18

A great many who have been transported for a punishment have found pleasure, profit, and ease and would rather undergo any hardship than be forced back on their own country.

Roderick Gordon, Scottish ship’s surgeon

His seafaring skills might have saved him from the hangman’s noose on land, but his simmering resentment might earn him a hundred lashes at sea. Although the Bonaventure was as worthy a vessel as he’d ever seen, its crew was another matter.

Able to sum up a man at a glance, Rory took an instant dislike to Captain Moodie. Already the captain, reported to be a drunkard, had mishandled matters in the short time since they’d left Glasgow. It aggravated him like a saltwater rash, as did the presence of so many females.

Even the humblest cabin boy knew having women aboard was cursed luck. He grimaced as he tied an overhand knot, gaze swinging wide as he finished. Aside from the wooden woman on the ship’s bow, that comely figure of a mermaid, women passengers were a bad omen.

As for the Quaker miss below with her bairn slung about her, her prim hat hiding her hair and features, and the homely women in convict brown, he’d spared nary a glance. Yet his fellow jacks were plenty distracted.

He shimmied down the mast when the watch changed, past a knot of women picking oakum. Soon their hands would bleed and form black scars as they untwisted old rope to stuff into the ship’s seams to make it watertight. He knew because he’d assigned his men the same when mutiny threatened. In the tolbooth he himself had picked two pounds a day to curry favor. Because of it he’d earned notice when a Tobacco Lord came looking for extra hands on the Bonaventure.

But any gratitude he’d felt then was short-lived. He railed against a God who allowed women to pick their fingers to pieces for the petty offense of stealing a bun to stay alive, though most were likely glad to be rid of the putrid tolbooth where gaol keepers drank down a gill of spirits each morn to steel themselves against the stench.

“MacPherson, man the pumps!”

The order was given by the captain’s second-in-command, only slightly more agreeable than Captain Moodie himself. Rory nearly groaned aloud. Removing the reeking bilge water from the ship’s hull was the equivalent of removing the tolbooth’s stench.

Ignoring the wail of the baby, he strode to the hatch. Two months yet till he escaped the Bonaventure. Though he’d longed to traverse the Atlantic to the Scots stronghold in North Carolina, pumping bilge water was not how he’d envisioned doing it.

Magnus sat at the long dining table a second night, Captain Moodie at its head, his officers among them. The aroma of roast fowl mingled with that of the new tongue-and-groove paneling laid with linseed oil, a costly green baize rug at their feet.

Magnus’s eyes roamed the great cabin elegantly fitted in brass and jewel-toned blues and greens, its grand curved windowpanes spanning the width of the stern. His own berth was impoverished by comparison, the ship’s mast running through it like an uninvited guest, taking up precious room. Though not one of the officers, he was clearly someone, somehow retaining the respect and title due Kerrera’s laird despite his convict status.

Since they’d sailed, he’d kept below deck, having been asked by the captain to organize his books and ledgers given the overhaul to his quarters, something Magnus was glad to do. And now this. Though he’d thought to dine alone in his berth, the captain’s invitation stood.

To his left was the ship’s surgeon, Blackburn, a Lowland Scot, and to his right sat the quartermaster, their royal-blue uniforms in stark contrast to his own garments. The steward had lent him a quality frock coat and cravat, reminding him of his Edinburgh-made suits of old, though this one hung a bit loosely.

Amid the creak of the ship’s timbers and clink of utensils came a sort of recitation and review of their tumultuous naval world.

“England’s had a frightful loss in the Bay of Cádiz,” the first lieutenant intoned. “Eighteen ships foundered in January of this year alone, the foremost being the Charm with the loss of all but one of her crew.”

“What of the Nightingale run down and sunk in the Atlantic ninety leagues off Vigo, Spain, by a Dutch vessel?” another officer said.

“Not sunk but refloated and repaired. Her crew survived. But a close call, aye,” the first lieutenant confirmed. “At present the Royal Navy is all agog about HMS Mermaid, driven ashore in a hurricane at Charles Town, South Carolina. All hands lost.”

“I’d rather sink off the shores of British America than Spain,” Surgeon Blackburn said. “I can speak English, at least.”

A round of doleful chuckling.

“Why not talk of other matters?” the captain interjected. “Like the fair British nymphs on board?”

More laughter. Magnus put down his fork as the first lieutenant shot him a glance. “No doubt our Scottish guest isn’t aware of how matters stand at sea.”

“Let us waste no time in educating him, then,” the quartermaster said with a wink.

“’Tis no secret,” the first lieutenant muttered. “Even the Times has reported that every officer is entitled by law to oblige the woman of his choice to serve him as mate for the duration of the voyage.”

The captain poured himself more port. “Mayhap the laird will take advantage of a shipboard companion. No better way to navigate the open sea, aye?”

Magnus stayed silent, alarm widening inside him. Captain Moodie lit a fragrant Cuban cigar, clearly bemused.

“I suppose seniority must be observed,” a lesser officer said dryly. “So what’s your pleasure, Surgeon Blackburn?”

A slight pause. All eyes pinned the ship’s surgeon.

“The Quaker miss.”

Another officer snorted. “Surely you jest. There’ll be precious little frolicking with a babe between you.”

“The babe doesn’t deter me,” Blackburn replied around a bite of beef. “I first fixed my fancy on Miss MacDougall the moment the rivet was knocked from her irons.”

“’Tis true she’s the comeliest of them all, save for Mrs. Ravenhill.”

“The society thief? From the master’s side of tolbooth?”

The captain raised his glass. “I’ll amuse Mrs. Ravenhill. At three and thirty, she’s too aged for the likes of you—and far too wily.”

“Watch your pockets, sir,” a junior officer warned to a burst of spirit-sated laughter.

Names and crimes and attributes were soon bandied about, the comeliest mentioned by name. Polly Nicolson, guilty of thieving Irish linen. Phoebe Edgar, drunkenness. Ann Barlow, forger. Rose Randall, a double felony. All sentenced to the Bonaventure as indentures bound for British America.

“What of the Quaker miss?” A lieutenant directed the question to the captain. “Little is known in her regard except that she hails from the western isles, a former stillroom mistress.”

Moodie held his smoking cigar aloft. “Osbourne said precious little about her, only that she’s his indenture and is needed to oversee the plant cabin and was thus transferred from the Neptune.”

Magnus marveled, eyes on the dripping candelabra. Could these men be aware of so little, these sailors who knew far-flung continents better than their own home ports? Shipping in and out year round, they lacked both time and interest regarding the landlocked scandals of the day.

They seemed to know little of him as well. Osbourne’s being a man of few words was a boon to both him and Lark. Only once had Captain Moodie made reference to the absurdity of being kilted as a crime, then let it rest.

No one seemed aware that he was mourning a wife whose maid and kindred had made Lark the scapegoat, or that his own defense of her was more shocking than his being kilted.

“We shall invite the chosen ladies to dine with us on the morrow.” The captain stood, ending the meal, to a murmur of masculine affirmation.

Peevish. Cross. Lark well understood wee Larkin’s foul mood. The presence of the former captain of the Merry Lass and the laird’s marked absence lent to her own loose ends. She paced the tiny square of space in her berth to soothe the baby as much as herself, singing an ancient lullaby as she went. To no avail.

Was his belly turned by all the rolling? Mayhap he was hungry, as he’d spit up his milk.

Abandoning the sling, she held him chest to chest, his head tucked beneath her chin, his warm tears wetting her bodice.

“Blow the wind, blow. Swift and low. Blow the wind o’er the ocean. Breakers rolling to the coastline, bringing ships to harbor, gulls against the morning sunlight, flying off to freedom . . .”

A rap on the door made her pause. The ship’s steward thrust open the door, issuing an invitation over Larkin’s fretting. “You’re invited to the captain’s table, eight o’clock tonight. But you’ll have to leave the babe behind.”

“That I canna do,” she replied straightaway. Thus far she’d only given him over to whoever was nearest to use the necessary in the bowsprit, then took him right back again.

“Captain Moodie is disinclined to dine with only officers,” the steward said, darkening as if loath to relay her refusal.

“Why am I even asked,” she said a bit testily, worn down by Larkin’s crying, “being a common criminal?”

Glowering now, the steward fairly shouted, “Captain’s orders!” He shut the door with a decisive bang.

Lark resumed her pacing, another mystery now added to Magnus’s disappearance and Rory’s discovery.

Mrs. Ravenhill seemed to fill the entire berth with her beribboned, flounced attire as much as with her fragrance. Lark recognized its blend at once, drawn to the perfume bottle of cobalt-blue glass in her hand.

Rosemary. Pennyroyal. Marjoram.

“A worthy blend for the captain’s table. As for your prim dress, you must instead wear this from my own wardrobe.” She held up a gown overlapping one arm. “I promised the captain we would look our best as his guests.”

With Larkin lying on his back in the bunk, absorbed in his toes, Lark was free to admire the offering. “’Tis kind of ye.”

“Kind?” Amusement flashed across Mrs. Ravenhill’s lightly lined face. “I’ve been called many things but seldom kind. Shrewd, perhaps. Even canny, as you Scots say. ’Tis our chance to ingratiate ourselves to the captain and his officers, perchance curry a few favors.”

The flowery words rolled over Lark, who was now besotted by the lovely dress. Was she so starved for a bit of beauty and elegance she overlooked the implications of this surprising invitation?

“You’ll want to wear your hair up, hence the pins. I’ll see about paste gems.”

“No need. I have a coral necklace,” Lark murmured, eyes still on the gown. “How many of us will attend?”

“Ten or so. ’Twill be a bit crowded in the captain’s quarters. I’ve even coerced him into a bit of dancing on deck.”

Lark looked to Larkin, who was finally quiet and content. Even the prospect of a little merriment failed to quell her angst over his care. Was she being overly cautious? Afraid someone might harm him? Why did she feel so strongly about a babe not her own?

“Jane Spencer raised half a dozen of her own children before being sent to the poorhouse,” Mrs. Ravenhill reassured her. “You needn’t spend a second fretting. The captain expects us by eight o’clock.”