by Julia London
“For the love of all that is holy, your goods are where you put them, aye? At least in part.” She abruptly came to her feet.
“What do you mean, in part?” he demanded.
“There are crates yet,” she said, waving off his questions as she began to pace. “Some of it...mostly wool, I think...well, it was lost because...” She gestured with her hand in a manner of someone searching for a word.
“Because?”
“Because there was some confusion on board among my men about where we might put our cargo,” she said quickly. “I stopped them before they threw over more than a wee bit.”
Aulay stared at her, trying to make sense of it.
“I beg your pardon, but there was quite a lot of panic,” she said, and stole a quick glance at the man on the bed before moving closer to him to whisper, “Our ship was sinking. It sank.”
“You brought your cargo on board my ship?” he asked, pushing to his feet. “What cargo? What did you bring?”
“Shhh,” she cautioned him, pointing at the bunk.
“Slaves?”
She gasped with indignation. “Of course no’!”
“What, then?”
“Things! Sundry things.”
“Liar,” Aulay said coldly. “Sundry things that must be sold in a foreign port? Sundry things that have caused a flush to creep into your fair cheeks? Things that your dying father insists you carry on rather than return for help?”
“He is no’ dying!”
“What is it you mean to deliver to Aalborg?” he pressed.
“It has no bearing on you—”
“It has every bearing on me, you wee fool! I would know what I carry on my ship, aye? I would know if illegal whisky is in my hold! I know a ship running from the excise man when I see it. That was a royal ship you set on fire—”
“Entirely accidental! And they fired first!”
“You’d no’ be the first to run illegal whisky from Scotland’s shores. But damn you, you are the first to throw my cargo overboard to make room for it!”
Her eyes darkened. “No’ all of it. As I said, I stopped them. Most of what we brought is on your deck.”
“Mi Diah,” he muttered and sagged against the wall. Now he was carrying illegal goods in plain sight? Aulay seethed with indignation. His was not the indignation of the righteous, no—it wasn’t so long ago that his family had resorted to running goods around the royal navy and excise bounties the crown would impose on imports. They’d felt forced to do it, felt it was the only way they could provide for their clan in those years before the Jacobite rebellion, when the crown imposed a usurious tax their clan could ill afford on the most basic of necessities.
But they had not thrown over anyone’s legitimate goods to make room, and they’d not stacked illegal cargo on their bloody decks! Worse, much worse, if Aulay lost this cargo, if he failed to do what he’d promised William Tremayne and deliver it to Amsterdam, he couldn’t bear to think what might happen to his family’s livelihood. He couldn’t bear to think of the mix of anger and pity in his father’s eyes.
He turned a cold gaze to the woman who was pacing, the hem of his greatcoat dragging the floor behind her. Her brow was furrowed and she seemed lost in thought. Bloody whisky runners. His mind raced with the necessity to free himself, to salvage what he could before all was lost.
The lass stopped pacing. She turned to face him, and damn her if she didn’t look almost tearful. “Help me,” she said softly. “Tell me what to do!”
“Help you pirate my own ship?”
She groaned heavenward. “You’ll have your ship as soon as we are to Aalborg!”
He stared at her, his thoughts racing. “If we are to Aalborg, you’ll need my men to sail us there, aye? Best you bring Beaty in so that he might chart the course.” That was a lie—Beaty could navigate by the stars overhead, and it was almost impossible to chart a course when the day was as bleak as this. For all Aulay knew, Beaty might have already turned this ship about. But he hoped she would give Beaty entry into the cabin.
She considered his suggestion.
“Of course, you canna be certain I’ll no’ chart a course that turns us about and sends us back to Scotland and into the hands of the crown, can you, then?”
She shot him a suspicious look. “You’ll no’ do that. You’ll no’ risk putting your ship into the hands of the crown. They’ll no’ believe you’re innocent, no’ with whisky on board. You need me and mine off your ship, I should think.”
Clever and beautiful. But Aulay would see her brought to justice. And he would do it by taking full advantage of her naiveté.
“Aye, you’re right, you are.” He held up his hands. “Untie me, and I will help you.”
She blinked. She moved closer, so close that Aulay could see flecks of light gray in her pale blue eyes that, under different circumstances, would have tempted him. His gaze slid to her lips, succulent and pursed, and errant thoughts began to wander into places they ought not to have gone. This was the woman who had aggrieved him, had stolen his ship, had put his crew in peril. How could he imagine kissing her? He’d been addled by that blow to the head, clearly.
She seemed to know what he was thinking, because she smiled saucily and tilted her head back. He held up his hands to her so that she might release him. “I’ll no’ deny it, I need you, I do, Captain,” she said silkily, and a warm shiver ran down his spine. “But donna take me for a fool.” She abruptly put her hands on his chest and shoved him away, then stepped back.
She took the greatcoat from her shoulders, slid one arm into a sleeve, and then the other, then buttoned the coat up to her neck so that she looked as if she was wearing a priest’s robe. She picked up the gun from the table and slid it into the pocket before she shoved her feet into wet boots. “There are men to be fed, and my father needs a change of bandage.” She moved to the door.
He realized she meant to leave him. “If you want my help, bring me Beaty,” he said sternly.
She opened the door and went out. A moment later, he heard what sounded like a barrel or a crate being slid across the decking and shoved in front of the door.
All right, then, she was no fool.
Well, neither was he...all evidence to the contrary. He would help her, all right. He would help her right into the arms of the authorities.
CHAPTER FIVE
LOTTIE DIDN’T CARE that the rain was slashing across her face, making it difficult to see. She walked directly to the railing and gripped it tightly as she leaned over it, taking deep gulps of wet, salt-soaked air and, for a fleeting moment, toyed with the idea of lowering the jolly and putting herself in it and bobbing off and away from this catastrophe.
That man, her captive, had snatched the breath from her. She’d never looked into eyes so piercing or so shrewd, had never felt such restrained power in a man. There had been only a thin chain keeping him from flinging himself at her and strangling the breath out of her with one hand as he apparently wanted to do—she could see it in the way he’d glared at her. What in God’s name possessed her to stick her hand into the fire?
She thought of his hair, streaked blond by the sun, wild about his shoulders, having come free of its queue. She thought of the dark beginnings of his beard that framed a sensual mouth, even with his lips pressed together in an unforgiving line. She thought of the way he looked at her as if he meant to put her on a spit and roast her. Was it a sign of depravity that she wanted to be roasted by him? In spite of extraordinary and challenging circumstances, the thought caused her to shiver with a mix of thrill and fear. And perhaps the worst of it all was that she did need the counsel of someone like him.
“Lottie!”
She swayed backward from the railing and turned about as Drustan lumbered across the deck to her, his face twisted with worry.
“What is it, mo chridhe?” she
asked.
Drustan slipped on the wet planking and grabbed awkwardly for the railing to keep from falling. “I donna know what to do,” he said. “Mats, he hasna told me what I’m to do, but I’m no’ to go up there.” He pointed to the masts.
Lottie looked up—Mats was several feet above her, helping with the sails. “Good Lord,” she murmured.
“I want to see Fader,” Drustan said.
“Aye, I know,” Lottie said soothingly. Drustan was not adept at finding his footing when circumstances changed. Frankly, none of them were. “We’ll see that all the men are fed, and then I’ll take you to see him.” She reached up and used the sleeve of the captain’s coat to wipe rain from Drustan’s face. “Come,” she said, and took his hand.
They made their way to the quarterdeck, where Norval Livingstone stood guard over Mr. Beaty. Even with the relentless rain, she could hear Gilroy and Beaty arguing.
“I tell you, ’tis no’ the way it’s done,” Gilroy said as Lottie and Drustan climbed the steps.
“Canna outrun a frigate without a gaff,” Beaty said gruffly.
“I beg your pardon,” Lottie said.
Both men had failed to notice her approach and jerked their gazes around to her, slinging water off their cocked hats and into her face. Lottie sputtered, wiping the rain from her face with her sleeve.
“You ought no’ to be on deck,” Gilroy said. “Look at you, soaked through.”
“Are we bound for Denmark?” she asked, ignoring Gilroy, her eyes locked on Beaty.
Beaty glowered at her. “Beggin’ your pardon, but do you think I canna find my way to Denmark?”
“Why should she trust you?” Gilroy demanded.
Beaty glared at him, too, cocked hat to cocked hat. “You’re the one who has stolen our ship, and I am no’ to be trusted, is that the way of it? I’m sailing her, am I no’? Sailing east, too, as anyone can plainly see.”
Lottie could not plainly see it. Gilroy was right—she didn’t trust Beaty. But neither did she trust her own instincts, and she was suspicious of Gilroy’s. How could he possibly know which direction he was sailing in the dark and the rain? She could only hope that she was right, and that these men would not return to Scotland with the whisky on board. They’d have nothing to show for their own cargo, and she knew very well how the crown’s authorities viewed Highlanders—all of them were suspect. They would seize them all. Privateers might do worse. If they were set upon by pirates or privateers, she’d have to give these men leave to take up their weapons, and she had no doubt what would happen to the Livingstones if it came to that.
All right, that was enough. She couldn’t bear standing in this rain another moment. She would have to trust her instincts, no matter how ignorant they were. “I’ll see to it that the men are fed,” she said, wiping rain from her face again. “After which, Mr. Beaty, your captain wishes to speak with you, aye?”
“What? Lottie, ’tis no’ wise—” Gilroy started, but she waved a hand at him.
“It’s all right, Gilroy,” she said calmly. “Come along, Dru,” she said, and left the quarterdeck.
She and Drustan went down into the hold where the Mackenzies had been forced. It was dank in the hold, and the faint smell of rotting fish assaulted her senses. It was poorly lit as well, and there didn’t appear to be any space that wasn’t taken up with salted beef, wool or casks of whisky. Lottie could hear the raised voices of men coming from the stern. They were shouting at each other, in English and Gaelic, with a bit of Danish thrown in for good measure. She followed Drustan around a stack of crates to an area they’d blocked off to hold their captives. When she stepped into the light of a single lantern, all shouting stopped. The men stared at her for a highly charged moment, and then as if signaled by some magical siren, they started shouting at once.
Lottie threw up her hands. “Uist!” she cried. “Silence!”
Duff MacGuire punctuated her shout with a sharp whistle that caused half of them to cover their ears. At least they stopped shouting.
Lottie took a breath. “We mean to feed you and give you what you need—”
“What I need is to have these binds undone!” shouted one man, lifting his hands up. “A man canna even piss!”
“By all that is holy, I’ll put me bloody fist into yer trap if you speak so in front of the lady again,” Morven threatened.
“Ye canna expect us to eat with our wrists bound,” complained another.
“You ate the bread we gave you well enough, aye?” Mr. MacLean snapped. The men began to shout again.
“Please!” Lottie cried. A sharp pain was once again throbbing at the base of her skull, but the men kept shouting and arguing with one another. Lottie took the gun from her pocket, cocked it and fired at the ceiling above them. The crack was deafening and splinters of wood and smoke rained down on them. Men ducked, their hands covering their heads.
After a moment of stunned silence, a Mackenzie said, “For the love of God, take the gun from her, ere she kills someone.”
“I’ll no’ do it,” Duff said. “She’s a better shot than any man here, she is.”
Lottie hopped up onto a crate so she could see them all. “Listen! I know you’re all verra angry, aye?” she said, breathless with anxiety. “All of us,” she said, gesturing to all the Livingstones around her, “are verra sorry for the situation that has brought us to this—”
“’Tis piracy!” The Mackenzie men began to shout again. “What have you done with Beaty? Where is Captain Mackenzie?”
“Let us see them!” someone shouted, which roused the rest of them to shout at her, too.
Duff held up both arms and whistled again. When they had quieted, he said grandly, “Say no more, miss. I’ve already told the devils what we’re about, that I have.”
“Why in the name of Hades do you speak like a king to his subjects?” groused a Mackenzie man.
“Perhaps because I’ve had the good fortune of receiving my theatrical training at the Goodman’s Fields Theatre in London!”
“The what?”
“The theatre!” Duff bellowed, always quite impatient with any poor soul who did not hold theatre in the same high regard as he.
“All right, thank you,” Lottie said, and moved in front of Duff before he commenced a sermon. “We’ll bring food to you now, and on my word, we’ll bring Beaty down so that you can look on him and know he is quite all right, aye?”
“And what of Captain Mackenzie?” someone demanded.
“Beaty will see him and he’ll vouch that he’s quite all right. But we must hold him close until we reach our destination. You’d do the same, would you no’?”
“We’d no’ steal another man’s ship!” said one crossly.
“Aye,” she said. A thought popped into her head—she’d never known a man who did not respond to money. “That’s why we mean to compensate you for your trouble.”
Duff and MacLean gasped at the same moment. “Lottie—”
“We will,” she said firmly. “’Tis only fair.”
“We lost six casks,” MacLean muttered behind her.
“Aye, and we might lose all if we donna have a care.”
“How much?” a Mackenzie asked.
“Five percent more than the wage your captain means to pay you.” Her gut dropped a wee bit the moment the words were out of her mouth. She hoped that was not extravagant. Perhaps it was, as her men were gaping at her. And the Mackenzies looked confused. She’d spoken too hastily, perhaps, but she had to make it sound worth their while. Except that she really had no idea how they would pay these men, and she could see from the concerned look on Mr. MacLean’s face that he didn’t, either. Diah, she was beginning to behave like her father, making promises she couldn’t possibly keep without thought. But the shouting had stopped and the men were looking around at each other, interested. It did seem only fai
r. It seemed the only way to convince the Mackenzies that they had not stolen their ship with ill intent. Well, she’d said it, and there was no pulling the words back into her mouth. If they didn’t make enough from the sale of the whisky, there was another way to compensate them. Mr. MacColl was still on Lismore, still pining for her.
Her stomach did a queer little flip, and she swallowed down that thought. She couldn’t think of that now and looked at Duff. “Have we something to feed these gentlemen?”
“Fish stew,” Duff said. “Yesterday’s catch.”
“Stew? How will we manage?” she asked.
“With our hands and one at a time,” said Duff. He reached up to put his hand on Drustan’s shoulder. “And we’ve a lad who might crush the head of any man who tries to keep us from it.”
“I donna want to crush heads!” Drustan exclaimed fearfully.
“Well I donna mean there will be an actual need, lad,” Duff said.
“Morven?” Lottie said. “The dressing on my father’s wound needs attention.”
“Aye, I’ll fetch a few things, then,” Morven said and started for the steps up to the main deck.
“Fear no’,” said Duff, bowing his head. “Drustan and MacLean and I will keep all in order.” He cast a stern look to his captives.
“Bloody Shakespeare is serving us fish, lads,” said a Mackenzie, and they laughed roundly as Lottie made her way out of the hold.
When she emerged on the deck, Lottie paused and adjusted the heavy greatcoat around her. The rain had turned to mist, but the coat she wore was soaked. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath and her bed to chase away the chill and this horrible day, to perhaps ease the ache in her head. She wondered, as she trudged along to the quarterdeck, if she’d ever have a proper bath again, or if this voyage would be the end of her. All signs pointed to the latter.
Well, she wasn’t done yet. The day had been disastrous, but they were still alive, still had that damn whisky. As her mother always said, “One step before the next, and again.” So...one step before the next. She withdrew her gun from her pocket as she started up the steps to the quarterdeck.