20

The devil’s boots don’t creak.

Scottish proverb

When half a dozen women spilled onto the quarterdeck from the officers’ quarters instead of through the usual hatch at daybreak, Lark’s suspicions were confirmed. She’d come the usual way, the warm weight of Larkin in his sling testing her balance as the ship heaved, emerging into a world of mist where white-capped waves sprayed salty water at every turn. Little stayed dry on such a day.

She breakfasted, feeding Larkin first. Milk drunk he was, gulping the fresh offering from a bottle fashioned from a cow’s horn with an occasional appreciative burp.

“And how’s yer wee charge this morn?” asked the ship’s carpenter with a gap-toothed grin.

“Bonny and bright-eyed,” she answered, as proud as a new mother. Never had there been eyes so hugely blue or a grin so wide and heart-stopping. Her smile slipped as she took in Larkin’s every roll and dimple. His fair skin was splotched pink from the glare of sun on water, despite his linen bonnet with its short brim.

“I’ve made a play-pretty for ’im,” the aged man said, dangling a shell rattle from a leather loop with a piece of teething coral attached. Larkin lunged for it as the sailor added, “It ain’t gold nor silver, but it’ll do. Fitted with a whistle too.”

Though it would take time for the babe to discover the whistle, the orange coral end had already found his open mouth with its sole tiny tooth.

“Gnawin’ on it like a baby beaver, he is. ’Tis a hard bit o’ coral that won’t break. I’ll make a toy soldier next, mayhap a pony.” He went away whistling to Lark’s high praise and Larkin’s chewing.

She kissed the babe’s damp brow, thankful, wishing they could sit in the shade of a sail to escape the strengthening sun. She left the yawning women behind as she walked to the fenced quarterdeck and plant cabin. Surgeon Blackburn stood, back to her, reminding her of their reel last night.

She’d excused herself from the after-supper frolic shortly after Magnus did, ready to return to Larkin. She found him sleeping, his caretaker dozing too.

Would a second summons to dine be forthcoming? Their shipboard supper remained a riddle, though her fellow convicts held a clue—the select few who had emerged from the officers’ quarters, Mrs. Ravenhill leading. Was this what Surgeon Blackburn expected of her? A night in his hammock? Heat burned her face and neck like a saltwater rash when he swung round to face her.

“Miss MacDougall.” His politeness was intact despite any disappointment over the previous eve.

“Good morning, sir. A fair day, aye?”

“Indeed.” He looked beyond the green square of plants to the purling blue sea. “Cat’s paws.”

No cat was in sight. She studied the water, puzzling out his meaning.

“Light, variable winds on calm waters, producing small waves resembling—”

“Cat’s paws,” she finished. “The waves do look like them.”

“The sea has a language all its own.” He came closer, examining the rattle Larkin fisted. “Orange coral. Not quite so comely as the beads you wore last night at supper.”

“Larkin doesna seem to mind.”

He chuckled, surprising her by lifting the babe from his sling so that the fabric lay limp about her. “He’s becoming something of a barnacle, attached so.”

It was her turn to smile. In the surgeon’s strong arms, Larkin stiffened before bringing the rattle down on the man’s broad chest with a musical clatter of shells. “You’re a Highland Scot, surely, striking a Lowlander so.” His gaze met Lark’s. “Try tending the plants unencumbered for one morn, at least.”

Not wasting time, she turned away and began to do just that. Blackburn was not far behind, no doubt for Larkin’s sake.

The tea trees seemed slightly wilted, being wind-whipped, while the parsley and mint were flourishing. An ominous brown edged the rosemary while the marigolds were a colorful riot. She stroked the lamb’s ears, the velvety leaves soft as Larkin’s skin. The bees buzzed contentedly, one of the most reassuring sounds she knew.

Casting a glance over her shoulder, she felt a tendril of pleasure. The babe, clad in his white bonnet and gown, looked like spilled milk against the surgeon’s dark blue uniform. Besotted with his rattle, Larkin chewed fiercely, eyes fixed on Lark nevertheless.

“Surgeon Blackburn, sir. Yer needed in the infirmary. A jack is down with a fever.”

Handing Larkin over, he disappeared below deck. Lark resumed her work, if it could be called that. Other than watering and watching, staking and pruning, what more could be done? ’Twas a chancy endeavor and not all the plants would survive. And if there came a gale . . .

The sails snapped as the wind stiffened. She looked aloft to where she’d spied Rory MacPherson. In sailor’s trews and cap and even pigtailed, he in no way resembled the captain of the Merry Lass. But he was somewhere on this great ship, though their chance of doing more than exchanging a fleeting glance was slim.

The laird was nowhere on deck that she could see. But with so large a crew and so many nooks and crannies, he might be right beneath her very nose.

The morning glare was fierce, and she blinked into its brightness. Day three at sea. Why did it seem weeks already? ’Twould be September when they made landfall, Lord willing. Already Scotland seemed faded, a tattered dream. No longer could she recall the exact hue of the bluebell-rimmed loch she’d mentioned to Magnus, nor the musky smell of the peat fire or the hearty taste of oatcakes. Too many new sights and sounds had elbowed their way in, lapping over her heartfelt memories like cat’s-paw waves, erasing what had come before.

Here there was just wind and wood, salt spray and sail. Larkin was her world, and she his. With her hands and heart full, her sorrow was halved. For now.

Lark returned to the captain’s table a second time. And a third. Magnus was always there, seated to one side of her at supper since the arrangement did not alter. Surgeon Blackburn was on her right.

It slowly dawned on her that she was now one of the select few while the rest of the convict women were left on the orlop deck, in the hold at night and picking oakum by day. In close quarters, it didn’t take her long to sense their distress.

“We must help them,” she told Surgeon Blackburn. “Make a salve.”

His brow arched. “What have you in mind?”

“Dried comfrey. Yarrow and rosemary. Oil.”

“Come down to my makeshift apothecary. I believe I have what’s required.” He shrugged. “But does it truly matter when they must continue oakum picking?”

She had no answer. If the women continued their brutal task, their hands would not heal, nor even scar. “Might ye speak with the captain? Have them do something else, at least for a time?”

Silent, he studied her in the sun’s harsh light. The squint lines about his eyes were pronounced, his eyes intense. At night, her own eyes burned from the water’s glare, but it seemed of no consequence compared to torn and bleeding hands.

They went below. Though his cabin was not as grand as the captain’s, hers was a mouse hole in comparison. The surgeon’s included not only a sleeping berth where his hammock was suspended but a second chamber lined with shelves containing jar after jar of herbs and simples, many that she recognized. A seaworthy apothecary.

The fragrance alone made her close her eyes and take a deep, delighted breath when his back was turned, yet he clearly sensed her mood straightaway.

“This place makes you smile. Why is that?”

She traced the design on a green glass bottle. “’Tis the stillroom’s fragrance.”

“Your castle stillroom.”

Her smile faded. Any thought of the stillroom was now tainted. Gone was that joyous feeling, that sense of place, of belonging. Her banishment had seen to that.

“I apologize.” He cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Something happened there, I take it, that explains why you are here.”

She nodded, shifting a sleeping Larkin to ease the knot of the sling digging into her shoulder. “’Twas unexpected, terrible—”

“Think no more of it. Nothing matters but here and now.” Reaching out, he stilled the words on her lips, his fingers cool and smelling of camphor. “Let the past go, Lark.”

He was so near. Never had he called her by her given name. She didn’t even know his, other than Blackburn. Yet she knew his particular scent, that pleasurable melding of soap and sandalwood. In the closed space of his quarters it was like a lure. She returned her attention to the assortment of jars and vials and bottles, cleverly arranged behind a shelf made secure in stormy seas. She leaned past him, reaching for what she thought was comfrey, only to find it was foxglove instead, she was so aflocht.

“I could talk to the captain. Ask a reprieve for the women.” He reached for a mortar and pestle and set it on a table. “No doubt his response will be that the ship must be watertight and the work continue. Still, I will ask . . . for you.”

The last two words were said with such intent there was no mistaking the underlying meaning. He wanted something in return. From her.

“Thank ye, sir,” she murmured.

“Alick, if you will.”

Alick . . . Blackburn. Knowing it made him seem less a stranger, not simply a surgeon.

He ground the herbs she’d selected with a practiced ease. “I’ve been wanting to consult you about a particularly stubborn fever suffered by the master’s mate.”

She kept perusing jars for something more that might benefit the salve, listening as he described the mate’s ailment.

“Of course, it could be the ague, a malarial fever that’s rampant in certain southern ports, particularly British America.” At her wince, he added, “Like as not, ’tis a simple shipboard fever.”

She shared what remedies she knew, adding, “Rest and plenty to drink—and I dinna mean spirits. Fresh water will do.”

He nodded, brow creased in concentration. “Our water stores will soon turn brackish and we’ll all be drinking bumboo.”

“Bumboo?”

“Rum water mixed with sugar and a bit of nutmeg.”

“Sounds little better than brackish.” She reached for a jar of something she couldn’t place, uncorked the lid, and sniffed. “As for the master’s mate, is he unable to perform his duties?”

“Aye, though he’s hardly missed. Magnus MacLeish is more than capable of accomplishing anything the captain gives him. Moodie is in no hurry to lift the quarantine, I assure you.”

Though she smiled at his wry humor, she was cast back to the castle with a pang. Magnus had ever been a hand with accounts and ledgers. In his study, he seemed the king of Kerrera, at least in her eyes.

“You seem fond of MacLeish.” He passed her the mortar and pestle. “Rather, he seems fond of you.”

She paused, added another ingredient, and ground the herbs with renewed vigor. “No more than a laird can be with a simple Scots lass.”

“The MacDougalls have rich roots. Noble roots, aye?”

“Once upon a time, mayhap. But I am proof of how far they have fallen,” she replied with little emotion. “What of the Lowlander Blackburn?”

“We’ve no Brooch of Lorn to boast about.”

She shrugged off her melancholy. It came at odd times, when she least expected it. ’Twas particularly thick now with the sights and scents of her former life swirling around her here in this makeshift apothecary. “Some sort of binding oil is needed next.”

“Beeswax pastilles?” Sitting on his haunches, he began rummaging beneath the table. The pastilles appeared and she mixed them with the crushed herbs.

Cocooned in his sling, Larkin began mewling like a kitten, a reminder he’d soon need feeding. She worked quickly, praying the salve would be a comfort to the convict women, body and soul.

“We must try it first,” he said once she was done mixing. “Give me your hand.”

She offered him her left, her right hand busy patting Larkin’s backside. Into her palm the ship’s surgeon placed a dab of salve, massaging it in slow circles. She nearly sighed as he worked his way to her fingers and the sunburnt skin on the back of her hand, his touch sure yet gentle as befitting a physic. After a fussy night with Larkin, she was nearly lulled to sleep.

Her lashes came down and her eyes closed. The sore-handed women would be helped.

At the brush of Blackburn’s lips on her extended fingers, her eyes flew open.

He let go slowly, his voice as dulcet as his touch. “A lady’s hands, aye?”

Hardly. She had no illusions about that, sun-speckled and callused as she was. Avoiding his eyes, she shunned his words, his nearness. Her gaze cut to the open door leading to his sleeping quarters. The dangling hammock adorned with a land-worthy coverlet. Full bookcases. A fetching painting of a lighthouse. Her comfort-starved heart craved a closer look.

And then Larkin howled, breaking the spell.

“I must go.” She took a step back.

Blackburn was rubbing some of the salve into his own hands now, releasing another fragrant wave that marked this defining moment. Something had changed between them. Some thawing. Some door cracked open, some invitation issued. Or was she woolgathering?

“Leave the salve to set here where it’s cooler till you’re ready to dispense it.”

“Thank ye.” Turning on her heel, she hurriedly left the cabin as Larkin’s cries reached fever pitch.