First Time with a Highlander

by Gwyn Cready

  “Scotty?”

  “He works for my friend, Captain Kirk. You’d like him. He’s a Scot. He’s the guy who keeps the wheels turning on the ship.”

  Serafina looked stricken. “You are jesting, aye? You ken there are no wheels on a ship. You said it to me earlier.”

  “Yes, I know there are no wheels. What I mean is the master’s the guy who keeps the gears turning, the engine running, the balls in the air. It’s a metaphor.”

  “Oh, a metaphor. I suppose, aye. The master’s responsible for navigating, knowing the ship’s position, managing the hold, setting the sails, and overseeing various parts of the ship—the fittings, the pulleys, the anchors, etc.”

  “Sir,” said Duchamps, who had stepped over to join them, “the purser wishes to speak to you.”

  “Oh, shite.”

  Both men looked at Serafina, who shook her head. “Bit my tongue.”

  “Send him over,” Gerard said.

  The moment Duchamps descended the quarterdeck stairs, Serafina said, “The purser is Edward’s cousin, Tom. I completely forgot. Stay calm.”

  “What!?—a great pleasure.” Gerard extended his hand to the frock-coated man ascending the stairs as Serafina melted into the rigging. If the purser knew Edward, Gerard and Serafina were sunk.

  The purser hesitated when he saw Gerard. Gerard broke out in a sweat.

  “Eddie?”

  Gerard nodded, afraid to speak.

  “Lieutenant,” the purser called. “This is most peculiar.”

  Duchamps turned, alert. The sweat was running freely down Gerard’s temples now and into his hair.

  The purser frowned. “How can this man not be throwing his arms around his beloved cousin, Tom?”

  Gerard put his arms around the man, never so grateful to hug anyone.

  “How long has it been?” Tom asked.

  “Too long!” Thank God!

  “The things we did in that barn…” He thumped Gerard on the back, grinning.

  “Boys will be boys,” Gerard said confidentially, giving him an elbow.

  “I meant when we built the stone wall for my father. My back still aches, I think.”

  Strike one. “Mine too. Thank you for all your hard work here. It’s clear the ship has been, er, well pursered. Sad business with Thistlebrook. The men are uneasy. I can tell.”

  “I have to admit I was surprised.”

  “Were you?”

  “Well, I had thought you were partners in this.”

  “In this?” Gerard made a vague gesture that could have suggested anything from the buckles on his shoes to the North Sea.

  “Not the ship, of course. That other business—but perhaps ’tis best not to tongue wag.”

  “Indeed. Thank you.”

  “We’ll sit down later.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Tom smiled but there was something in his eyes. “You sound…so different than I remember.”

  “’Tis the time in Edinburgh, I expect. Nothing flattens a vowel like the boots of a Scotsman, isn’t that what they say?”

  “Is it? I admit I am rarely in Scotland or the North Sea. My work is mostly in the West Indies. Would you like to join us for dinner later in the wardroom?”

  “I am engaged.”

  “Aye, I’m certain your first day is quite full. Shall we plan to meet on the morrow? How’s your mother, by the way?”

  “That is a story for tomorrow.”

  Tom bowed and headed down the stairs.

  Gerard exhaled and Serafina reappeared. “He hasn’t seen Edward since they were children,” she said.

  “Gosh, that would have been a good fact to know.”

  “I’m sorry. He’s the reason I needed you. I could have bribed another purser for the cargo, but not Edward’s beloved cousin.”

  Gerard hesitated. “He says Edward is in league with Thistlebrook.”

  “How? On the cargo or something else?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “I’m going to look through the cargo again. There was also a locked room down there. I want to take a look.”

  “Are you sure you should go by yourself?”

  She gave him a devilish look. “Are ye worried for me or for you?”

  “You. You have me thinking everyone is a danger.”

  “Good. ’Twill encourage you to be cautious.”

  “Is there anything that might encourage you to do the same?”

  She lifted her shirt far enough for him to see the sheath of a knife tucked in her waist. “I don’t need caution. I have something more effective.”

  “Jesus.”

  “’Twould be helpful if ye would call the men to their stations for a long review—at least a quarter of an hour. And when you’re done, ask the cook for an omelet.”

  “What’s that for?”

  “Me, ye gawk. I’m starving.”

  He didn’t like the idea of her doing this on her own, but there didn’t seem to be much hope of stopping her. “Fine. A review of the men, and then I’ll just crawl up in the barrel and hide for the rest of the trip.”

  “Ha. That’s something I would pay dearly to see.”

  “You don’t think I could make it up there?”

  “I dinna think you could make it up that barrel.” She pointed to a water butt on the deck below. “I dinna doubt your strength. But scaling anything on a moving ship is a perilous experience. It takes even the bravest man several attempts, and that’s with a man above and below to place his hands and feet.”

  Gerard crossed his arms. “That sounds like a challenge.”

  “You need more of a challenge than pretending to be a captain on a moving ship three hundred years before ye were born?”

  “I’m close to being offended. You do realize I won the harness challenge on the climbing wall at my gym?”

  She stared, blank faced. “No matter what order I put those words in, I canna squeeze a bit o’ sense from them.”

  “Trust me. I can do it.”

  “As you wish. I accept the challenge, and ye can name your price. But if you lose, you will do everything I say from now on. Now, dinna forget—review, then omelet.”

  He growled. “I don’t like it. Every man here is a potential bad guy.”

  “Remember, Captain,” she said, giving him a crisp salute, “you have at least one person on board who ye can depend on not to be a danger to ye.”

  But danger, he thought, comes in many forms, and he laid his hand over the new ache in his heart as he watched her disappear.

  Twenty-one

  What had caused Thistlebrook to raise anchor so soon? Had he planned to stay longer but received news that caused him to change his mind, or had the plan been to leave all along? Serafina considered this as she jogged lightly past the crates.

  She reread the names:

  Piggott-Jones

  Macniece

  Carlton

  FitzGerard

  Nixon

  Foster & Blair

  MacAfee

  Cockburn

  Frazier

  MacNulty

  None missing. Nothing delivered. Och.

  The locked space at the end, however, continued to hold her interest. She looked around. There were no men in sight. Gerard had managed his assignment well. She’d smiled when she heard the roaring call to stations followed by the rumble of feet. He was turning out to be far more helpful than she’d first expected when she’d found him in her bed—a whining, worthless voluptuary.

  She felt a stab of regret.

  She’d misjudged him. His abilities strictly in relation to her objective might be more limited than she had hoped, but his ability to learn, his courage, and his desire to help her had been more than she probably deserved. She wondered if
she’d misjudged him on anything else.

  She considered the long parade of women through his bed. He had an appetite that rivaled a sultan. Had his time with her been the mere sampling of a man addicted to carnal pleasure or the beginning of a cherished connection? She had mistaken one for the other once and had no wish to endure that pain again. But she couldn’t deny he looked at her, then and now, in a way few men ever had—as a woman worthy of conversation, friendship, and partnership.

  The door’s lock hung on a chain threaded around the latch. The space was quite large—large enough to hold two or three of the crates that stood behind her. She could break the lock with a hammer or a crowbar, but she didn’t have either with her. Walls in a ship were ephemeral objects, set up to designate space and removed in a matter of moments to address changing needs or to prepare for battle. She found the space between the structure of the ship and the hanging wall and peered inside.

  In the darkness, she could make out what looked like enormous bundles wrapped in waxed paper—the sort one would see covering a captain’s most important papers as protection against the damp and water of a ship—tied with rope.

  What cargo merits such fastidiousness?

  She slipped into the carpenter’s walkway, where she had overheard Thistlebrook talking earlier, to see if anything there caught her eye. But the walkway looked the same as any other walkway—dank, exceedingly narrow, and full of tiny pairs of glowing red eyes that turned when she entered. “Shoo,” she said. “I’m hungrier than you.”

  The lack of a set of crates clearly marked “Turnbull” seemed to mean there would be no easy redistribution of wealth for her. If the locked room didn’t yield something of value, the trajectory of her life, which had been on a slow but inexorable decline both in status and happiness since her decision to give herself to Edward in that carriage, would reach its inevitable conclusion.

  She thought of Mary MacAvoy, the kindly spinster in Niddry Street who did Serafina’s mending, and the threadbare clothes she wore. That is what Serafina’s life would become, and she would be lucky to live as well as Mary.

  Are ye too proud to mend, then? A woman who throws away her future should not be too proud to do anything.

  And she wasn’t. She would mend or wash or tat—whatever it took to eat and live—but finally acknowledging the full extent of the change that was to come was a blow even if the change had been sitting there, beyond the edge of her hopes, for the last few months.

  She took a deep breath. “What will happen will happen,” she said. “And you will survive.”

  She set out for the smithy, where she knew she’d find something to break the lock.

  Twenty-two

  Even before she knocked on the door of the captain’s quarters, the smells of bacon and toasted bread filled the hall and made her dizzy with hunger.

  “Harris, sir.”

  The door opened. A look of such heartfelt relief washed over Gerard’s face, she had to smile. He closed the door behind her.

  “You’re safe,” he said.

  “As are you.”

  “I don’t know what sort of inspection the sailors are used to, but they definitely found being asked to tell everyone their hometown and talk a little bit about what they hoped to accomplish this voyage a little odd.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Good news. Nobody said ‘Mutiny.’ I consider that a big win. Next up: brainstorming ideas for more effective ‘make and mend’ nights. Did I give you enough time?”

  “Oh, aye. Thank you. Is that a basket of bacon?”

  “I wasn’t sure how much you wanted. There’s also a basket of rolls, an entire soused cock—I refrain from comment—a wedge of very hard cheese, a jug of beer, and something the cook’s assistant referred to as ratafia sweets, which appear to be cement in the shape of a cookie.”

  He made a grand gesture toward the cloth-covered table, and she slipped gratefully into a chair.

  “This is marvelous,” she said, chomping on a slice of bacon, which she’d pulled, still hot, from under the basket’s cloth cover.

  “I told you you should’ve eaten breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.”

  She realized it was probably impolite to eat with her fingers, but the greasy, smoked meat melted on her tongue, and in any case, Gerard, who watched her with the unblinking interest of a man watching an illicit tableau, didn’t appear to be offended.

  His eyes twinkled. “I don’t know what it is about seeing a woman eat, but I find it rather enchanting.”

  “Prepare yourself to be spellbound.” She popped the morsel into her mouth and sucked each finger to savor the last traces.

  “All right, now I might have to look away—either that or find a bucket of icy water to douse myself with.”

  She laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “So I’m told.”

  A warm, inebriating pleasure began to fill her belly. Bacon mixed with Gerard’s unmasked desire was a very dangerous combination. She decided on a more puritanical choice. “Pass me the cheese, if ye would.”

  He complied, pushing the plate exactly half the distance between them, as if it were a tiny snip of red wool and feathers, meant to lure her like a salmon from a waterweed blind. The man could make moving tableware into an act of seduction.

  Unintimidated, she reached for the plate. He leaned back in his chair, thoroughly satisfied.

  She cut the cheese primly and used the knife’s wide blade to place the slice on her plate. Then she picked up her fork—

  “What? No fingers?”

  “I refuse to contribute to your culinary debauchery.”

  “Too late.”

  “I can hardly be held accountable for the state of your character, which has been shaped almost entirely by the relentless storms of your rather questionable misadventures.”

  “‘The relentless storms of my rather questionable misadventures.’ I like that.” He uncorked the jug and poured a cup. Then he rose and carried it down the table’s length, placing it at her side with a bow.

  “Your service is not a sign of remorse for a life ill-lived. I take nothing from it—that is, nothing but some very dark ale.” She lifted the cup in toast and swallowed.

  “Ill-lived till now,” he corrected. “You are a coldhearted judge.”

  “I am honest…and I should think you might like that,” she said, suddenly afraid to meet his eyes.

  “Aye,” he said quietly. “I do.”

  The cheese seemed to catch in her throat, and she swallowed another draught of ale.

  “The bacon is better,” she said and collected the basket herself, as well as a roll and one of the ratafia.

  He laughed, and she settled back into her chair, pleased with herself.

  He gestured to the platter of juicy legs. “I see you’re leaving the cock untouched.”

  He was a wicked, wicked tease.

  “That particular dish holds little interest for me,” she said, reaching for more bacon. “I find it a little gamy.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if I had one?”

  “I assumed you already had.”

  “Not much of an assumption, is it?” He grabbed a piece and took a generous bite. She watched the long muscles of his throat as he swallowed. She realized she’d stopped chewing.

  He reached into a bowl on the chest behind him and turned back with a plump golden pear in his hand. “Oh,” he said, catching her surprise, “did I forget to mention the cook sent this as well?”

  He raised it to his nose and took in the nectary scent, which she could smell even at her end of the table. Saliva filled her mouth.

  “Earthy,” he said. “And sweet.”

  He bounced the fruit in his palm. It made a firm smack. “The cook only sent one. Shall I split it in two?”

  She shook
her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  He reached for a stout knife and pierced the flesh. A bead of nectar appeared.

  “I need some air,” she said and stood.

  A moment later, she stood on the captain’s small balcony, the sea breeze filling her head. She could feel him standing behind her, watching her as the ship’s foamy wake stretched out into the distance before them.

  “The ship’s still there,” she said.

  “I know. I’ve been watching. I wanted you to eat before I told you.”

  The breeze was cool and gooseflesh appeared on her arms.

  Gerard pulled her against his warmth.

  “I am quite aware,” he said, after a long moment, “that you haven’t told me what you found.”

  The gooseflesh turned to shaking. She had avoided thinking about it for as long as she could. “Nothing for Turnbull,” she said.

  “And the locked room?”

  “I broke the lock and opened the parcels. It’s muslin. The stuff of chemises and petticoats,” she added, seeing the question in his eye. “Tuppence a yard. The whole of it might be worth fifty pounds.”

  The arm around her waist tightened. “Not quite a fortune.”

  “No. We still need to search this room.”

  “I did, while you were gone.” He shook his head.

  “Then our only hope is Duchamps’s room, though I dinna see how we might get into it.”

  “What does it mean?” Gerard asked.

  “Well, as I said, Duchamps may be in league with—”

  “No, Sera,” he said, pulling her closer. “I mean for you.”

  She held him, steadying herself against his sturdy bulk.

  “My hopes…” She found she couldn’t finish and laid her head on his shoulder.

  “I wish I had something to give you,” he said, stroking her hair.

  The first shame of poverty flooded her cheeks. “Thank ye for your kindness. I’ve never wished to be given anything. I only wished to have what was rightfully mine.”

  “Let’s put our minds to it, then. We can do anything if we decide we can. I’m here to be commanded, Sera. Command me.”

  She touched his cheek. “Obliterate the worry,” she said. “Chase it from my head.”