A Yuletide Highlander

by Cameron, Collette

  Twice, she’d learned the ship had put into port. The emaciated waif spying on her behalf earned a half-penny for his efforts and an extra for keeping silent about her inquiries. But last week, a wicked cough had kept Chris abed, and she hadn’t been able to query about ship arrivals.

  The one time she hadn’t checked in all these long months, blister it, and Santano had slithered ashore. Eyes and fists squeezed hard, Sarah, released a frustrated groan. Despite all of her efforts, she hadn’t been careful enough.

  Santano. The despicable rotter.

  He’d been father’s closest friend, his first officer aboard the Mary Elizabeth. Until greed and thirst for power had overcome him, and the fiend had convinced other spineless traitors to mutiny. Everyone who’d stood with Papa now lay dead on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

  At least that’s the story Sarah had parceled together.

  With a ragged breath, she shook off her morose musings. There was nothing she could do about the past. Yet. For now, she must concentrate her efforts on avoiding Santano.

  Taking a quick peek into the other four rooms, she discovered a kitchen area, two bedrooms, and what appeared to be a good-sized storage closet. Cat had made himself comfortable on one of the main room’s windowsills, and one striped leg pointed ceilingward, was engaged in a thorough grooming session.

  Her stomach complained loudly again, and Sarah yielded to her hunger, cutting a thin slice of delicious-smelling brown bread and a small piece of hard cheese.

  Standing off to the side of the multi-paned windows, she nibbled her simple meal and surveyed the wharf. Dock laborers rushed to and fro as wagons and carts laden with all manner of goods rumbled in both directions, first delivering products and then carting others away.

  She shivered, her wet, woolen coat offering little warmth. Would she ever become accustomed to the damp grayness that shrouded England and penetrated her bones? How she longed for the Caribbean’s fresh air, colorful flowers, and bird calls.

  Naturally, now that Santano had found her, she’d have to leave London. Immediately.

  The bread she’d been chewing dried on her tongue, but a wry smile curved her mouth. Where could she go? Strangers, especially a cripple, would draw unwanted attention in the villages and smaller towns.

  She had lived frugally these past three years, but little of the money Mama had sent remained. Even before her grandmother had turned them away, she’d been afraid to seek employment. It was too easy to track her. Besides, she couldn’t leave Chris alone while she worked. And the truth of it was, she possessed no skill beyond an average education that might gain her a respectable position.

  A gust of wind splattered raindrops against the windowpanes, and careful to remain out of sight, she searched for any sign of Chris or Gregor McTavish. He hadn’t been gone long, but neither was the cooper’s very far.

  There was no help for it. She must swallow her pride, temper her misgivings, and ask the giant Scot to help her leave London and mayhap find employment in her new local. Though why or how he’d do so, she couldn’t fathom.

  They were strangers, after all. But for whatever reason, she trusted the Highlander.

  Over the years, she’d learned to rely on gut instinct above all else. And the plain, ugly truth was, she had no choice but to put her faith in him. Nevertheless, she didn’t like it one jot.

  Popping the last morsel of cheese into her mouth, she scowled.

  What was taking the Scot so long?

  She bent forward, squinting at the docks, and several strands of lanky hair swung forward. While running from Santano’s men, she’d lost the ribbon tying it back. Her hair, in desperate need of washing, had dried in straggly tendrils. She flipped the strands over her shoulder, longing for days past when a warm, scented bath was the norm and not a wishful luxury.

  When clean and her stomach full, she’d been able to sleep through the night without fear of someone breaking into their room. She’d taken to wearing men’s clothing a scant fortnight after setting foot in England after continually being approached by men in search of female company.

  It was a wonder, really, that she hadn’t been set upon or despoiled. The knife at her waist acted as a detriment to the less bold.

  Her stomach tightened again, but not from hunger. She couldn’t see the cooper’s from here, but surely Gregor been able to find Chris by now. Unless Santano’s goons had…

  She tamped down the unthinkable notion. Chris was just hiding. She’d taught him well, and much like a fawn hidden by a doe, he’d learned not to budge until Sarah returned for him.

  Another overloaded wagon rumbled through a puddle, its wheels spraying dirty water to the sides, and she bit her lip.

  Should she go look for Chris herself?

  No, confound it.

  She’d given her word she’d stay here. So stupid, to have entrusted him to a stranger.

  Gregor had promised he’d find him. If she wasn’t here, and he returned with Chris, her brother would panic for sure. He didn’t deal well with change, and he’d grown progressively weaker these past months.

  Twelve years his senior, Sarah had been thrilled when Mama delivered the skinny, sickly babe. His birth had been difficult, and for the first several weeks, they’d feared he’d die. Another couple of stressful months passed before anyone realized he’d never be quite normal.

  As she’d told Gregor, Chris’s was a trifle slow mentally, and his right leg dragged when he walked. His right arm bent slightly inward toward his torso, as well. But he was sweet and kind, and Sarah adored him. He was her beloved brother. She’d promised Mama to keep him safe and never to leave him, and she meant to keep that vow.

  He was also the rightful heir to Bellewood House and the Mary Elizabeth, and someday, somehow, she’d see his inheritance restored to him or the properties sold and the monies used to ensure he never wanted for anything. And if she ever married—not likely, but not impossible—her husband would have to agree to allow Chris to live with them. Always.

  With one eye on the wharf as she awaited Gregor’s return, she fingered the outline of the key hidden at her waist.

  Did Santano truly know about the chest hidden in Bellewood’s cellars? He must, but how had he come by the knowledge? As far as Sarah was aware, only she and her parents knew of its existence.

  One time, about a year after Chris’s birth, Papa had shown her a hidden chamber behind a rock wall beneath the house’s main floor. Hardly more substantial than the pantry, he’d made her swear to tell no one about the small room.

  The hidey-hole contained a locked mid-sized chest, a few leather packets, several small coin pouches—which Mama had given her when Sarah fled Jamaica—two elaborate gold chalices as well as a few jewels.

  At the time, Sarah hadn’t questioned why Papa had revealed the hidden chamber. He’d made it clear because of Chris’s mental and physical shortfalls, her brother would require care his entire life. The hideaway’s contents were to be used toward that end.

  As an adult nearing her fifth and twentieth birthday, Sarah now suspected Papa mightn’t have come by the items entirely honestly, and she never learned precisely what the chest contained. Pirates and privateers anchored in Port Royal by the dozens in the seventeenth century.

  Had Papa found a buried treasure on Bellewood House’s property?

  Or had he come by it another way?

  She’d likely never know.

  It was difficult to reconcile the idea that the kind man who seldom raised his voice in anger could’ve also been a buccaneer or privateer. If he had been, Santano, as his first mate, surely would’ve known about any treasure.

  The window had grown steamy from her face nearly pressed to the cold glass, and Sarah drew away a few inches.

  Once, when she’d been eighteen years old, she’d broached the subject of the room and its contents with her mother. Even then, Mama’s constitution had been delicate. For as much as she loved her husband and enjoyed living in the tropics, neither the
heat nor the insects suited her.

  Her mother had given her a gentle smile, and after kissing Sarah on the forehead, patted her cheek. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, my dear. When the time is right, you’ll know all. You know your father is a man of integrity, and he has ensured that long after he and I are gone, you’ll never have to worry about how to care for your brother.”

  Sarah gave the hidden bag a hard squeeze.

  She was exhausted—tired of running and living in fear, and yes, saddened, that her only living relative refused to acknowledge them. Mama claimed the Rolandsons’ pride would be their downfall.

  Sarah had hoped that time would have healed her grandparents’ disappointment. But her grandfather had gone to his grave, a bitter curmudgeon, and her grandmother’s reputation as a demanding, cantankerous snob was whispered about even amongst the lower orders.

  Lady Rolandson also wasn’t aware her daughter had died.

  Scorching tears stung behind Sarah’s eyes, and her heart twisted with grief.

  Had Mama died?

  There’d been no way to correspond with her.

  The only person she’d trusted to deliver a letter had been Captain Pritchard. His ship had sunk shortly after he’d seen her and Chris safely to London. All hands had been lost, and Mama wouldn’t be able to write her without an address.

  No, if Mama were alive, she’d have written the viscountess. But given the many returned letters over the years, the effort would’ve been in vain.

  “Grandmother, how can you be so cold-hearted?” she asked aloud. “Have you no desire to meet your grandchildren? To know what became of your only daughter?”

  Mayhap Sarah would try one last time to contact her grandmother.

  Gregor might be persuaded to deliver a letter on her behalf. If Lady Rolandson still refused to see her, then she’d make no attempt to contact the woman again. Right now, the most important thing was keeping Chris safe and escaping Santano’s clutches.

  Exhausted to the marrow of her bones, she rested her forehead against the window casement.

  Yes, she was fatigued beyond words. Weary of always looking over her shoulder, wondering who might betray them next. Fearing that she would grow careless and endanger their lives. Worrying that Chris would slip and forget what name he was going by at present or reveal his true identity. Or fall. Or become ill and require medical attention she could ill afford.

  How long could she continue living like this?

  Squaring her shoulders and jutting her chin upward, she tightened her jaw. For as long as it takes, Sarah Elizabeth Martha Paine. Santano would pay for his treachery—someday.

  Perchance… just perchance Gregor McTavish with his connections to Stapleton Shipping and Supplies could help in that regard, too. For Santano captained a stolen ship.

  And she possessed the documentation to prove it.

  Gregor lounged against the wall outside the barrel-maker’s shop. Pretending preoccupation in the cuff of his coat sleeve, he examined the many barrels from the corner of his eye. Passersby wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Just another London dandy more concerned with his attire than the hardworking people nearby.

  Och, nae one with eyes in their head would mistake my hulkin’ form for a prissy cove.

  His practiced eye detected no sign of the lad.

  Was he here, hidden in a barrel?

  Crouched behind one?

  Had he left?

  Och, Gregor hoped not.

  What would he tell Sydney?

  Switching his attention to the bustling wharf, he searched for Santano’s compatriots. Satisfied none loitered nearby, he adjusted his hat to partially shade his face.

  How he loathed playing the part of a conceited fop. He hadn’t a doubt, given his size, he looked utterly ridiculous.

  “Kipp, laddie, yer sister sent me to fetch ye. Ye dinna ken me, and ye’ve nae reason to trust me.” Not so much as a rustle met his quiet words. “Sydney said to tell ye that Satan has found ye, and ye’re to come with me.”

  He nodded as two naval officers strode past, their cheerful blue uniforms neat and pristine.

  The lid of the fourth barrel down shifted. Hazel eyes almost the exact shade as his sister’s peeked between a one-inch gap.

  Gregor gave the minutest inclination of his head to let the lad know he’d seen him. “She’s safe and waitin’ for us. She’s verra worried about ye, though.”

  Another swift survey of the docks eased his mind, and straightening, he motioned to the driver of a wagon laden with bags of grain and covered by a tarp. He and McGarry already had arranged a place between the grain sacks for Kipp to hide.

  “Kipp, stay where ye are until yonder wagon parks in front of the barrels.” Recalling what his sister had said about him, Gregor gave simple directions. “Ye need to crawl inside. There’s a place prepared for ye. Be careful ye aren’t seen. McGarry here is my friend. He’ll take ye to my warehouse. That’s where yer sister is.”

  The lid settled into place once more, and satisfied that the lad understood, Gregor crossed to meet McGarry.

  With a click of his tongue, McGarry drove the wagon across the dock and positioned it at an angle, so the rear faced the barrels. He climbed down from the driver’s seat and, after yanking the tarp halfway up the wagon bed, clasped Gregor’s hand before moving to rest against the freight wagon’s far side.

  One knee cocked, he jabbed a thumb toward the wagon load and wiped his brow with the back of his other hand. “Thirty sacks of oats for yer laird.”

  Ewan had no more need for oats than Gregor required bells on his boots. Nevertheless, he nodded and patted the horse’s wither. The animal nickered softly and shifted his feet. He rubbed between the horse’s ears. “Dinna be too hasty delivering them, McGarry. I’m takin’ my time returnin’ to the office, in case I’m bein’ watched. Wait for me at the rear of the warehouse.”

  Gregor turned and slapped his palm atop a grain sack. He nodded once more as if satisfied with his purchase and shook McGarry’s hand. Rounding the wagon, he caught the boy’s eye. “Stay down, ye ken?”

  Face pale and his gaze wary, the lad acknowledged the request with a slight shifting of his frightened eyes.

  “Och, there’s a good lad.”

  With a casual wave, Gregor pulled his collar higher against the wind as he sauntered off. He took his time returning to his offices, stopping to chat with several acquaintances along the way. The whole while, he kept guarded and alert, watching for any indication he was followed.

  At the Seven Seas, he ordered a warm, dark ale and sipped it slowly, probing every nook and cranny he could see for Santano and his men. Their absence likely meant they still searched for the Blanes.

  As he strolled back to his lodgings, he pondered his impulse to help Sydney. In general, he wasn’t a man given to indulging whims, much less rescuing damsels in distress. Och, but this lass has sunshine in her hair and berries on her lips. And her eyes. Those eyes. Even a kelpie could drown in their beautiful pools.

  On the other hand, lowlife bullies like Santano and his cronies irritated Gregor. He flexed his gloved hands. Too many months of sitting at a desk and not enough riding, tramping through the Highlands, hunting, training, or some other sort of physical exertion at Craiglocky had him restless and itching for a good grapple.

  How much longer would he procrastinate and delay the inevitable return to Scotland? A wee bit longer, it seemed, as he’d decided to help a lass and her brother.

  If Sydney were to be believed, the rumors circulating about how Santano acquired the Mary Elizabeth were true. He wasn’t the first ship’s captain to tread the thin line between lawlessness and honest ventures.

  At this moment, Gregor could point out half a dozen ships gently rocking in the Thames’s waters, engaging in one form of questionable commerce or another. Privateering might be outlawed, but he, as well as everyone else who worked the docks, knew smuggling and raids continued.

  Likely, Santano
possessed forged documents giving him ownership of the vessel.

  Stapleton’s warehouse came into view, and a slight movement drew his attention to the upper story windows.

  Sydney watched, and by thunder, she bloody well needed to take more care not to be seen.

  Removing his hat, he looked overhead, squinting as if he examined the petulant sky then cast a casual glance about him, hoping to God no one else had noticed her.

  Gregor hadn’t quite decided what he was going to do with her and her brother, but once he’d determined to aid someone, he didn’t turn his back on them. If any two people required help, it was the Blanes.

  That a bonnie lassie such as she managed to keep from being forced into prostitution or being set upon by the riffraff infesting London’s docks, was a testament to her keen intellect and cunning.

  Hopefully, he hadn’t been an unsuspecting victim of both.

  He unlocked the office door, and after stepping inside, slid the bolt home once more. He had yet to divest his outerwear before footsteps thumped upon the risers.

  “Where is my brother?”

  “Lass, stay out of sight.”

  “I sent you to fetch Chris, Highlander. Where. Is. He?” Panic riddled her voice.

  “Dinna fash yerself. A friend of mine has the lad hidden in a wagon filled with bags of oats. They should be at warehouse doors, even now.”

  After removing his coat and hat, then draping his gloves across another curved arm of the porcelain-tipped oak coat rack beside the door, he wandered in front of the window so that anybody observing the establishment wouldn’t suspect anything.

  He stretched, flexing his spine and yawned. Selecting a ledger from his desk, he nonchalantly glanced at the window. Nothing. Flipping the journal open, he casually ambled toward the rear of the building.

  “Was he all right?” she asked, only a hint of her earlier alarm evident in her voice.

  Upon reflecting briefly, he said, “Aye, I think so. He looked well enough. A wee bit scared, but that’s to be expected. I’m goin’ to let yer brother inside. Remain out of sight and wait for the lad upstairs. We’ll decide what to do with the two of ye while he’s eatin’.”