissed, then gave her a wink. “A wee cut is all, lass. Dinna get up.”

  She nodded and rested back on the pillow. Speaking to the ceiling while he washed his cut with water, she asked why Mr. Peebles had come. She and the man had been assigned to the same group for meals, so she’d known his voice well enough, she explained. “And with his sore foot and cane, I would have remembered if he’d come up behind me on deck, aye?”

  The doctor nodded and neared the bed drying off his cleaned wound with the same stocking. “Mr. Peebles isn’t our man, then. He came to see if I had any medicines for his pain. Poor blighter is so desperate, he pulled a pistol.”

  “I don’t understand. Why are ye smiling then?” She glanced at his hand, but couldn’t see the cut.

  “I grabbed the weapon and he pulled the trigger, though he never meant to. He’s quite contrite about it. Willing to do anything to earn my forgiveness. So I have ordered him to keep an eye out for our villain—for any suspicious happenings among the passengers and crew. I believe it will help take his mind off his pain, but ye never know. Perhaps he’ll overhear something useful.” He took a close look at her, then, and frowned. “How do you feel?”

  “Tired,” she admitted. “But no other complaints.”

  “You swear it? No coughing? No pains in yer chest?” He pressed his hand against her brow—an action that was becoming a comfortable habit for her, and she wondered if he felt the same. Did he enjoy a moment of connection? Or was it merely a doctor’s way?

  A pity it would be unseemly to ask…

  “No pains. No coughing. I just feel…sore.”