22

Honor’s a good brooch to wear in a man’s hat at all times.

Ben Jonson

Dinner round the captain’s table was becoming . . . tedious. A gauntlet of innuendo and romantic tension that bordered on bawdy. Magnus stayed quiet unless questioned, acutely aware of both Lark and the surgeon. Sparse with her smiles, she kept her eyes down demurely, taking tiny bites and avoiding a second glass of spirits. Tonight her mood seemed pensive, even reflective, candlelight flickering over her face and catching every emotion.

They’d been at sea a fortnight. Six weeks remained of their journey—if they stayed on course and escaped any storms, enemy warships, or privateers.

“Hurricane season is upon us,” Captain Moodie said, eyes on the cabin boy replenishing his glass. The captain lifted his goblet with the slight tremor of his hand that Magnus was becoming familiar with.

“August and September are dismal seasons at sea,” Mrs. Ravenhill lamented. “I pray we are soon safely in port.”

“We’ll be in several ports after Virginia.” Moodie sent a look Magnus’s direction. “Osbourne’s Jamaican plantation is truly a sight to behold. Sugarcane as far as the eye can see, literally from one end of the island to the other. Rum and molasses abound though sugar is currently king.”

“Glad I am of it,” another woman said. “We simply must have sugar to sweeten our tea and cake.”

“Sugar has surpassed grain as the most valuable European import,” the second mate remarked. “More Africans are needed, which is why more sailors are captaining Guineamen in future.”

“Guineamen?” Lark asked.

“Indeed. The Guineamen are among the handsomest ships, modeled after the frigates and rather more ornamented.”

“But not the slave cargo. That comes with no fine trappings.” Magnus stood, looking down at Lark. “Would ye care to take a turn with me on deck, Miss MacDougall? Yer quite pale.”

She pushed away from the table. “Some fresh air will do me good.” The fine fabric of her borrowed dress made a little rustle as she thanked the captain for his hospitality and moved toward the door ahead of Magnus.

Once on deck, Lark took a long breath, clearing her senses of spirits and smoke. Her sorest hand clutched the ship’s rail while the other rested on her stomach as the wind rolled over and around her, stirring her skirts and unraveling her carefully pinned hair.

Beside her, Magnus rested his hands on the railing, staring out at the sea like she’d seen him do so many times on Kerrera’s ragged shore. Moonlight turned him just as craggy, calling out every line, few though there were in the silvery light. Bereft of all merriment, he looked ages old. After all he’d lost, would he ever smile again? It tugged hard at her, his somberness. They were hurtling toward the unknown without a clue as to it being a bane or a blessing. Soon they’d be separated, mayhap for good.

Her eyes smarted. Her arms felt empty without Larkin. The old woman, Jane, was keeping him again. It seemed to please her to be trusted with Lark’s treasure. In Lark’s pocket was a bun and sweetmeat from the captain’s table, a small way of thanking her.

Swallowing, near tears for a tangle of reasons, she ironed out the wrinkles in her voice. “’Twas bold of ye to leave the captain’s table like ye did.”

“And take ye with me, ye mean.” He turned and leaned his back against the rail, arms crossed. “I’ve just made an enemy of Blackburn, no doubt.”

Lord, let there be no trouble between them.

“He’s not a bad man,” she said quietly.

“Nay. Skilled. Smitten. And very married.”

Her stomach dropped. “What?”

“To a Bristol lass. He’s also a father to half a dozen, so the captain tells me, not all of them at home.” He looked up at the crow’s nest. “I’m sorry to bring such sore news, especially if yer fond of him.”

Fond? “I counted him a fellow healer. No more.” Now Surgeon Blackburn seemed a deceitful stranger. She felt a trifle betrayed yet relieved all the same. “I’m weary of the captain’s table. All the crass talk, the spirits and the smoke . . .”

“We could eat here, on deck. Most do, barring foul weather. Ye, me, and Larkin.”

“Let’s,” she said softly, already picturing it. A picnic, like of old, on some sunny spot of ground when all was in flower. “I’ve almost forgotten what month it is. Here, on the sea, everything is the same. There are no seasons.”

“’Tis almost time for the blooming haeddre.”

“Once I found some white heather when I rowed to Lismore. It covered a cove like snow, then turned a coppery gold on the glens and hills.”

“Ye ken what’s said about it? ’Tis lucky, white heather.”

“Mayhap I should have picked some, but I thought it too lovely. Too sacred. If I’d done so, mayhap we’d be spared of all this.”

“Nay, Lark.” His tone was one she knew too well. No superstitious talk. No looking back.

“I wonder if heather grows in America.”

“There’s some in yer plant cabin, aye?”

“Two pots.” She nearly sighed. “Neither are blooming.”

“Homesick for native soil, like us.”

“So yer homesick too?” She searched his face for some sign of it.

“I’ll not lie. Some things I miss. Others, nay.”

What didn’t he miss? She could think of nothing but the tax men, the Philistines, the wrenching poverty and want across the island in late winter. “I worry about Granny. If I’ll ever see her again.”

He ran a hand across the railing. “Even the chest of specie I gave her canna replace yer company nor grant her another three years till yer free.”

A chest of coin? So he’d done what he could. Granny would not starve. But who would care for Granny when she grew ill and bed bound?

As if sensing her angst, he said quietly, eyes on the sea, “Scripture speaks to every situation we find ourselves in. Here’s a verse to cling to, one to keep ye afloat when worry swamps ye: ‘And even to your old age I am he; and even to hoar hairs will I carry you: I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and will deliver you.’”

She nodded. Only lately had she begun to measure every circumstance in the light of Scripture. It helped anchor her, helped hedge out the rootlessness she felt so keenly. “Listening to ye I feel I’m back in kirk.”

“Mayhap in the new world I’ll become a preacher.” He smiled, lifting the gloom. “A man can be what he wants there, aye?”

She studied him, trying to grasp all that he was or had been. Laird. Jacobite. Barrister. Indenture. ’Twas too much for her head and heart to hold.

“I’m missing Larkin,” she said suddenly, hoping he didn’t mind her abruptness or her honesty. Betimes the babe solaced her like nothing else could. Even their cramped berth seemed a haven of sorts, away from the prying eyes and ears of the ship.

Taking her elbow, Magnus walked her to the hatch. She took a last look about, spying the shadowed form of who she thought was Rory before going below to the tween deck and her quarters.

Her wee man was waiting for her, as wide-eyed and smiling as if it was morn. He gave a little shriek from his bunk as the door shut, rousing a sleeping Jane in the chair beside him. She quickly made off to the forecastle with her treats.

Dropping to one knee, Lark knelt at eye level to her charge, nose pressed to his. His throaty chuckle melted her, as did his soft hands that fingered her face. She kissed his dimpled cheek and chin, then drew a surprise from her pocket. She held it within easy reach, smiling as he took the stick of black treacle. He turned it over in his plump hands.

“’Tis hardened molasses,” she told him, grateful to the cabin boy for the offering.

Larkin mouthed it, expression shifting from curiosity to delight. She rested her head upon the linen bedding beside him. His outstretched legs were tangled in his nightshirt, bare feet peeking out, his milky, sugary scent a solace.

Her thoughts spun to the married surgeon before circling back to Kerrera and Magnus, then veering yet again to the floating bees and heather in pots that refused to flower.

Granny. The castle stillroom. Isla’s passing. The past filled her thoughts to the brim. Was there a Scripture for that? For bittersweet memories? Or only a verse for the future?

Take no thought for the morrow.