Chapter Eight

Ian sent Miss MacQuarie to her bed, then ordered the running lights extinguished and had the crew quietly pass the word to load and prime their weapons. He ordered the gun crew readied, as well. He spoke the truth when he told Miss MacQuarie it was unlikely the ship they spotted was a pirate ship, but Ian was no fool, and he wasn’t about to get caught with his trousers around his knees. The Gael Forss held twenty-one souls. His chief responsibility was to ensure twenty-one souls reached the Connecticut coast alive.

Mr. Peter wisely shortened shifts. They needed the crew well rested and ready for battle should the need arise. Sleep eluded him, even though he tried. He lay in his cabin sifting through potential dangers and the strategies for avoiding encounters with hostile forces. Every time he closed his eyes, they would bounce open with a new threat and all the possible outcomes therein.

Eventually, he gave sleep up for lost and prowled the ship, taking time to have a word or two with every crewman, answering questions, making a casual joke, providing reassurances. Peter had set Will and Danny to lashing down anything not bolted to the deck. A direct hit by a cannon could easily send the heaviest of objects flying. He touched everything, his men, the guns, even Turk’s pots and pans. Everything must be in its proper place. Everything.

Shite. Where the hell is Miss MacQuarie?

She had better be in her cabin. Asleep. Or he would…have a stern word with the maddening woman, his actress, his star. He reached her door in a matter of seconds. Closed. He put his ear against it. No sound. Tried the handle. Locked. He could knock but then he’d wake her and have to deal with the meddlesome baggage when he was already plagued with worry.

He started off toward the stairs when a door opened behind him.

“Captain Sinclair?”

He froze in place. It was her. He responded without turning around. “Aye, lass.”

“Did you need something?”

He turned and saw her standing in the corridor, lantern in hand, wearing her shift. He took her in. All of her. Bare feet, bare arms, dark hair tumbling down her front, splaying where her breasts proudly protruded, breasts freed of their corseting, he registered.

“I was just checking…” He’d better leave now. His todger was growing heavier by the second.

She dipped her chin and made an effort not to smile. “Were you making certain I was where I was supposed to be?”

Jee-sus. How did she know him?

He started toward her. She set her lantern down and stood her ground until he reached out one long arm and hauled her slip of a body against his. He sank the fingers of his other hand into her hair, tugging her head back. Her eyes closed and her lips parted. He had to claim her mouth now, quick, before it was too late. The thing inside him that signaled when things were out of place warned him, Don’t let this one slip away. Capture her, tether her to your soul, keep her forever.

“I’ll see that you’re safe,” he rasped.

“I trust you,” she said and rose on tiptoe.

He kissed her deep and hard and fast, like he wanted to take her. He palmed one round buttock and pressed himself into that lovely cleft where her thighs met. Where, if he could slide into her, everything in the world would be in its proper place.

Footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming. He released her and whispered, “Get back in your cabin and stay there until you hear otherwise.”

She stood at attention and saluted, “Aye, sir.” He watched her prance back to her berth.

“Dawn, Captain,” Peter said from behind him. “We can see the ship.”

“Coming,” he said, and followed Peter topside.

With dawn at their backs, their bodies slanted tall shadows across the deck. Ian used the glass to get a better look. “War sloop,” he said. It had more guns and, depending on how much the ship was carrying, it might be faster than the Gael Forss.

“She’s got Bermuda rigging,” Peter said.

Mr. Purdie joined them. “Could be a post ship.”

Ian handed Peter the glass. Between the three of them, the lad had the best eyes. “Can ye see their colors?”

Peter peered through the glass, his right eye closed so tight it pulled his mouth into a snarl. “They’re heaving to…hoisted a wheft tied in the middle. Looks like Gran Colombia colors, sir.” He lowered the glass. “They’re in distress.”

“Anything wrong with their rigging?” Ian asked.

Peter shook his head. “Cannae tell at this distance.”

“Could be a trap,” Purdie said.

“Aye.” Ian weighed his choices. Sail on, possibly leaving men stranded to die at sea? Or risk being boarded, his crew slaughtered, and the women…shite. The safest option was to sail on, but what if it were the Gael Forss in distress? Could he pass the ship knowing he might be sentencing men to death? Could he live with that decision?

“What would you have us do, sir?” Peter asked.

His humanity won out. “Prepare to heave to. We’ll see what they’re about. Open the gun ports and run out the guns. Everyone else on deck with firearms ready. I want their captain to know we will defend ourselves.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And Mr. Peter, be prepared to run at the first sign of danger.”

…

Louisa leaned out of her door and called to Will. “What’s happening?”

He reached the bottom of the stairs and said, “It’s a ship in distress. Captain’s going in to see what’s to do. You’re to stay in your cabin, miss.”

Louisa closed the door. Like hell she’d hide in her cabin. Captain Sinclair kissed her as if it were their last. They were in danger. She knew it. That could be a pirate ship out there, waiting in ambush.

Mairi yawned and stretched. “What’s amiss?”

“Get dressed. And hurry.”

She didn’t have to ask Mairi twice. She bounded out of bed and they both dressed as quickly as possible.

“Why are you wearing your trousers?” Mairi asked, tying the closures of her own gown.

“Captain Sinclair is investigating another ship in distress.” Louisa braided her hair into a queue and slipped her coat over the tail of it to hide its womanly length.

“Pirates?” Mairi gasped.

“No one knows, but I’m no’ taking any chances. Go wake Reverend Wynterbottom. Tell him to get dressed and come wait with you in our cabin.”

While Mairi fetched the reverend, Louisa dug through the items in her trunk until she found her pistol case. As she’d practiced many times, she methodically cleaned and prepared her firearms. Made for a woman, they had once belonged to Gran. Matched Samuel Nock flintlocks, five inches in length, lightweight, balanced, yet lethal at close range. At Louisa’s insistence, Gran had taught her how to use them. From the very first time she’d held the gun in her hands, she had been transformed. Stronger, braver, bolder. And for the first time, she had understood how it must be for a man to know such power, the power to take another man’s life.

Mairi returned and gave a start when she saw the pistols on the mattress. “Is it that bad?” she squeaked.

“Dinnae ken, but I’ll be ready no matter what.” She stuffed one pistol in her coat pocket, a cast off of Connor’s from when he was fourteen, the year before he’d shot three inches in height. It had taken another three years before he’d gained the weight to match his build.

Reverend Wynterbottom arrived at their door. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be in the corridor. You and Miss Robertson lock the door behind me. Will and I will guard this section of the ship.”

“I can’t allow you to risk your life like that,” he said.

“It’s all right, Reverend,” Mairi said. “She’s a crack shot.”

Louisa handed Mairi one of the two pistols. “Use this only if you must.”

“Luck to you, sister,” Mairi whispered, and shut the door.

Louisa stood in the darkened corridor and waited for the snick of the latch. She sucked in a lungful of courage and peered up the staircase leading to the upper deck. Will stood at the entrance, one foot on the deck, one on the top step, staring intently over the starboard rail. She heard Captain Sinclair shout something, a greeting of sorts that was followed by a distant reply.

“What’s happening?” she asked Will.

“Captain asked the ship to report its distress.”

“And what did they say?”

“Dinnae ken. They’re talking in some other language.”

“What language?” Louisa removed the pistol from her pocket.

Will said, “Captain’s asking does anyone speak Spanish.”

“I speak some.” Louisa ran up the steps.

“No, miss. Ye’ve got to stay down.” Will tried to block her, but she shoved him aside.

“I speak a little Spanish, Captain,” she shouted. “Enough to get by.”

Captain Sinclair aimed a pair of furious gray eyes her way. His mouth flattened into a white line. “Get below—”

“Let me try.”

He glanced back at the other ship, before turning his steely gaze her way again. “Come,” he barked.

She reached his side in a half dozen strides, using the same swagger she’d used as Viola, thinking it best the other ship didn’t know the Gael Forss had females aboard.

Captain Sinclair raked her up and down with a glare and growled low, “What the devil are you about? And where did you get that pistol?”

“It’s mine. What do you want me to say?” The ship floated a good one hundred yards away. It was bigger, had an additional mast, but it wasn’t unlike the Gael Forss. A black-haired man stood on the ship’s rear deck with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a long coat and an oddly shaped black hat trimmed with white. His coat was fashioned like a uniform with epaulets and gold braid.

“Ask them the nature of their distress.”

Louisa didn’t know the exact translation for that phrase. She was able to recollect a few words from her rudimentary Spanish and assemble them into what might not be conjugated properly but communicated the essentials. She shouted, “Por qué lloras por ayuda?” Why do you cry help?

The man fired back a rapid stream of Spanish. She understood not a word.

“Hablar despacio!” Talk slow.

“Timón roto! Timón roto!” he shouted back.

“What did he say?” Captain Sinclair demanded. She heard the tension in his voice. This was serious. They were drifting ever closer to the ship.

“I’m sure roto means something like broke or broken, but I have no idea what timón means.”

“Could it be they’ve a broken rudder, sir?” Mr. Peter asked.

Captain Sinclair swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes. She looked in the direction of his gaze. She could see the other man’s face more clearly now. A stony scowl. Not the expression of friendship and relief she would expect from the captain of a stranded ship.

“Go below, lass.” Ian’s words held an ominous tone she’d never heard before.

A loud thunk resounded from the direction of the bow of the Gael Forss. One of the men cried out, “Captain, sir!”

Someone from the Spanish ship had tossed a grappling hook on board. Its pointed iron tines sank deep into the wooden railing. The rope attached to the hook ran back to the Spanish ship where a sailor lashed it to a belaying pin. They were anchored to the other ship.

“Cut that line now!” Captain Sinclair shouted.

Then another thunk resounded from the rear deck. Suddenly the other captain shouted in English, “Run! Run!” Another man rose up next to him, pointed a pistol and fired. Louisa jumped when the man’s head exploded into bloody bits.

Captain Sinclair yelled, “Fy-aaaaaaar!”

A great series of explosions rocked the ship, making her stagger backward. Captain Sinclair called for someone to cut them free of the aft line. Through the haze of stinging gun smoke, she saw one of the Gael Forss crew hack at the line with an axe.

Captain Sinclair shouted something at her but she couldn’t hear anything through muffled shouts and cracks. All she knew was that chaos had erupted, everyone on board was firing their guns in the direction of the other ship, and a flurry of activity swirled around her as the sails on the Gael Forss unfurled.

Captain Sinclair shoved her to the deck just as the railing in front of her exploded into splinters. When she hit the boards, the pistol flew from her hand and skidded across the deck. The crewman who had been hacking away at the thick rope connected to the grappling hook screamed in agony and fell. He’d been shot in the leg.

Louisa called to Will, “Help him. You’ve got to stop the bleeding.” Meanwhile, someone had to finish the job the crewman had started. With no one else about, the job fell to her. She collected the axe from where the crewman had dropped it and flailed away at the hemp braid. They had to get free. She glanced back toward the bow. Another two grappling hooks sailed through the air and sank into the railing. Men from the Spanish ship, pirates probably, began to climb across the lines like rats. They were going to be boarded if they didn’t get free.

She hacked at the line harder and faster. The line vibrated. Dear Lord. A pirate was creeping toward her, his body hanging under it, legs wrapped around the rope at his knees, pulling himself toward the Gael Forss hand over hand. Fast. He would be upon her any second. And there were two others following him.

Her pistol. Where was her pistol? She searched the deck floor. There. Louisa reached down and grabbed it, and with no time to check the firing mechanism, she cocked and aimed at the pirate pulling himself over the railing. One shot. One chance. She fired.

But the pirate didn’t stop. Had she missed? She couldn’t have. And yet he scrambled onto the deck, a satisfied-looking grin on his face, as if he knew all along he’d best her. Her gaze flicked down to the widening bloodstain on his chest and back to his eyes again. The smile slipped from his face a few seconds before he collapsed.

With no time to think about having just shot someone, Louisa found the axe she’d been using and returned to the task of hacking through the line. All the while, volleys of shots sang through the air, deafening blasts shook the ship, and gun smoke stung the inside of her nose. At last, the line frayed and broke, dropping the two pirates clinging to it into the sea. Thank God.

She peered through the smoke on deck, searching for a glimpse of Captain Sinclair. Ian. Was he all right? Yes. There he was. Standing tall. Sword drawn. Jaw clenched. Calm as can be. A true soldier. Her warrior.

“Hard to starboard. Full sail,” he shouted.

She sensed the ship change course, turning away from the other ship. The cannon blasts hadn’t stopped and both crews continued to load and fire their muskets across the widening gap between the ships, but the Gael Forss was freed and too fast for the other lumbering vessel to catch. Then, in the middle of shouting another order, Captain Sinclair fell. His whole body slammed to the deck, his head hitting the boards like a cannonball. Her ears had stopped working, but she heard herself cry out his name from inside her head. Ian didn’t move.

She ran to him, grabbed the shoulders of his coat, and started dragging him in the direction of the captain’s quarters. Above her head she sensed bullets whizzing by. Out of the corner of her eye, one of their crew faltered to his knees. Will came to her aid, and together they pulled the captain inside his cabin. Another round of cannon fire shook the ship. They’d been hit, and to her mind, the explosion was right outside the captain’s window.

But none of that mattered at the moment. She needed to find what had brought down Captain Sinclair. The light inside the room wasn’t enough. “Will, light the lamp so I can see what’s happened.” She opened Ian’s coat and saw no dark blotches of blood staining his shirt. “Will, where’s that light?”

Will was struggling, hands shaking violently.

“Give it to me.”

He brought her the flint and oil lamp. With a calm she was surprised she possessed, she lit the lamp on the second try, covered it with the glass and turned it up.

“It’s his arm, miss.”

His arm. Not his heart, not his head, his arm. A person could live without an arm. Using Captain Sinclair’s dirk, she cut a hole in his right coat sleeve and tore it until she could cut the whole thing off. Next, she cut and tore away his shirtsleeve. A ball had entered his upper arm on one side and exited on the other. Had the bullet entered the right side of his chest? She scrabbled to push away the side of his coat. Her heart hammered until she felt every inch, assuring herself it had not.

“Give me your neckcloth, Will.”

He tore it off and she wound it around Ian’s arm just above the bullet hole stemming the flow of blood. Fortunately, there wasn’t much. Why did he not open his eyes? She recalled the way he’d hit the deck, slipped her fingers under his head, and felt a matted and sticky mess. Louisa pulled her hand away covered in blood. He’d hit so hard, he’d been knocked unconscious.

After an agonizing half hour, the gunfire and explosions dwindled and grew more distant. Mr. Peter entered the cabin and announced that they’d outrun the ship and that Turk, the ship’s cook and surgeon, was seeing to the crew’s injuries—two minor and one severe.

“Is he alive?” Mr. Peter asked with a hitch in his voice.

“Yes, but he hasn’t spoken. He fell and hit his head hard.”

“I’ll send Turk in to tend to the captain right away.”

“The pirate that boarded the ship, the one I shot, is he dead?”

“Aye. Dead.”

The back of Louisa’s neck burned and guilt gnawed a hole in her chest. She’d shot and killed a man. She’d taken a life. Carrying the damned pistols had made her feel brave, powerful. Yet, taking a life, even the life of a bad man, made her feel awful.

“You’ll feel bad for a while, Miss,” Peter said. “I know I did. But you’ll come to understand that you saved more lives by taking the one, and God will forgive you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Peter. I appreciate your kind words.”

Shortly after Mr. Peter left, Will returned with the hot water and clean rags she’d ordered. By then, she’d removed Ian’s ruined coat and neckcloth. She proceeded to wash and wrap his wounded arm and head. When she finished, he remained motionless on the cabin floor. Only the slow rise of his belly indicated he still breathed, he still lived. Blows to the head were taken seriously. Her neighbor had been hit in the head and killed by a loose roof tile, one that had weighed no more than a pound, but it had fallen from such a height it had practically caved the top of the man’s head in. Or so Mairi had told her. Mairi was one for gruesome details.

Mairi.

“Will, have you checked on Miss Robertson and Reverend Wynterbottom?”

“Aye. They’re helping Turk with the injured.”

Just then, Turk appeared at the cabin door. He knelt at Captain Sinclair’s side and examined him while she explained what had transpired since the moment he’d been hit.

“Ye done well, miss. Will, help me get the captain to his bed.” Louisa cradled his head in one hand while Turk and Will carried Captain Sinclair by the shoulders and feet to his berth. “The ball went through the fleshy part of his arm. That’s why there’s no’ so much bleeding. The cut on his head is small but there’s swelling. There’s not much more I can do for the noo. Keep the wounds clean, dress them once more using this.” He placed an earthen jar of salve on the desk. “And make him as comfortable as possible. I’ll be back before supper.”

“Will he be all right?” Will asked.

“Too soon to tell, son.” And Turk left.

Tears streaking his dirty face, Will gently removed Captain Sinclair’s boots one at a time.

“Captain Sinclair is a powerful man,” Louisa assured him. “A wee ball cannae stop him. You ken that.”

Will dashed away the tears and nodded. “Aye. He’s the best man I ever know’d.”

Throughout the day, Louisa and Will kept vigil at Captain Sinclair’s side. The captain had many visitors, Mr. Purdie, Reverend Wynterbottom, and the worried faces of every crew member but the wounded. Apparently, Mairi and Danny had taken on the responsibility of feeding the crew while Turk tended to the injured.

Mr. Peter reported the ship had received some minor damage to the aft but that it had already been adequately repaired. She left the room once while Mr. Peter and Will removed the rest of Captain Sinclair’s clothing and another time when Turk came to examine him again. Other than that, she remained at his side. She refused to consider, even for a moment, that Ian Sinclair would never wake up. He had to. She needed him. The ship needed him. Everyone needed him.

He had to wake up because he needed to choose another book for her to read to the crew, and she daren’t touch his precious system. And he hadn’t finished showing her how the blasted chrono-something worked. Who would steer the ship if he didn’t wake up to navigate? Louisa would be glad to see him wake if only to reprimand her for not staying below.

“Please wake up, Ian.”

“What, miss?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep, Will.”

He curled back into a ball on the cabin floor. She covered him with what was left of Captain Sinclair’s coat and returned to the chair next to Ian’s berth. He was so still, frighteningly still.

…

A pale angel sat beside Ian’s body sleeping. He supposed that was how it was done. After you died, your soul waited inside your body until an angel came to take you to heaven. Did everyone get his own angel? If so, his angel was asleep on the job. He could wake her and hasten his journey, but she seemed so peaceful slumbering in his chair, softly snoring, and wearing men’s trousers.

“Bloody hell,” he said. His personal angel stirred, the bothersome green-eyed baggage, Miss MacQuarie.

She blinked twice and her wide gemstone eyes shone in the moonlight. “You’re awake.”

What was it about her that engendered his anger and yet robbed him of his ability to rail at her? He gave her a feeble smile. “You’re beautiful.”

She sobbed and leaned forward, tears welling and dropping on her cheeks.

“I should have told you that before, but I was too proud,” he said.

“I should have stayed in my cabin,” she said.

“You disobeyed me, as usual. I would smack your bottom but my arm doesnae seem to work.” He lifted his head and studied his arm. “My head hurts like the devil, too.”

“You got shot in the arm and it knocked you to the deck. You hit your head hard, but Turk says you’ll recover.” She sniffed.

“Anyone else hurt?”

“Mr. Peter said Carson and Mackay have minor injuries, but Dougald Clyne might lose his foot.”

He dragged in a breath. He might have avoided all this had he listened to his better judgement. “The ship?”

“Only minor damages and they’ve all been repaired.”

“There’s a bottle of whisky in the bottom drawer of my desk. Will you get it for me?” He was parched and in need of the healing properties of Declan’s finest single malt.

She found the bottle, uncorked it, and helped him to sit up. He sucked in a few swallows, wiped his lips with his good hand, and lay back down. The sheet had slipped to his waist. She tugged it back up to his shoulders.

“You caught me naked again.”

“How can you make light at a time like this, when I’m so worried for you?”

“Did ye look?”

Again, he surprised her into laughter. “No, I did not.”

“Want a keek?”

“Stop your nonsense. Will’s asleep on the floor. You’ll wake him.”

“Too bad for you.”

She stroked his forehead, a welcome sensation amidst the rest of his aching body.

“Are you in a lot of pain? I can go get some laudanum from Turk.”

“Nah. I’ve been worse.” He stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. He had the ringing in his ears like he always did after battle, that high-pitched whistle that wouldn’t stop. It had faded over the years but now it was back. Louder than ever. “I must have been out for some time, because I have to piss so bad it hurts. Help me stand.”

“No, you cannae. I’ll get the chamber pot, and wake Will to help you.”

“I’m a grown man. I dinnae need help, but I cannae do it lying down. Help me to my feet.”

“You are impossible, you know that?”

He grasped her right hand with his left, pulled himself to sitting, and swung his feet over the edge of the berth. He let the room stop spinning for a moment while Miss MacQuarie bent over, her lovely round arse in the air, and shook Will awake.

“Captain Sinclair needs your help with the chamber pot.”

“Bloody hell. Hand me the pot and leave the room. I can manage.”

She did as he asked, but not before making an interesting assortment of huffing noises, all of which he was familiar with as his mother, his sister, and his brother’s wife used the same expressions to whinge. Was it a language common to all women? Were they taught from birth or was it something instinctive?

Ian got to his feet and leaned against the chest of drawers for support. Will stood in the shadows rubbing his eyes and yawning while Ian performed his business no-handed.

Once he’d finished, the boy took the pot from him brawly and set the cover on it. Offering his shoulder as support, Will helped him back to the berth.

“That was bloody humiliating.” Ian sighed back on his pillow.

“Dinnae fash, Captain. She saw most of you, but she didnae see your pecker or your arse.”

Ian sucked in his cheeks to keep from laughing.

As sober as a judge, Will carried the pot from the cabin like it contained the Crown Jewels and not the longest piss Ian had ever taken in his life.

Miss MacQuarie hurried back. The bedclothes had slipped to the floor when he stood and, of course, the moonlight illuminated the one part of him that had been better left in shadow. She assiduously averted her eyes, collected the sheet and tossed it over him.

“Sorry,” he said.

“I doubt you mean that.”

Seeing her march around the room in trousers stirred memories of this morning’s brush with disaster. An image came to him of her swaggering down the gangway like a peacock. And then that heart-stopping moment when…

“Where did you get that wee pistol?”

“It’s mine. My gran gave me a pair of them. I ken how to shoot. If you dinnae believe me—”

“Oh, aye. I believe you. Nothing you do surprises me anymore.”

“I would have stayed below. Really. It’s just that Will said you needed someone who spoke Spanish and I do, so…” She choked on her words and the tears that had been welling in her eyes rolled down her cheeks. “I shot one of the pirates. I killed him. I didnae—I didnae want to but…”

“It’s all right, lass. It’s over now. It was a brave thing you did, but try to forget about it, aye?” He sure as hell would like to forget about this entire day. “You were almost killed, do ye ken that?” he whispered, not wanting to speak the words out loud lest they come true.

She sniffed. “So were you.” She stroked his forehead and raked her fingers through his hair. He remained quiet, enjoying the feeling. She said, “I thought about what happened. I thought a lot about the captain who spoke Spanish. I think pirates took his ship and forced him to lie to us.”

“I think you’re right.”

“He gave his life to save us. He knew there was a gun pointed at him, still he warned us.” The lass was working herself into a state. “And they shot him.”

“Hush, now,” he said. “He was a courageous man and we’ll remember him in our prayers. But dinnae think about how he died, lass. Picture him in heaven with his family because that is surely where he is.”

Miss MacQuarie sniffed and wiped her eyes. “You’re right. That is what I’ll do.”

They were quiet for some time, disturbed only once when Will stole back into the room with an empty chamber pot and resumed his place on the floor.

“Should he not find his bed?”

“I asked him to—several times—but he insisted he had to be here with you,” she whispered.

Ian closed his eyes. “My arm hurts. Will you rub my temples?”

“That’s the remedy for your headache.”

“You’ve got magic in your fingertips, lass.”

“I feared you’d be so angry with me for disobeying, you wouldnae want to speak to me.”

He recited a line he recalled from The Taming of the Shrew. “Sit by my side and let the world slip: We shall ne’er be younger.”

That got a chuckle out of her.

“You beetle-headed, flat-eared knave.” She pressed her rose petal-soft fingertips against his temples and made those slow, bliss-inducing circles.

“There’s small choice in rotten apples,” he murmured.

“You three-inch fool,” she whispered.

“Slow-winged turtle.”

“Monster in apparel.”

…

When she was certain Captain Sinclair was resting peacefully, Louisa returned to her cabin for some much-needed sleep of her own. The instant she entered their compartment, she was assaulted with something that stank of almonds, camphor, and rotten fish.

“Och. What is that smell?”

Mairi slathered an offensive substance on her hands. She had stuffed wads of cloth in her nose and so her speech sounded stoppered.

“Turk give it me for my cracked hands.” Her brow buckled with real concern. “I’m afeard he kens what we’re aboot.”

Her words had a chilling effect on Louisa. She sat across from Mairi. “Take those things out of your nose and speak plainly. What makes you say Turk knows something?”

“Me and Danny was—were working in the galley making parritch for the crew. Turk come—came in, took my hand, and says, ‘Those are no’ the hands of a lady. What will yer husband say?’ And then he gived me—gave me this manky goo and sent me awa’.”

Louisa exhaled her relief. “Dinnae fash yerself. He didnae mean anything by that.” She slipped off her coat and trousers and crawled under the bedclothes wearing only her shirt.

“But what if he’s right? I hadnae considered my hands afore. Will Mr. Kirby ken right off I’m no’ a lady when he sees my hands?”

“You can tell him you ruined your hands doing your own laundry on the voyage.”

Mairi harrumphed. “More lies.”

“Fine then,” Louisa snapped. “For the rest of the voyage, I’ll do all our laundry and you can let your hands pickle in that awful keech.” She immediately regretted her outburst. They were both exhausted and Mairi needed careful handling. “Sorry,” she said. “But it’s important you dinnae tell anyone, now more than ever.”

“Because of Captain Sinclair?”

“Aye.”

“How is he?”

She flopped back down and covered her eyes with her forearm. “He’ll do.”

…

The following two weeks of their voyage were uneventful. So much so, Louisa yearned for something to happen to break the doldrums. Captain Sinclair had appointed Mr. Peter captain while he recovered from his wounds. The cut on his head had healed quickly. His arm was another matter. Louisa and Turk waged a constant battle to keep infection at bay. The smallest amount of suppuration could mean the loss of the captain’s arm, an eventuality Louisa did not like considering.

Captain Sinclair had forbidden her to read to the crew unless he could be present. Since Turk had forbidden the captain from leaving his quarters, saying, “Any number of contagion could be floating in the stale air below deck,” Louisa had performed her dramatic readings for an audience of one.

This evening, she arrived at Captain Sinclair’s door, book in hand, his favorite novel since childhood, Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift. She found him propped up on his berth, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his right arm in a sling. He was dressed in trousers and a shirt that had the right sleeve removed making it easier and more comfortable to change the bandage on his arm.

The procedure was not pleasant for the captain. The wound required some debridement, a thorough washing with hot water, and the reapplication of salve, painstaking for Louisa and painful for Captain Sinclair. On most days, Turk changed his dressing in the morning, and Louisa performed the duty in the evening. Each night, he would halfheartedly try to cajole her into skipping the redressing part. In turn, she would bargain, “No dressing, no reading.” He would always acquiesce. Tonight, however, Captain Sinclair was being obstinate.

“Sit a while,” he said, “and tell me of your plans to become an actress.”

“We should change your bandage first, I think.”

“Aye, lass. In a moment. First, tell me what you will do after Miss Robertson and Mr. Kirby marry.”

“I travel to the Island of Manhattan where I will apply for work with a theater.”

“You’re confident you will find work with this place?”

“Oh yes. My previous employer has provided me with an excellent reference.”

“I ken I should accompany you.”

Accompany her? That was not an offer Louisa expected nor one she could accept. Her references named Louisa Robertson, not Mairi MacQuarie. “But you have your own business, do you not?”

“Aye. Captain Peter is more than capable of taking our shipment to Boston and returning to New London for me.”

“You are kind, but neither Miss Robertson nor I would trouble you, sir.” She had started to lose control of her breathing and was growing more and more lightheaded by the second.

“It’s no trouble. It’s my duty. I’ve promised General Robertson I’d see his daughter delivered safely to Mr. Kirby. I reckon the general would want me to see his daughter’s companion safely to New York, as well.”

“But, but…” Oh, Lord. What to do? She hadn’t foreseen this complication. Nothing was turning out quite like she thought. She hadn’t anticipated meeting a handsome man like Captain Sinclair, nor had she ever imagined she would take such a liking for him and he for her, if she was interpreting his kisses properly. And she certainly hadn’t guessed that her father had specifically asked the captain of her ship to bring her to her new husband as a personal favor in exchange for a choice commission in his army. And now this.

Captain Sinclair used the sleeve of his good arm to wipe his forehead. It was then she noticed he was perspiring. Sweat dripped down the sides of his temples and the front of his shirt was damp. A new kind of panic set in. The kind that filled her with dread. She held the back of her hand to his forehead and snatched it away as if she’d been burned. Fever.

She bolted from the cabin and called down the hatchway. “Will. Go fetch Turk. Hurry!”

She returned to Captain Sinclair’s side, fumbled with the sling, and pulled away the dressing. The hole on the outside of his arm had almost healed. She turned his arm out to check the other side and cursed.

“Tsk-tsk,” he chided. “Such language, Miss MacQuarie.”

A light green pus oozed from the wound on the inside of his arm. All their work, two weeks of vigilance, had come to this. “Bloody bollocks.”

“Sorry,” he said, his voice but a ghost of a whisper.

Louisa met his gaze. His dark eyebrows, those two gleaming smudges that graced his handsome brow, drew together with such a plaintive look, it made her want to cry.

After examining Captain Sinclair, Turk took Louisa aside. “The ball must have left a piece of shirt inside his arm and it’s taken this long to fester. I’ll need to remove it.”

“Now?” Fear had her by the throat and the word sounded strangled.

“The sooner the better.” He turned and called, “Will, send Mr. Peter to me.”

She heard Will shout, “Aye, sir,” from just outside.

“What should I do?” Louisa asked.

“Best go below and wait. This is no business for women.”

Sudden sharp fury burned away her fear. “This is my business, and I will not go to my cabin.”

Turk’s left eyebrow slowly crept upward and Louisa thought he’d put up a fuss. “Right then. Fetch hot water from the galley and bring it to the surgery.”

By the time she reached the surgery with the kettle of hot water, Turk and Mr. Peter had the captain’s long body stretched out, his feet hanging six inches off the foot of the table. Her chin wobbled at the sight of his big bony feet, naked and vulnerable. If this surgery didn’t work, Turk may have to take his arm and still the captain could die of infection. If the surgery did stop the infection, there was a chance Turk would leave the arm mangled, crippling Ian for life.

The room was small and close and that old panicky feeling was inching up her spine. Please. Not now. Not when he needs me.

Turk strapped Ian’s legs and arms to the table. He did not look good. His eyes had half closed, his jaw had gone slack, and his normally nut-brown face appeared waxy and lifeless. She had to turn away.

She edged by Mr. Peter and poured the scalding water into the basin.

“Fetch my knife and pinchers from the cabinet, Miss MacQuarie, if ye please,” Turk said.

Just as she pulled the bundle of metal objects down from the shelf, Mr. Peter jostled her arm. She fumbled and dropped them into the basin of screaming-hot water. Without thinking, she reached into the basin to retrieve them. Only after she removed the objects and handed them to Turk, did the searing pain set in.

“You all right?” Turk asked.

“Y-yes. I’m f-fine.”

Turk stuffed the leather sheath for his knife between Ian’s teeth and said, “Bite.” But Ian was too groggy to hang on to it. “Hold it there for him, lass. He’ll bite down when I start. Then hold his head still, aye?”

“Yes.”

Turk was quick. That much she could say. But the torture Ian endured etched itself on her heart. His efforts not to cry out made it only worse. She wiped away his tears and whispered over and over, “Breathe. Breathe. It’s almost done. Almost done.”

She didn’t watch the procedure because she was too afraid she might be sick or swoon. She’d never liked the sight of blood. Turk pulled a wee piece of what he thought was cloth from Captain’s arm, but he couldn’t be certain. All they could do was wait and watch and pray. They gave him laudanum and carried him back to his cabin so he could sleep in comfort.

Once again, she and Will kept an all-night vigil by Captain Sinclair’s side. The fever clung to him like a devil. And rather than allowing peaceful sleep, the laudanum plunged him into apparent distress. He tossed about, mumbled words she couldn’t understand, and shouted names she’d never heard. As dawn approached, she had one moment of terror when she thought it was the end for him. She had leaned over to wipe his forehead with a cool cloth when he opened his eyes.

He looked frightened, desperate. He said, “I’ve lost him. He was too small and I’ve lost him.”

“Who?”

“Rory.”

“It’s all right, Ian. We’ll find him,” she reassured, even though she had no idea who Rory was.

Ian nodded as if he’d heard her, understood her, believed her, and closed his eyes.

…

The only thing worse than the pain in his arm was the bloody awful taste in his mouth. Had someone fed him cow dung for breakfast? He worked up enough spittle to speak. “Whisky.” A cloud of lavender settled over his head, and he opened his eyes to meet a lovely pair of green ones.

“You’re not having whisky for breakfast.”

She lifted his head and held a cup of cool water to his lips. He drank a few sips before trying to sit up on his own. He’d had quite enough of this lying around like an infant. They grappled with each other but in the end, he won. Or she let him win. He didn’t care. He was sitting, naked again, of course. Did she remove his clothing on purpose?

“How is your arm?” She secured the bedclothes over his lap.

“It’s still there. What happened?”

“Your wound got infected, and Turk had to remove the bit of lint that was causing the problem.”

He scratched his head with his good hand. “That would explain why I dreamed I was being crucified.” He thought for a moment and then asked, “Did you wipe my nose?”

Her green eyes slid sideways. “Maybe just a little.”

He sighed. “Am I not allowed any dignity?”

Her back went ramrod straight, indignant, as if he’d insulted her. “I’ll have you know you endured the procedure valiantly and with very little protest.”

“You mean I didnae cry for my mother?”

“Not even once.” She smiled then, a bashful smile he’d never seen before. He should stop being an ogre. She looked weary and had, no doubt, lost sleep on his account. “Who is Rory?” she asked.

Ian’s heart thudded in his chest. “Who?”

“You said you lost Rory.”

He swallowed hard. Denying Rory’s existence did not sit well with him. Nor did discussing the child.

“Never mind,” she said. “You were heavily drugged with laudanum at the time. I’m surprised you didnae talk aboot unicorns and fairies.” She laughed then and Ian laughed halfheartedly.

To change the subject, he said, “I’m hungry.”

…

Three days later, he was well enough to dress himself and take his meals at the table like an adult. He and Peter had finished taking their readings, and they estimated they were about ten miles off the coast of Georgia.

“Another week perhaps?”

“If the weather holds,” Peter said.

“When we get to New London, I want you to take the ship to Boston as we planned, and then return for me.”

“What will you do?”

“I will escort Miss Robertson and Miss MacQuarie to Mr. Kirby’s home.”

“Do you never find it odd?” Peter asked, his normally smooth brow deeply furrowed.

“Do I find what odd?”

“Miss Robertson and Miss MacQuarie.”

“What’s odd about them?”

“They seem…reversed.”

“What the hell are you talking about, man?”

Peter held both hands out, signaling him to calm. “It’s just that Miss Robertson is supposed to be from a good family and Miss MacQuarie, well, she’s an actress.”

“So?”

“Would you not expect Miss Robertson to be the one to have the manners of a gentlewoman?”

Calling into question Miss MacQuarie’s station rankled Ian. “I’m surprised by you, Peter. Of all people. Just because Miss MacQuarie has her sights set on a life in the theater doesnae mean she’s of low birth.”

“Sorry, I didnae mean to imply—”

“I should hope you did not.” Ian straightened the map and moved the compass to the right corner. Peter’s comment aggravated him more than he’d like to admit. He’d had similar misgivings, but for reasons he didn’t like to examine too closely, he’d set them aside.

“Em, you were saying, sir,” Peter said. “You’ll be escorting the ladies. And who will go with you?”

“No one. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Peter cocked his head to the side and gave him that look.

“What?”

“Am I still captain of the Gael Forss?”

“Aye. You’ve done a fine job in my stead. I knew you would.”

“Good. Then, as captain I insist you take another crew member with you as escort.”

Ian opened his mouth to object, and Peter cocked his bloody head again.

“Fine,” Ian bit off. “I’ll take Will. Miss MacQuarie is fond of him.”

“And are you fond of Miss MacQuarie?”

“I beg your pardon.” He took a menacing step around the table.

“Did your cousin Declan not dream you’d marry a lass in trousers?”

Ian did not like Peter’s tone.

“And was Miss MacQuarie not wearing trousers the day we battled the pirates?”

Ian pointed a cautionary finger. “Tread carefully, sir.”

Peter had the audacity to laugh at him outright.

“Ye’d better run,” Ian growled, “or yer going to lose those pretty white teeth of yours.”

Peter fled but paused at the doorway and shot back, “Ye ken Declan’s dreams never lie.”

Ian hurled a stale bannock at Peter’s head. He ducked and it hit Miss MacQuarie between the eyes. “Och!”

“Sorry,” Peter said and bolted, leaving Ian red faced and seething.

“I believe this is yours,” she said, handing him the bannock.

“One day I’m going to lose my patience with that loon and give him the thrashing of a lifetime.”

A merry chuckle bubbled up from deep inside her. God, she looked lovely—lovelier than usual—and the sight of her made him forget his anger.

“How is your arm?”

“Fine.” To demonstrate, he gave it an experimental flex, the range in motion twice what it was yesterday.

“Then you’re well enough to come below while I read to the crew?”

The answer to her question was yes and she knew it. But he wasn’t ready to share her with anyone just yet. He feigned fresh pain. “My arm gets to aching as the day wears on. I ken I need your tending after supper. Your voice is a tonic to my suffering.”

“If that is what you wish,” she said, and lowered her lashes, hiding her green eyes from him.

He caught a hit of her lavender scent and knew he needed to touch her. “Come here to me.”

“I dare not come closer, as I think you have more vigor than you admit to.”

He crept a step closer to her. “Nae, lass. I’m as weak as a kitten. No threat to you.”

“Sir, by the look in your eyes I would say I am in more danger than ever.”

“What you see, I fear, is a fever. Put your hand to my head and check.” He stepped closer still and lifted her silky palm to his forehead.

“Oh, aye. That is a fever, but no’ the kind of fever any medicine will improve.”

He slid his good arm around her slender back, pulled her close, and spoke low in her ear. “Tell me what is the cure, my sweet lass, and then give it me.”

She kissed him then and his body hardened. He was sick with want and he would have his cure splayed on his floor, bent over a table, sitting on his lap—it mattered not how, other than he needed her naked so that he could lick every inch of her skin, kiss every freckle, stroke her in all the places that made her gasp with delight.

She pushed away. “No. No more kissing. I must speak to you about something first.”

“And then kissing?” he asked, grinning at her like a fool.

She huffed. “This is serious.”

“Sorry. Proceed.”

“Reverend Wynterbottom will accompany Miss Robertson and me to Mr. Kirby’s home. She’s grown rather attached to him and wishes for him to attend her wedding breakfast.” She prowled around the perimeter of the room like a cat. “After the ceremony, the reverend will see me to New York.”

“The reverend is a fine man when he’s sober, but he’s no substitute for a skilled soldier.”

“Must I remind you that you have only one functioning arm and that arm is, I’m guessing, not your sword arm?”

He didn’t like that reminder, but she was wrong. They could take his arm, his legs, and his ears and he’d still be twice as lethal as the next man. “By the time we reach New London, I will be fit to be your protector.”

“Ian,” she said and the velvety sound of his name on her lips made him burn. “We must part. You know that.”

“Aye.”

“Better to make the cut quick and clean and spare each other pain, is it not?”

He swallowed hard. She was right. He didn’t like that she was right, hadn’t let himself imagine what life would be like once she was no longer aboard the Gael Forss, but she was right, and it made the thing inside him itch for order. He straightened the map on the table, pushed a chair back into place, and turned the handle of the teapot to the right. “That’s a problem, you see. Because I find I need to see that you arrive safely in New York.”

“It would spare my heart if you would not,” she said, and Ian saw her eyes glisten.

“It would soothe my heart if I would,” he said.