Devil in Tartan

by Julia London

  “What?” Lottie cried.

  “He has directed us to the Hospital of the Holy Ghost, he has, where Samaritans may be found. Somewhere there,” he indicated, waving vaguely in the direction of the town sprawling behind them. “Quite a large place, he said. Canna miss it.”

  “No, no, no—we must find a physician!” Lottie said frantically.

  “We’ll inquire at the hospital, lass. I donna know what a duty agent should know of it, really.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  “Och, ’tis no’ good news,” he said. “The gentleman claimed no familiarity with Anders Iversen—”

  “But his father—” Lottie was quick to interject. “Did you tell him Anders Iversen was the bookkeeper of the Copenhagen Company, and his father exchequer?”

  “Aye, I did,” the actor said. “I explained to him that Mr. Iversen, whose company we verra much enjoyed last summer, had found occupation as their bookkeeper with the help of his father, who is exchequer and ought to be well known in this port. But he said...” He paused, took off his hat and wiped his forehead.

  “He said what?” Lottie demanded.

  “Well he laughed, he did, and said the name of the exchequer is Mr. Pedersen and had been for nigh on thirty years, and he’d never heard of Anders Iversen, no’ in this town, nor had he heard of any company hailing from Copenhagen and to move aside, as he had more pressing issues than my ignorance.”

  Lottie gasped. The actor returned his hat to his head.

  Aulay suppressed a groan of frustration. He was not surprised, given what he knew about the Livingstones. What in hell would he do with all that whisky on his deck? Toss it into the sea?

  “That canna be, Duff,” Lottie said, her voice shaking. “Anders would no’ have lied—”

  “Apparently, he did, lass, for he told me the same,” the actor said. “But donna fret, aye? I would no’ leave without a wee bit of information and merely explained to the man that we’ve fine Scotch whisky to sell, and he looked a wee bit pleased with it, he did, and said I ought to speak to Mr. Ingoff Holm. He said if there was good whisky to be sold, he’d be the man for it.”

  Lottie didn’t respond—she stared at the ground, her brow furrowed.

  The actor dipped his head to see her face and said carefully, “Lottie?”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “What is the man’s name?”

  “Ingoff Holm,” the actor repeated. “You may find him in a private room at the Kajen Inn.” He pointed at the inn at the very end of the road.

  Lottie flicked a gaze over her brother, who was trying to coax a seagull to him.

  “I’d no’ seek this man, were I you,” Aulay offered.

  “Why no’?”

  How did one explain a sailor’s intuition? “It doesna seem right,” he said with a shrug.

  She nodded, then abruptly took Duff’s elbow and pulled him aside. Aulay watched as the two of them carried on an animated conversation until Lottie turned about, and announced, “We’ve no time to waste.” She hesitated, then said, “We’ve decided, Drustan, that you will carry on with Duff. You’re to go to the hospital and find help for our father.” She smiled.

  Maybe the giant wasn’t as addled as Aulay had thought, because he was not fooled by that smile. “No, Lottie! I remain with you!”

  “No’ this time, Dru,” she said firmly, and withdrew a watch from her pocket, and pressed it carefully into the actor’s palm. She turned to her brother again. “Duff needs you. A physician might need a wee bit of persuasion to row out to our ship, aye? If Duff tells you to pick someone up, you must do it.”

  Aulay recoiled. “You’re no’ suggesting he force a man against his—”

  “I am suggesting he help Duff,” Lottie said curtly.

  “But I should no’ like to leave you with him,” the actor said, and jerked his chin in the direction of Aulay, as if he was the cause of the debacle in which they’d put themselves. “I know you believe you can do all, Lottie, and Diah, you have, we’d be at a great loss without you, we would. But you’re a wee thing, and he might try and...and well, strangle you, aye? He might attempt to throw you in the ocean and leave you there to drown!”

  “No!” the giant said angrily, and turned with fury toward Aulay.

  Aulay straightened up with mild alarm.

  “Duff doesna mean that, Dru—”

  “I certainly do mean it—”

  “Duff!” She gestured to her brother, who was growing more agitated. “Think! If the captain returns to the ship without me, a battle will be waged, will it no’? He canna have his ship back without me. The man is no fool—he’ll no’ risk damage to his ship or the loss of his own crew.”

  The actor looked at Aulay, assessing him. “If you dare lay as much as a finger on her—”

  “I beg your pardon,” Aulay said evenly, “but you seem to have confused who has laid hands on whom.”

  “Duff...we’ve no time to debate it,” Lottie said urgently.

  The giant began to flap his hands and mewl.

  Lottie caught her brother’s face in her hands and forced him to look at her. “Calm yourself, Dru,” she said. “You know that Duff will care for you as Mats does, aye? I need you to be strong. Fader needs your help.”

  At the mention of the old man, the giant seemed to rethink his anguish. “Fader needs me help,” he repeated. “Fader needs me help.”

  “I’ll see you verra soon,” she said, and shifted her gaze to the actor. “Go,” she said softly.

  “Aye, come then, lad,” the actor said, and put his hand on the giant’s shoulder. He eyed Aulay darkly as they moved on in the direction of the town, the giant lumbering after him.

  Lottie watched them go, her arms wrapped tightly around her, the lines of concern evident around her eyes. When the two of them had turned into an alley and she could no longer see them, she glanced warily at Aulay.

  He shook his head. “You’re a rare one, Lottie Livingstone. But bloody well foolish. If this man conducts his business in an inn—”

  “I’ve no choice,” she snapped, and turned about, facing the squat building the actor had indicated was the Kajen Inn. “I’m no’ afraid, if that’s what you think. No sir, I’m livid. I will abide many things, but dishonesty is no’ one of them!”

  “Pardon?”

  “Mr. Iversen is no’ in the post he claimed. Nor does the trading company of which he was so inordinately proud seem to exist. And I have chased across the North Sea because I believed him!” She glanced at him sidelong. “Donna fear, Captain—I’ve my pistol.”

  “I donna fear, Lottie. And what you have is a wee dueling pistol that would no’ stop a man who means to do you harm.”

  Her eyes glittered with ire. She took a breath that lifted her shoulders and released it, and said, “Captain Mackenzie, I have a matter of hours—hours—to save our clan and my father. I mean to go to that inn and speak to Mr. Ingoff Holm, because I’ve no other option, and now I’ve promised no’ one, but two crews payment. You may come with me, or you may return to the ship, I donna care.”

  Well, then. She was lovely when her anger was aroused. A fine wisp of her snowy white hair had come down from the hat, and quite unable to stop himself, he tucked it behind her ear, trailed his finger along the bottom of her lobe and down her neck before he dropped his hand. “Aye, a rare one, you are,” he muttered.

  “Will you come with me?”

  God help him, but the sea in him was beginning to turn. The things he could see, the things he could count on, knew like the back of his hand, were disappearing, and parts of him that were new, raw and unused, were coming to light. Of course he was going with her. He gestured to the street before them. “After you, then.”

  “You do know that if you say a single word to hinder me, I’ll shoot you, and I’ll no’ miss.”

  A
ulay arched a brow.

  “I donna care what happens to me, but if you ruin this chance for us, all is lost for the Livingstones. I canna allow that to happen.”

  One side of his mouth curved into a smile. “Aye, lass, you’ve made that abundantly clear.” She was mad to think she could stop him, or anyone for that matter. But he said agreeably, “I consider myself warned,” tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her to the inn.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE PUBLIC ROOM of the inn was crowded. With its low ceilings and thick walls, the din was nearly deafening. What little light there was came from a pair of small windows at the street front and a candle here and there in wall sconces. The burning tallow did not mask the smell of damp rot. They had to maneuver through tables crowded with rowdy sailors and dockhands, brushing past greatcoats hung on pegs on the wall, women serving tankards of ale, and the occasional dog.

  At the back of the inn, Lottie approached a man busy hanging empty tankards on hooks in the ceiling. “I beg your pardon?”

  The man interjected a string of something in Danish.

  Lottie blinked. “Ingoff Holm,” she said.

  The man pointed to one of two rooms off the public room near the kitchen.

  Lottie and Aulay exchanged a look, but Aulay put his hand to her back and guided her through the crowd to the first room. He knocked, and hearing no reply, opened the door. It was empty. At the next door, he heard a muffled reply to his knock. He opened the door and stepped into the room.

  Two men were seated at a table, one of them was considerably older than the other, with a thick tuft of white hair that reminded Aulay of the snow that topped the Highlands in winter, and jowls that hung like small satchels on either side of his face. The other gentleman, tall and lanky, had not bothered to remove his greatcoat and cocked hat.

  The older man watched them impassively as they stepped deeper into the room, and Aulay pulled the door to, shutting out the noise. Snowtop squinted at Lottie. “Kvinde,” he said. Whatever that meant, it seemed to amuse him and disgust him at once. “Ja?”

  Lottie stepped forward. “Do you, by chance, speak English?”

  The man looked her up and down, then slowly stood from his chair. He was a thick man, but a head shorter than Aulay. “Ja.”

  Lottie suddenly smiled—with relief or affectation, Aulay wasn’t certain—but it had the effect of lighting that room. “If you please, I’m looking for Mr. Ingoff Holm.”

  “Hvem? Who?” the old man asked as he came around the table.

  “Mr. Ingoff Holm,” she repeated.

  Just then, the door behind them swung open, and another man stepped in, ducking under the low header. He brushed past Aulay and eyed Lottie curiously. He smelled as if he’d not bathed in weeks. He muttered something under his breath in Danish and Snowtop responded without taking his gaze from Lottie.

  “My colleague would like to know what is your business with Herre Holm?” he asked as the third man took a seat at the table.

  Aulay’s misgivings ratcheted. There was something sinister about these men and this room.

  “I beg your pardon, but it is a private matter,” Lottie said politely.

  “There are no matters for Mr. Holm that do not include me, ja?” Snowtop dipped his head so he could see Lottie under the brim of her hat. “Ja, meget smuk...a pretty thing you are.”

  Lottie took a small step backward, bumping up against Aulay. “Is Mr. Holm about, then?”

  The man glanced curiously at Aulay. “Why is the lady the one to speak?” he asked, and to Lottie, “What is he, your mute?”

  “I’m no mute,” Aulay said, and moved, intending to step before her, but Lottie swung her arm down and clamped his inner thigh before he could make any progress.

  “He’s naugh’ to do with this. ’Tis my private business.”

  Diah, but her naïveté was on full display.

  Snowtop sneered. “A woman with business.” He settled back against the table, casually taking her in, as if she were a fat little lamb for sale. “No good can come of that.”

  Aulay ignored Lottie’s insistent hand and put himself between her and the men, but the stubborn little wench pushed around him. The room was so small that there was no space between Aulay and the table, and she stood with her back pressed against half of him. “Is he here, then?” she insisted. “Mr. Holm?”

  “Tell me your business and I’ll tell you if he is present or not. How about that?”

  “You may tell him I’m selling fine Scotch whisky—”

  “Uist,” Aulay said, warning her to say no more. The less this man knew, the better.

  “You’ve brought fine Scotch whisky all the way to Aalborg, have you?” Snowtop asked, one brow rising. “Was it no’ good enough for you Scots? Why would a pretty little miss bring whisky all the way to Denmark?”

  “My family hails from Denmark.”

  “Ah,” the man said, and looked around to his companions. “Hun er dansk.”

  The two men chuckled.

  “And where is this whisky you’d like to sell?” Snowtop asked.

  “We’ll leave that for Holm,” Aulay said, although it was fairly easy to guess that it was likely a Scottish ship in the harbor. He hoped Lottie did not offer which ship.

  “I’ve a taste for Mr. Holm, if you’d be so kind as to bring him round,” Lottie said primly.

  The man clucked his tongue and shook his head. “That’s not how we conduct our business, ja? I’ll have a taste of it, and if I think it is as fine as you say, I shall bring you to Herre Holm.”

  Lottie jerked the flagon from her shoulder and tossed it at him. The man caught it deftly with one hand and grinned at her. “There’s a good pige,” he said. He handed the flagon to the man behind him, who took the first swig, then passed it to the next man. He drank, too, then held the flagon out to Snowtop. That one held it up and said “Skål,” and then drank.

  When he’d tasted it, the three men discussed in their native tongue. When it looked as if they’d come to some agreement, Snowtop tossed the flagon to Lottie and returned to his seat. “How much do you have?”

  “Twenty-two casks.”

  He smiled in a manner that made Aulay’s skin crawl. “Very well, then, miss. You may wait in the public room until Herre Holm arrives.”

  “Will it be long?” she asked. “We’ve others who are interested.”

  Snowtop chuckled. “Go and enjoy a tankard of ale, pige, you and your mute. We’ll summon you.”

  Still, Lottie hesitated. Aulay put his hand on her waist, forcing her backward and to the door, then taking her hand and yanking her out of the room.

  “What are you doing?” she insisted, pulling her hand free when they were outside. “I donna trust him. I want to keep a close eye on that one.”

  “Thank the saints you donna trust him. He’s a scoundrel, that one—”

  “I know!” she said angrily, her eyes flashing. “You were no’ to speak!”

  He grabbed her elbow and yanked her close. “You hold my ship hostage with this farce, and I canna trust that you’ve enough sense to recognize a liar and a thief when you lay eyes on him.”

  “I’ll no’ leave,” she said stubbornly. “He might be a thief, and then again, he might no’, aye?” She pressed her lips together and stared down at her boots, her hands on her hips. “I am doing the best that I know to do,” she said stiffly. “But I donna know what to do, Captain. I rather thought my father would be the one to sell it.”

  Aulay sighed. He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “You do ken, do you no’, that Snowtop is up to no good?”

  “Snowtop?”

  “The older man. You canna trust the word of a stranger in a strange port about who to sell your whisky to.”

  “What choice have I?” she said, her voice pleading. “Please, Capta
in, give me another choice!”

  “It’s too late for another choice, Lottie.” Any reasonable choice should have been made on Lismore Island before they’d ever made sail. He muttered something about foolish women under his breath, but then wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “If you refuse to leave, then I’ll have a pint for all my trouble, and so will you.”

  “I havena any coin,” she said, allowing him to lead her through the throng.

  “Aye, Lottie, I am painfully aware you have no coin. Your lack of it has bedeviled me for three days now,” he said, and took her firmly by the hand and pushed through that throng to a table near the kitchen.

  He didn’t notice the way she was looking at him as he pulled out a chair for her, but then he saw the shine in her eyes and felt the flow of something that felt intimate and slightly carnal between them.

  He did not notice, at least not in that moment, that he had forgotten he was her captive.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A HARRIED WOMAN appeared tableside and spoke to them in Danish.

  “Ale,” the captain said, and held up two fingers.

  “We’ve no coin,” Lottie sternly reminded him as the woman went off to fetch the ales.

  He cast an impatient look at her as he reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a small purse.

  Lottie flushed with shame and slumped back in her seat. Her first foray into the world at large had been an utter disaster, but she’d hoped—prayed—that at least she could sell the whisky. Unfortunately, the events of this day had nearly drained her of all heart.

  She removed the blasted hat and rubbed her eyes. Strands of her hair fell down around her face.

  “What’s the matter?” the captain asked, and reached across the little table to brush crumbs from her sleeve.

  “What’s the matter? Everything.” She averted her gaze. “I’m ashamed,” she said bluntly. “It’s no’ always been like this for us.”

  The captain did not speak, and when Lottie glanced at him, his attention was on something across the room. He didn’t want to hear her excuses, of course not. He’d never be brought so low as this. She didn’t want to hear her excuses, either—it made her feel weak, and she despised that feeling.