Devil in Tartan

by Julia London

  “God nat,” she answered, and closed the door behind him.

  Her expression instantly crumbled into exhaustion. She sighed wearily and turned her back to the door. She unbuttoned his greatcoat, shook it off, and returned it to its peg. She stood in her stays and chemise and a petticoat that was soiled at the hem and soaking wet.

  She looked even smaller than before, her shoulders stooped, as if the events of the day had worn her down. The lass reached for her gown, laying her hand on it in several places, but apparently found it too damp. She walked to the bed and picked up a blanket that lay at the foot, and threw it around her shoulders. She paused to lean over her father and stroke his brow. “Aye, he’s sleeping well now,” she said wearily. “I would that the same could be true for me.” Aulay had the impression she was speaking to herself. She moved away from the bunk and wandered to the far wall, studying the two seascapes that hung there. She touched one with her forefinger, tracing over the ridges in the paint. “The sea is so blue in this one,” she said wistfully. “I should like to see water so blue one day.”

  That was unlikely, given the fate that awaited her.

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  Aulay looked at the painting. His talents did not adequately capture how blue the water was at Cadiz. “Spain,” he said. “The Mediterranean Sea.”

  “Mediterranean,” she murmured, as if testing the word. She dropped her hand. “I must take advantage of your hospitality again, Captain.”

  “Hospitality? You confuse captivity with hospitality. What now?”

  She opened the cupboard below the sideboard and dipped down.

  “If it’s more brandy you want, you’ll no’ find it,” he said with an edge of irritation.

  But it wasn’t brandy she was after. She removed one of his shirts. And then a pair of trews. “I’m sorry for it,” she said ruefully. “But I’m chilled to the bone and I desperately need dry clothes.”

  She took the blanket from her shoulders and draped it over her chair, then kicked off her wet boots. One slid along the cabin floor and reached the door. She put her pistol on the table, then put one foot in a leg of the trews and then the other; she struggled to pull them up beneath her petticoat without revealing any part of herself to him. When she had them secure, she removed the petticoat.

  Aulay couldn’t help but ogle her. The trews were too big for her smaller frame, and yet he could still see her figure, could still visually trace the shape of her legs into a heart-shaped bottom. He could still feel the rumblings of physical desire for this wee thief.

  She glanced at him and frowned. “What, then?” she asked impatiently.

  “A wee bit too big,” he said. “But a better fit than I would have expected.” He took in the full length of her. “Much better,” he said. “You ought to make a habit of trews.”

  Lottie blushed. She picked up his shirt and unfurled it.

  Aulay was beginning to enjoy this unexpected event. “This will be a wee bit trickier to don, aye?”

  She looked around the cabin, presumably for a place to hide.

  Aulay slid down the wall onto his haunches. “We donna stand on modesty on this ship,” he said. He balanced his bound hands on his knees in anticipation of her disrobing. “Aye, but this is a bright spot in an otherwise bloody awful day.”

  “Will you turn your back?”

  “No.”

  “I believed you a gentleman, Captain.”

  He shrugged. “’Tis my cabin. My clothes. If it’s privacy you want, you should have pirated another ship.”

  The lass frowned darkly. She put the shirt aside and began to work on the laces of her stays, but seemed to struggle with them. “My fingers are numb,” she muttered as two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks.

  “Come closer and I’ll lend a hand,” Aulay suggested. “I’m a bit of an expert with laces.”

  Her cheeks colored even more, and she yanked harder on the lace she was working, managing to pull it free. She hesitantly removed the stays and draped them over a chair. Now she wore nothing but the thin chemise, through which Aulay could see the arousing shadow of her breasts, the darker shadow of erect nipples. “You’re certain, are you, that I canna be of assistance?” he asked wolfishly.

  She turned her back to him and quickly pulled the chemise over her head and tossed it aside.

  Aulay devoured her bare back with his gaze, studying every facet. The small knots of her spine. The curve of her waist into her hip. The gentle slope of her shoulders and the way her hair, bound up in a loose knot, brushed against her skin. She put her arm over her breasts and turned slightly to pick up his shirt, but he could still see the underside of her breast, her softly rounded abdomen. His blood was warming, inflamed by the sight of her enticing figure. It made him cross with himself—he ought not to admire her, his enemy, and yet, how could he not? She was beautiful—her shape, her creamy skin, her silken hair, all of it. She was terribly, undeniably, infuriatingly arousing.

  She picked up the shirt and put her back to him again. She was taking her time, deliberately moving lazily now, obviously aware of the effect she had on him. He watched her stretch her arms up and into his shirt, then let it slide down her arms and over her head. She turned around. “How is that, then?” she asked as she rolled the hem and knotted it at her waist.

  “Bloody well bold,” he said.

  “Aye, and what’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing at all.” His gaze slid to the opening of the shirt, the vee of which dipped well into her cleavage. His shirt was almost as thin as her chemise—he could still see the shape of her breasts and imagined them filling his hands, his fingers curling into firm, plump flesh.

  “I will thank you no’ to look at me in that way,” she said, and picked up the blanket, throwing it around her shoulders again before sitting in a chair.

  “What way is that?”

  She lifted one leg and rolled up the trews to her ankles. “As if you’ve never seen a woman before,” she said, and rolled up the second leg before peeking up at him. “In spite of all the stays you’ve unlaced.”

  Touché. Aulay couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve no’ seen a woman as comely as you,” he admitted. “What do you expect of me? You take my ship, my brandy, my clothes. You disrobe no’ three feet from me, and expect me to close my eyes?” He shook his head. “I’m no’ a dead man. No’ yet.”

  A smiled shadowed her lips.

  “Were I you, I’d wear precisely that on your next bit of piracy. Perhaps men will drop their swords on command.”

  She stood up and walked to his sideboard. “You weren’t even wearing a sword,” she said. “I wonder how the day might have gone had you been armed.” She glanced over her shoulder and arched a brow.

  He didn’t need the reminder. He’d not worn a sword because it hadn’t occurred to him to arm himself against what looked like a congregation of pilgrims without any notion of how to survive at sea.

  She picked up his razor, put it down and picked up his soap. “And besides, there will be no more piracy for me,” she scoffed. “I’m to hang. Remember?” She picked up his comb and returned to the table with it.

  “Oh, I remember,” he said, and watched her pull her hair down from its knot. Thick tresses tumbled over her shoulders. Even when wet, her hair seemed to glisten.

  She began to comb it, starting at the bottom and working up. She mesmerized Aulay. He’d seen his sisters at their toilette, but he’d never really watched a woman comb her hair. Not like this, not in a manner that seemed so highly erotic.

  When she’d worked the tangles out of it, she braided her hair, using one long tress to bind the end. She returned his comb to the sideboard, then looked Aulay over. “You should rest now, aye?”

  He chuckled. “Sleep is no’ possible, lass. No’ while my ship is in your hands. No’ while you make generous use of my
closet. I’d no’ want to miss another disrobing.”

  She sighed wearily. “It is impossible to convey how much I should like to put this ship into your hands and remove it from mine,” she said. “And return your clothes and anything else we’ve made use of.” She walked to the foot of the bunk where her father lay, and crawled onto the small space at the foot of it. “I’d return your bloody ship and your clothes here and now if I didna have such desperate need for them.” She curled up beneath the blanket. Her braid lay like a silk ribbon across the dark brown of the blanket.

  “What of me, then?” Aulay asked. “Am I to be denied food and a chamber pot?”

  “Pardon?” She lifted her head to peer at him.

  “Supper,” he said impatiently. “A chamber pot. I need to—”

  “Och, you need not explain it.” With a weary groan, she pushed herself up and brought her legs over the side of the bunk. She braced her hands on either side of her knees and stared at him as if he were an unruly child.

  He held up his bound hands. “I’m your captive, lass. You have a duty to tend to me as the rules of war demand.”

  “Rules of war!” She clucked her tongue. She pushed herself to her feet with some effort, gathered her discarded boots, then took his greatcoat from the wall once more. She picked up her gun, slid it into the pocket, then shuffled to the cabin door and opened it.

  “Lottie,” he said.

  She paused. She slid a sidelong gaze to him.

  “Something warm, aye? And some ale.”

  She pressed her forehead to the edge of the door with a sigh. “What more, Captain?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  She started out the door.

  “A chamber pot!” he said.

  He heard her mutter as she went out. He smiled to himself. He couldn’t threaten her into untying him. He couldn’t scare her, either, apparently. But he had strength on his side, and he was determined to exhaust her into it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A HALF HOUR or more passed before Lottie returned to Aulay’s quarters carrying a cloth bundle and in the company of two men. The men undid the chain at Aulay’s ankle, hauled him up between them, then escorted him out “to take the air.”

  Aulay was relieved to be out of the cabin and breathed deeply of the salt air. In the wake of the storm, a blistering array of stars and the full moon lit the deck. He could see casks of whisky stacked haphazardly and tied loosely about the main deck. He was surprised they’d not lost them in the storm.

  At the stern, a man casually held a long gun and smoked a cheroot. Beaty was at the helm with two Livingstone men, in deep conversation that seemed, from a short distance, almost friendly.

  When Aulay had dallied as long as he might, the men returned him to his cabin. As they moved up the few steps to the forecastle, the Livingstone physician emerged from the forward cabin. He backed out of it, really, and was laughing as he went. But when he turned about and saw Aulay, he quickly sobered.

  “Who is within?” Aulay demanded.

  “Wounded men, Captain. One of ours, two of yours.” He scurried down the steps past Aulay and his guards.

  It was too casual. There was no tension—it was as if everyone had settled into this arrangement and had no objection to it. What had she done, entreated them? Played to their sympathies? Seduced them with her bonny face and beseeching blue eyes? Were they all as weak as he?

  In the cabin once more, Aulay simmered as they shackled him like an animal. Lottie watched with heavy eyelids, her head propped on her fist.

  “Now what?” asked one of the men.

  Lottie yawned. “Rest, aye? But go now—I’d no’ like Fader to wake.”

  Judging by the snores coming from the bunk, there was no danger of that happening.

  When the men had gone, Aulay lifted his bound hands. “Untie me.”

  She sighed.

  “How am I to eat, then?” he asked, gesturing to a hunk of bread, some cheese, and what looked like a cup of soup laid on top of his desk.

  “Can you no’ manage it?”

  “No, I canna manage it,” he said curtly.

  She wearily lifted her head off her fist and stood, and seemed a little unsteady on her feet. She looked at Aulay, then the food. “At least you must sit, aye?” she said to him. “I’m at a disadvantage to try and help you, as tall as you are.”

  She picked up one of the heavy wooden chairs at the table and clumsily maneuvered it across the floor, positioning it next to the desk. She pretended to dust it off, then bowed low, sweeping her hand over it. “Your seat, Captain.”

  He sat heavily, his stomach growling. When she didn’t hand him anything to eat, he turned his head toward her.

  Lottie was looking at his hands. She grimaced, then leaned over to have a better look. “Mi Diah,” She knelt beside him and touched her finger to a particularly raw spot on his wrist.

  Aulay hissed with the burn of her touch.

  “I should call Morven to have a look.”

  “You ought to take them off,” Aulay snapped. “You’ve asked for my help, but keep me bound like an animal.”

  “You know I canna do that.” She moved the food to the middle of the desk, carelessly pushing his papers and maps aside in the process, then dragged herself up to sit on it. Her legs dangled, her ankles crossed, her feet bare. She picked up the hunk of bread and tore two chunks from it, handing one to him, and popping the other in her mouth.

  “Just how long do you intend to keep me bound, then?” Aulay asked before fitting the bite of bread into his mouth.

  “Until we are to Aalborg.”

  “We’re two days from Aalborg! I canna carry on like this. Leave me shackled if you must, but untie my hands.”

  She broke a piece of cheese and handed it to him.

  Aulay caught her wrist and locked his fingers around it. She looked up with surprise. “I donna like to see you bound, but if I untied you, I’d have a mutiny. You’re the only leverage we have, you are.”

  “You donna seem to me to be a demure wee lass who does as others bid her. If you want to see my wrists freed, then think of how to do it that spares you a mutiny.”

  She glanced away, but Aulay yanked her close. His gaze moved to her mouth. “Untie me, Lottie.”

  “I thought we had an understanding,” she said.

  “Whatever made you think we did?”

  She leaned closer still, her face only an inch or so from his. She glanced at his hand, wrapped tightly around her wrist. Long, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks. “There are men just outside that door, aye?” she said softly. She lifted her gaze and locked it with his. “If I scream, they’ll be inside so quickly that you’ll no’ have time to blink.” She leaned even closer, her mouth now beside his temple. “I’ve brought fish stew. Will you eat a wee bit of it? Or would you prefer to feel the butt of a gun crack against the back of your head?”

  Aulay turned his head, so that his cheek was against hers. The air around them seemed to crackle. A fire was brewing, and he couldn’t say which of them burned brighter. “I canna be seduced, lass. No’ with you, no’ with food, no’ with threats.”

  “More’s the pity,” she whispered into his ear, and sent an arc of fire shimmering down his spine to land squarely in his groin. She slowly leaned back and with her free hand, she picked up the cup from the table and showed it to him. “I’ll need both hands if you’re to drink.”

  Diah, but he was weak. Damnably weak. He reluctantly let go her wrist.

  She put the cup to his lips, splaying her fingers across his jaw to hold it steady. Aulay was too aware of her touch, of how light it felt against his skin, scarcely more than a whisper, yet hot at the same time. He drank the contents of the cup eagerly, as he was famished. A bit of it rolled down his chin, and she used the sleeve of his shirt she wore to blot it.
<
br />   “You need a shave,” she observed.

  “Do you propose to hold a razor to my throat?”

  “No’ as yet,” she said, and a smile flashed across her face.

  Her bonny eyes were making it impossible to keep Aulay’s rage billowing. Captivity, he was discovering, was exhausting. He felt himself on the verge of losing this battle of wills, of surrendering. Since he’d been strong enough to control the wheel of a ship, he’d been in command. He’d never not commanded the Reulag Balhaire, had never been at the mercy of another. It left him feeling small. His strength came from his command of a ship, of men. It came from the sea. It came from the smell of salt and the sound of the gulls and the constant roll as they pushed forward, and being denied access to those things weakened him. He felt a child again, pushed to the margin by stronger, more vibrant siblings...only this time, a wee lass had done it.

  He needed a drink of something strong. He watched Lottie pull more bread from the stale loaf. “Have you any whisky?” he asked.

  She smiled lopsidedly. “Quite amusing.”

  “Look there, in the chest next to the bed. There’s a bottle of wine there.”

  “Oh?” She perked up. She slid off the desk and padded over to the chest and opened the lid. She retrieved a bottle and came back to the desk, uncorked it, fit it between Aulay’s hands, then shimmied up onto the desktop again.

  He took a long swig of the wine, and another, then handed the bottle to her.

  She did not hesitate to put the bottle to her lips and drink just as long as he had before setting it aside and tearing off more bread for him.

  Lottie Livingstone was a contradiction in many ways—graceful and fragile in appearance, yet obviously fierce and brave. She was the sort of raw beauty that real artists—artists better than him—would spend hours at their canvas perfecting. She ought to be studied and admired...but where were her admirers? What was she doing here instead of being held on a pedestal in some gentleman’s eye, adored, admired and pampered?

  He watched her drink more, then put the bottle aside so that she could hand him cheese.