by L. L. Muir
He'd steered clear of the crew as they'd hauled things aboard and stowed them away, then given the barrels a good thump when all backs were turned, but he’d found nothing but the usual stores.
“There is nothing for it,” he mumbled. “I must put the question to the crew.”
He made his way above deck and moved to the fore where a pair of seamen wound thick ropes inside large half-barrels. "I must beg a question of ye," he said, once he'd caught one man's attention. "Would ye ken if a stowaway has been found aboard?"
The pair exchanged a knowing look. "Is that why ye've been nosing through the cargo?" asked the first.
The other looked Connor up and down. "Ye're a bit too young, and a bit too Scottish to be searching for one of those English birds," he said. "We've seen plenty of their fathers, though. Desperate men, aye?"
The pair laughed.
"I may have been mistaken," Connor said, "but I thought I heard a noise coming from one of the barrels. I only worried that ye might have tossed a poor laddie into the sea, still sealed inside. I have no interest in English birds, I assure ye."
The first man shook his head. "Our cap'n's not the sort to toss a laddie over when he could work ‘im instead. 'Sides, he wouldnae waste a barrel."
Connor nodded and turned away, but the second man’s words brought him back.
“If there is stowaway aboard,” the man said.
“Aye?”
“Perhaps he’s locked up with the grog and spirits.”
Connor was unaccountably relieved, as if Mallory Naylor were the castaway instead of some lad with a hunger for adventure. “And where would that be?”
The man stomped one boot on the deck, then pointed at his feet. “Quartermaster’s hold.”
Connor nodded his thanks.
“We would wish ye luck,” the first man called, “but we doubts luck will help ye pry the key out of the ol’ man’s hands.”
To Connor’s surprise, the seaman’s words proved oddly prophetic, not because the Quartermaster was a belligerent sort, but because he was nowhere to be found. When word began spreading among the crew, the tension aboard The Blue Marlin left even the passengers too nervous to speak. Even with the coast of Scotland appearing regularly on the port side, seamen did not care to be told that the key to their drink was, in essence, lost.
The captain gave a young man his complete attention. “Did you check his hold?”
“Aye, Cap’n. Locked up tight, it is.”
“But is the man inside?”
The lad’s mouth dropped open. Obviously, he hadn’t considered it. Connor volunteered to check himself. Unfortunately, the captain’s interest had been piqued, and he followed suit. If a stowaway was tossed overboard now, it would be Connor’s fault for stirring up trouble. He should have minded his own business and played the part of uninterested passenger. And now, he would have to play champion to a foolish boy, and all because he’d slapped his hand on a barrel.
The men below decks were happy to trail along to see where their little parade was headed. A large door sat in the midst of a wall that blocked off the front of the ship. The lad lifted a fist to knock upon it, but after a grunt from the captain, he stepped back, and the latter rapped on the wood with the head of a cane.
“Chitters, damn you! Come out of there!” He knocked again. “Now, I say.” He looked at Connor. “The man had to have been aboard in order to lock this door, and I spoke with him after we weighed anchor. He couldn’t have fallen overboard unnoticed.”
From within, something metal clanked against the door, then clattered inside the keyhole. The knob turned and the ill-fitting portal swung outward, propelled a bit by a man’s heavy arm—a man who spilled across the threshold, unconscious. Standing over him was a younger lad wearing tight britches and holding a mallet above his shoulder, ready to do damage.
Strike that. Her shoulder.
Connor groaned in disappointment. The captain and half the onlookers growled along with him. The other half were far too cheerful about the turn of events, and Connor groaned again when he realized he would have to protect the lass from all those eager sailors.
“Must be the stowaway ye were searching for,” said one of the seaman he’d questioned above deck.
The captain turned to follow the conversation, narrowed his gaze at Connor, and laid the end of his cane on Connor’s chest only an inch from one of the knives he kept hidden in his clothing. “You knew she was aboard, sir?”
Connor sighed, resigned to the fact that it might be himself being tossed overboard—without a barrel to hold to. “Aye, Captain. I heard a noise from a barrel and have been trying to locate it. I did not, however, expect to find a woman inside. I thought perhaps a laddie—“
“And when did you hear this noise?”
“As the barrel was being loaded, sir.”
The captain pulled back his cane and let it slide through his hand until the tip knocked on the floor. He nodded, satisfied, his black wig bobbing precariously with his enthusiasm. “Whatever she eats, whatever she drinks will come from your rations. And if she cannot pay for her passage, I expect you to do so. Is that clear?”
The lass lifted her chin in the air and opened her mouth to speak, but Connor stomped close and slapped his hand over her gob. “Perfectly clear, Captain.” With his other hand, he grabbed the lass’ arm and pulled her out of the way so the other men could see after their quartermaster. “Dinnae say a word unless ye’re praying to God that this man recovers quickly.”
When she nodded, he removed his hand. “He presumed to take liberties with me,” she whispered. “What else should I have done?”
Though he knew better, Connor went against his better judgement and looked her in the eye. There, he saw emotions stewing, simmering, in barely restrained tears.
“There now. Ye had every right. But perhaps ye should have hidden a blade in yer breeks.” He turned her toward the side wall, hoping to lead her into the open air without drawing more attention. “Dinnae fash. I’ll spare ye one of my own blades, and ye’ll have my protection until I find someone to deliver ye home again.”
She tried to dig in her heels, but he pushed her along.
“Dinnae bother protesting,” he warned. When they eventually reached the railing, he released her. “Ye’ll be returning home, whether ye will it or no. The wide world is no place to go poking about, expecting to find honorable men.”
She looked him over from nose to boots and back again, and though tears left wet trails down her young round cheeks, there was no fear in her eyes, only a hunger that reminded him of another, slightly older lass. It sent a cold shiver of warning through his veins.
Addressing the splashing sea-wash that rippled out from the starboard side of the hull, he shouted, “What the devil are these daft Englishmen feeding their daughters these days?”
“Five days,” she said above the din. “Give me five more days and I will go home willingly.”
He refused to face her. Better to keep his heartstrings well out of reach from one so young and pitiable. He refused to be swayed. “And what more can ye accomplish in five days but to destroy yer reputation?”
“Nothing,” she said so quietly he barely heard it above the spray. “Nothing at all.”
“Lord help me, ye’re as daft as the rest.”
She grasped his coat sleeve and pulled, forcing him to look at her. “What do you mean? You’ve met others? Recently? Other young ladies from England?”
He hoped the cock of his head was admission enough.
“Please, sir. Tell me their names. I must know.”
He shook his head and face the channel again.
She finally released his sleeve. “If you will not give their names, will you at least say…whether or not…” She cleared her throat, then moved near enough to press against his arm. “Tell me. Did you…oblige them?”
It took a heartbeat or two for the shock of her words to wear off, and when they did, he took two steps to the side. “
I have decided against giving ye a blade, miss. But dinnae fash. I shall keep ye safe.”
He offered her his hand. When she eagerly took it, he used his other to secure her wrist, then dragged her to the steps leading to the quarter deck and called to the captain. “There is nothing for it,” he told the man. “I fear the only safe place for her is the brig.”
The man chuckled, clearly not understanding the danger. “And I suppose you would expect to hold the key?”
Connor shook his head. “Nay, Captain. I suggest hurling it overboard. Leave our protection to Davey Jones.”
“You mean her protection, do you not?”
“Nay, sir. I mean ours.”
Chapter Nine
Two miles south of Hawick, the pines grew impressively tall with long thin branches stirred easily by a weak breeze. A well-trodden trail turned off the road there, cutting to the west, and not a hundred yards down that, an old man led a mule, on the back of which rode what Mallory assumed was his wife. Though she dared not spur on her patient horse, she decided to veer off the main road long enough to catch up to the couple and ask if they knew where the smaller trail led.
“’Pon my word.” The woman giggled when Mal finally caught up to the pair. “We pass this way once a sennight. ‘O course we ken where it leads.”
The man nodded. “Indeed, we do. Indeed, we do. But tell us, where do ye go, sir?”
“Glasgow.”
“Right, then. Ye’ll save half a days’ hard ride goin’ this a’way. An’ if ye’re in no hurry, ye’re welcome to hobble along with us.”
She thanked them both and tried to hide her profound relief at finding not only a shortcut to Glasgow, but some companionship as well. No one would know she’d been on the road for only half an hour and was already worried about sleeping alone out in the open. She might have learned to relax in the saddle, but it did not solve all the challenges she would face along the way.
Her horse fell into step behind the mule and she and the old man traveled silently along for the most part while the wife spoke about anything she fancied, and she fancied telling tales from her childhood, in Wales. If Mal understood her correctly, which was doubtful, the woman claimed her husband had stolen her from the cradle.
The man made no protest, but Mal believed it was only because he was not listening—or so she thought—for when the woman stumbled on some little detail, like the color of a ribbon, the man supplied it.
“’Twas blue,” he said over his shoulder. “And it wasn’t yer father’s, it was yer mother’s chair.” The woman concurred and went right back to her story.
Mal thought it sweet that a man could stand to listen patiently to a story he’d undoubtedly heard a hundred times in their long lives together. When she tried to envisage Connor being so patient with her, the image simply could not hold.
After two long hours, they stopped in an expanse of shade for a short rest. The woman stalked off into the bushes to the right and Mallory seized the opportunity to praise the old man for his long-suffering.
“Suffering? To listen to the love of me life speak of happy times? ‘Tis music to me ears, it is.” He gave her a reproachful look. “Just you wait, sir. Ye’ll find a lass as precious as me Tibbie one day. Mark me words.”
When they’d traveled another pair of hours, the old man stopped again next to a large creek he claimed to be Ale River. Tibbie spread a blanket on the grass and they offered Mallory some of their cheese and bread. In return, she produced a sack of dried cherries and they ate in blessed silence. What she wouldn’t give to hear a change of voice. At least, with Bridget and Vivianne, there had been three of them to add variety to the conversation.
Mal wandered off to stretch her legs while the couple packed up their things. The woman was quite impressed with the little stool Mal used to mount her horse. She offered to let Tibbie try it, and when the old girl hefted her creaking bones onto the mule’s back with less trouble than usual, her husband gave the contraption a close going over.
He finally handed it back with a vow he could duplicate it for his wife, who was at that very moment filling her lungs to start up another story, Mal was sure of it.
In a panic, she started speaking before Tibbie could. “My friends, I fear I must set out on my own now. Though I have enjoyed the companionship, I must increase my pace.”
The pair were neither surprised nor disappointed, and the old man gave her excellent advice on how to proceed the rest of the way to Glasgow. “If ye walked along with us, for instance, ye should reach the city in three days, should ye ride for eight hours of the day.” If she rode twice their speed, it would take her a day and a half.
“Excellent news,” she said. “I expected it to take much longer.”
The old woman gave her a wink. “Godspeed, lass. And dinnae open yer gob any more than is necessary if’n ye wish others to believe ye’re a man, aye?”
Her husband chuckled good-naturedly and waved her off. “Dinnae feel too foolish. It be a passable disguise if ye’re standing quite still…and from a distance.”
She accepted his words as helpful instruction, though she suspected they would have a fine laugh at her expense as soon as she crested the next hill. And when she did, she began to whistle so she didn’t hear something that might bruise her feelings.
The finely made black suit of Lord Braithwaite’s did not fit her as perfectly as the red suit she’d stolen from Bridget’s brother and then altered herself. But it was generous enough that the buttons did not pull across her bosom, and if they did when she moved, the long floppy steinkirk covered them. Her black beard, made from her own head of hair, fit well, and the damage it had received in the past few weeks only made it seem more natural. But she admitted it moved awkwardly when she spoke.
Perhaps that was what the old man referred to when he’d advised her to be silent. Or perhaps she had slipped back to her regular voice without knowing. In either case, she was determined to practice while she was alone.
“Whilst I am alone,” she said, as manly as possible. “Yes, that sounds rather masculine.”
Perfectly still, he’d said. Did she move too much like a woman? Surely not, for there were a number of fellows who prided themselves on how feminine they walked in their high-heeled court shoes. Her own walk couldn’t be much different.
When she could think of nothing else, she decided she must simply be too lovely to be a man, and left it at that. For worrying would only give her a headache.
Three hours later, Mallory watched the colorless ruins of a castle become visible as she traveled around the edge of a thick, aged forest of blue-green pines. The old stone walls stood in the center of a long stretch of purple heather and sun-dried weeds that separated it from the rest of the landscape.
The trees themselves lent a thick, tangy taste to the evening air and reminded her of a night or two when she’d shared a camp with only Viv and Bridget. If her friend and cousin were with her now, they would have agreed—that God Himself had supplied her with a shelter for the night.
Wise enough to be cautious, Mallory rode just inside the tree line until she was equal with the nearest portion of the ruins. At that point, she would be out in the open for the least amount of time—not that anyone would be watching.
She clutched the pommel and prepared to dismount but froze when she caught a movement at the rear of the castle, to her left. Two young men stepped into the long yellow weeds and squared off, putting their heads close together while they argued. She strained to hear their conversation, but the only thing that reached her ears was the loud pounding of her own heart. Even after she commanded herself to relax, she still couldn’t hear them.
It was then she deduced that they were quarreling as quietly as possible—which meant there were others inside, others from whom they wished to keep their argument private.
Mallory turned her horse slowly and moved deeper into the trees, prepared to make a run for it if she were seen. But the young men had no attention to spare,
and after another minute, they disappeared back inside the crumbling structure.
The intelligent choice was to move on and leave that lovely shelter to those who possessed it. A pity, but what choice did she have? She only hoped another shelter could be found before it grew much darker.
A figure flashed into view to her right—a young woman in a deep blue gown ran with all her might away from the front of the castle, straight down the center of the field. Her blond hair flew out behind her along with her billowing skirts. She was running for her life!
Mallory urged her horse between trees hoping to reach the edge of the forest in time to help the girl.
“Stop!” A young man darted out after the blond, but she was well ahead. Her mistake was glancing back. She stumbled, then righted herself, but it was too late. He quickly gained.
Mallory was still unable to run her horse when the girl screamed. The fellow caught her around the waist and they both tumbled to the ground.
Half a dozen others poured out of the castle then. There was no use trying to reach the girl before the mob. Mallory would be taken as well if she drew their attention by attempting a rescue. And if she failed, she doubted the men would stand back like gentlemen while she used her little stool to remount.
So she gently pulled back on the reins and was relieved when her horse responded, stepping slowly backward into the shadows. By the time one of the men gave any thought to onlookers, Mal and her horse were motionless once more, well-hidden behind dozens of thick trunks and thicker branches, where the low rays of the sun could not reach.
The squeal of another girl came from the castle itself, but after one of the mob commented, the rest of them only laughed. The girl in blue was dragged by the hand, but she offered little resistance, and when her captor looked away, she smiled privately. At least it seemed as if she smiled. With only flashes between trees, it was difficult for Mallory to judge just what she’d seen. But it didn’t matter. She could not leave a couple of young girls to a mob of men unless she knew for certain they were in no danger.