Chapter Eleven

Louisa struggled to keep her eyes open. She couldn’t fall asleep on her wedding night—her almost-like-a-wedding night. That’s how she thought of it. The only difference between her and a bride was that she wasn’t actually married to the groom. That’s the part that happened off stage, all the official nonsense with vicars and family and ceremony and documents, etcetera, all the unimportant parts. She was pretending that all those things had happened already.

The part that was about to happen, the coupling part, was the only bit that mattered. It’s what bound two people together and made it real, the union, that is. The joining made it official because without sex, one wasn’t truly married.

Where is he?

It seemed like hours since that mishap in the hallway. Surely those two had finished their nightcaps by now, yet no captain. She’d been listening very carefully and hadn’t heard anyone come up the stairs. She opened her door a crack and stilled. From below, she heard the faint murmur of male conversation.

Bollocks. She had half a mind to go down there and insist they go to bed immediately. Nonsense, she told herself. He’ll be here any minute.

She returned to the upholstered chair and curled up between the cushioned arms, big and comfortable like the captain’s arms, roomy enough and cozy enough to sleep in. The room was to her liking, done in various shades of green and gold with a four-poster bed. The counterpane and bed curtains were a forest print. A braided rug covered most of the floor and the evergreen draperies were trimmed with gold fringe. The rest of the room was unadorned. No paintings, no objects aside from the washstand and ewer. One day, when she owned a house of her own, she would decorate her bedroom just like this.

Where the hell is he?

She launched herself out of the chair, tied her robe around her, and collected the candlestick—the third one of the night. Such a waste. She padded down the staircase to the entry hall. The men were in the parlor talking with the door ajar. She didn’t eavesdrop exactly. That would be bad manners. She simply waited for the right moment to enter so that she wouldn’t interrupt them. Interrupting was downright rude.

“I’ll be honest with you, Captain Sinclair,” Mr. Kirby said. “I wasn’t in the hallway by accident. I had larceny in mind.”

“Larceny?” the captain rumbled.

“Yes, well, I had planned to steal into Miss Robertson’s room and, and, you know.”

“Oh, aye.”

“It’s just…with her here, under my roof, sleeping two doors down from my own, it’s so tempting to…to…”

“Enjoy the honeymoon afore the wedding?”

“Yes. I don’t know if I can last another week.”

The captain chuckled. “Dinnae fash. In any case, what would be the harm? If you lived in Scotland, you could handfast, take her to bed tomorrow, and have the vicar marry you after.”

“Ha-ha! I’ve heard of that.”

“And you’re no’ the only one that’s tempted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I confess…” Captain Sinclair hesitated for a second. Lord. He wasn’t going to tell, was he? “I wasnae turned around. I thought I was knocking on Miss MacQuarie’s door.” Louisa inhaled sharply and covered her mouth. How dare he tell Mr. Kirby about his plan to bed her?

“I’m afraid I let my desire cloud my judgement.”

Cloud his judgement? Cloud his judgement? Molten fury scorched her body. So, this whole evening had been a hiccup, a mistake, a case of poor judgement? Louisa picked up the hem of her robe and ran up the staircase. Her candle went out, but she’d always been able to see well in the dark. As she reached the top, she heard Captain Sinclair call, “Miss MacQuarie?” He thundered up the stairs after her, stumbled in the dark, cursed, and marched down the hallway to her door. “Lass. Open the door.”

“Go away.”

“Open the door and let me explain.”

“I wouldnae want to cloud your judgement.”

He was quiet for a while and then she heard him sigh. “Fine. We’ll discuss this in the morning.” And then in a soft voice meant only for her, he said, “Good night, love.” His slow footsteps trailed away.

Good night, love.

Those three words doused her anger with joy. He called her love.

…

Ian barely slept. He couldn’t. His body had been primed for something other than sleep and it would not let him forget it. Twice he slipped into erotic dreams about Miss MacQuarie only to wake at the penultimate moment.

Cooking smells drifted up from the summer kitchen in the backyard.

Someone rapped on his door. “I’ve got water for your basin, sir.”

“Please come in.”

A girl about thirteen years old, thin and freckly with large brown eyes peeking out from underneath a huge mobcap, slipped inside his chamber. She reminded him of Hattie, the upstairs maid at Balforss.

“What’s your name?”

“Eliza Foley, sir.” She dipped a quick curtsy.

“Mrs. Foley’s your aunt?”

“Yes, sir. I’m to tell you breakfast will be waiting downstairs in the sunroom.” She scurried out of the room. Probably awkward to keep her so long in a room with a naked stranger. Hattie had never thought twice. She was like a sister to him.

Balforss. He rarely felt such a sharp longing to be home among his family, sleeping in his old room, eating Mrs. Swenson’s good cooking, knocking about with his brother and his cousins Declan and Magnus.

But things were different now. They all had families of their own. Declan with Caya and their brood living at Taldale Farm, and busy with his whisky business. Magnus and Virginia living in Latheron with their rabble of five—or was it six now? They collected foster children like strays. Magnus and his boys bred draft horses, some said the finest in Scotland.

And then there was his brother who helped their father run the estate and would one day be laird of Balforss. Alex was everything Ian wished he could be. Oh, his brother was a bit of a hothead, but that’s what made him the best strategist and the most courageous soldier he’d ever known. Ian missed him the most. But Alex had been married to Lucy for eight years. They had a beautiful daughter, a fiery redhead named Jemima, the perfect combination of the two of them, a holy terror. Ian smiled. Their mam said Alex had gotten the child he deserved. Jemima was, no doubt, Alex’s penance for all the trouble he’d caused their parents. What would she say when Ian brought Rory home? Was Rory the child he deserved?

Ian couldn’t think about that right now. He had other matters to…smooth over. What was done was done, and there was no way to change it. What mattered was the present, and he was presently in hot water with Miss MacQuarie. He tossed off the bedclothes, washed, and dressed.

Last to the table, Ian took the seat across from his would-be lover who glared bloody daggers at him. He heaped a plate with scrambled eggs and seven slices of bacon and began eating. Wynterbottom, absorbed with slathering his toast with a quarter-inch coating of butter, was oblivious to anyone else. Kirby and Miss Robertson exchanged cretinous grins. How had they become so ridiculously and hopelessly smitten with each other in less than a day? It had taken Ian weeks to—

Best not finish that thought at the breakfast table.

He swallowed the last bite of egg and cleared his throat. He had to do it twice to get Kirby’s attention. “I’d like to take Will into town with me. He’s in need of a new set of clothes. Can you recommend a good tailor?”

“Absolutely. Harmon Brothers on Hill Street,” Kirby said and smiled adoringly at the object of his affection. “I would come with you, but I’ve promised Miss Robertson a picnic by the water. I want to show her more of the property.”

Ian didn’t think that was all Kirby wanted to show Miss Robertson. Was it his responsibility to make certain the General’s Daughter from Hell maintained her maidenhead until her wedding night, or was his only obligation to see that she wed? He decided on the latter as he didn’t think he could accomplish the former given how the pair were so determined to…do exactly as he planned to do with Miss MacQuarie.

Jee-sus. He couldn’t even think about the act without his cock jumping to attention.

Not at the breakfast table, you mindless numpty.

“Miss MacQuarie,” he said. Her sharp green eyes darted back to him. “I would consider it a great favor if you would accompany me to the tailor and help Will select the proper attire.” The grim set of her mouth softened. “And if there is anything else you would like to do while we’re there, I would happily accommodate your wishes.” God, he sounded like a sycophant. Why the devil was he groveling?

“I’ll agree on behalf of Will. He’s a sweet boy and is kind to me always.” Miss MacQuarie pushed away from the table. “Please excuse me. I need to prepare for our trip.”

Bloody hell. He wanted to kiss that priggish smile off her face until she groaned for more, like she had done only yesterday.

“Excellent,” Kirby said. “I’ll tell Foley to get the carriage ready. Last I saw, Will was with him in the coach house learning to groom the horses.”

Ian considered Will for a moment, a lad he cared for but hadn’t thought a fully formed man as yet. Four years ago, while he’d been having a meal at the Crown Tavern in Wick Harbor, Peter had approached him with a filthy-looking urchin in tow and said, “His name is Will. His mam’s dead, sir. He’s got nowhere to go.”

“What about his father?” Ian had asked.

“Never had one.”

Ian had asked Will, “How old are you?”

The lad opened his mouth and tried to answer, but he had been shaking so hard, no sound came out.

“I ken he’s aboot ten, sir,” Peter had said. “We could use a cabin boy. Someone to see after the passengers, aye?”

Ian had asked Will, “Do you want to work aboard the Gael Forss?”

Will’s eyes had opened wide with astonishment. “Yes, sir.”

And that was how Ian had acquired Will. What would have happened to Will had Ian not agreed to take him on? For that matter, what would have happened to Rory if he hadn’t had a grandmother to care for him? Ian shuddered at the thought.

He took one last sip of coffee and, noting what a fine brew it was, excused himself from the table. “No need, Mr. Kirby. I’ll go talk to Mr. Foley about the carriage myself.”

He poked his head inside the summer kitchen and thanked Mrs. Foley for a delicious breakfast. She might have blushed from the unexpected compliment. More likely she was flushed from the kitchen fires. She said, “I’ll be sure and make more bacon for tomorrow’s breakfast,” and winked.

Inside the shade of the coach house, he heard Will talking to Foley. Ian let his eyes adjust to the dim, as he walked toward the voices.

Foley said, “Horses can sense when a human is uneasy and it unsettles them. If you remain at ease, the horse will calm because he knows he’s safe.”

“I’m no’ afeart,” Will said gazing up at the giant chestnut gelding. But Ian could tell by the tension in Will’s shoulders he was more than apprehensive. He supposed the lad hadn’t spent much time around horses. He knew Will to be fearless aboard ship, but the beasts must be a puzzle to him.

“His name is Henry,” Foley said. “Feed him this carrot, speak to him in a gentle voice, and say his name. You’ll be friends in no time.”

Ian’s braw cabin boy held out the carrot and said, “Good morning, Henry. My name is Will.” Henry took the carrot and munched away. Will patted Henry on the neck tentatively. “You’re a big fellow, but wait till you meet my captain. He’s the tallest man you’ll ever see in your life.” Henry nickered, and Will laughed nervously, looking to Foley for confirmation.

“Morning, Captain Sinclair,” Foley said, noticing Ian in the shadows.

Will spun around beaming. “Did you see me feed the horse, sir? His name is Henry. I petted his neck. I think he likes me.”

“I saw, Will. I’m glad to see you like horses. You’re good with them, I think.”

“Do you like horses, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I had my own once, you ken. His name was Lightning for the white blaze on his head. A big bay. Sweet lad, he was.” Ian felt that twinge of homesickness again.

“What happened to him?” Will asked.

“Horses dinnae live as long as us, Will. That’s why we must treat them kindly for the short time they’re with us.”

Will glanced back at Henry with a worried look.

“Don’t fret, son,” Foley assured Will. “Henry will be with us yet for many years.”

“You and I are going into town with Miss MacQuarie to see the tailor about some proper clothes.”

“Sorry, Mr. Foley,” Will said. “I cannae help with the horses this morning. My captain needs me.”

“The carriage will be ready in thirty, Captain. Perhaps the boy can ride atop with me?”

“Would you like that, Will?”

One would have thought Ian had offered him a gold coin. “Oh, aye, sir.”

…

Louisa took her time. He’d made her wait on him all night, he could bloody well wait for her all morning. The problem was that she was eager to go to town with the captain, not only to help Will at the tailor, but to do some shopping of her own. A visit to the milliner would be in order, as her best hat had been ravaged by the wind aboard the Gael Forss. Mairi had asked her to look for more soap. If time allowed, she might have a browse through the dry goods shop. Most importantly, she would like to visit a bookseller. Mr. Kirby said there was one not far from the tailor.

She sat in her bedchamber fully dressed in her sunbonnet and gloves with her reticule on her lap and waited and waited. The girl who’d brought her basin water this morning rapped on her door with, “Mr. Captain wants to know, are you coming soon, miss.”

“Tell him I’ll be down when I’m ready,” she called through the door. Louisa had only counted to thirty when she heard his boots thumping up the stairs. She’d thought it would take forty-five at least.

He pounded on her door three times and announced in a firm voice, “Miss MacQuarie, the carriage is wa—”

She opened the door and shined a sweet smile up at him. “I’m ready.”

He stood there with his mouth open, taking her in. She had made an effort, but she wasn’t prepared for his appreciative stare. “You look—” He swallowed and straightened. “You look ready.”

Outside, Will called to her from the driver’s seat, his face alight with excitement. “I’m helping Mr. Foley drive the carriage, miss.”

“Then we are in good hands, are we not, Captain?”

“Oh, aye.”

As much as she had come to like Reverend Wynterbottom, she was disappointed to find him waiting inside the carriage. She’d rather looked forward to having Captain Sinclair’s exclusive attention. Nevertheless, she nestled next to the clergyman and tried to avoid the captain’s gaze which remained fixed on her all the way to town, a fact that pleased her immeasurably.

When the carriage stopped in front of Harmon Brothers Tailor and Haberdashery, the reverend reached for the door handle, and Captain Sinclair stayed his hand.

“Wait a while. Will wants to give us the full treatment.”

Louisa warmed. Captain Sinclair, dear, kind, patient Captain Sinclair, was set on making this moment special for Will, a lad that was of no relation but for the fact that Will worked for him and, as Louisa knew well, worshiped him.

The carriage door opened. Will pulled down the step and reached into the carriage for Louisa’s hand. She took it and stepped down. “Thank you, Will.”

He sucked in his cheeks, clasped his hands behind him and rocked back and forth from one foot to the other. Reverend Wynterbottom congratulated him, as well. When Ian climbed out and simply nodded to him, as if Will did this all the time, the lad inflated with boyish pride. She felt compelled to put a hand on his shoulder to hold him down lest he float away.

“I have some business to attend to. Where and when shall I meet you?” the reverend asked.

“Is three hours enough time, do you think, Miss MacQuarie?”

“Four would be better.”

Captain Sinclair called up to Mr. Foley, “We’ll meet you back here at half three.”

At the tailor’s shop, the proprietor, Mr. Harmon, was happy to receive their business and mentioned several times what an important and well-respected man Mr. Kirby was in the community. While the tailor measured Ian, she chose a burgundy wool for Will’s coat, a gray silk for his waistcoat, and black linen trousers, as she and Captain Sinclair agreed they would show less dirt should the lad accidentally come in contact with the ground.

While Will endured the poking and prodding of the tailor’s measuring tape, Captain Sinclair selected fabric for himself. He’d chosen a dark gray for his coat and was deliberating between a gold or blue silk for his waistcoat.

“The blue, I think,” she said. “Unless my opinion matters not.”

“Your opinion matters very much to me, Miss MacQuarie.”

“Hmph.”

“I’m sorry for last night.”

“What on earth were you doing at Miss Robertson’s bedchamber door?”

“Will told me your things were in the red room. I found out the hard way Will’s color blind.”

“Hmph,” she said again.

The captain lifted two bolts of green fabric. “Will, which one of these is red?”

“The one on your starboard side, sir.”

“You see?” Captain Sinclair said, sounding all too smug.

“Still, I can never forgive you for telling Mr. Kirby”—she stumbled—“what you had no right to tell him.”

“You are correct. But if you had seen him, how he was suffering, you would have done the same. I only told him so he wouldnae feel so bad about himself.”

“You said I was a mistake,” she hissed.

“I phrased it that way so that it sounded like my idea alone.” He whispered, “Will you give me another chance, please?”

Louisa regarded him for a few seconds, trying to determine if he was sincere. If he was not, he was a better actor than she. “I’ll think about it.”

Will approached them and sighed deeply. Apparently, the chore of standing still long enough to be measured had exhausted him.

Mr. Harmon said, “We’ll have you and your son’s garments ready for a final fitting by Monday, sir.”

Louisa expected Captain Sinclair to correct the man. He didn’t. Instead, he thanked the man and led Will out of the shop.

“Come along, Will,” Captain Sinclair said, patting the lad on the back. “There’s more shopping to do, I’m afraid.”

“That man thought I was your son,” Will said.

“Easy mistake to make. You do look a lot like me.”

“Why did you no’ tell him I was just your cabin boy?”

“I suppose I dinnae mind him thinking you’re my lad,” he said. “Do you?”

Will smiled. “No, sir.” Will gave his eyes a swipe with his forearm.

At that moment, Louisa witnessed what was, to her, a true expression of love between a father and a son, and the captain wasn’t even Will’s father. And at that precise moment, Louisa fell in love with Captain Sinclair.

Blast the man.

…

Ian had prepared himself for a long, tedious afternoon of following Miss MacQuarie about while she examined every basket, bauble, and button she came across. He was surprised, therefore, when she announced she had completed her shopping after entering only one shop and buying one item, a cake of soap. And it wasn’t even for her. It was for Miss Robertson.

“Are you hungry, Will?” she asked. Silly question. When was the wee heathen not hungry?

“Oh, aye,” Will said with an expression that reminded him of his father’s herding dogs when they would sit outside the kitchen waiting for scraps. And why didn’t she ask him if he was hungry? Grown men get hungry, too, and he was famished.

She pointed toward a cart parked near an open area on the riverbank. “That woman is selling what looks like meat pies. She’s attracted quite a crowd so they must be good.” She strode off in the direction of the pie lady with Will at her heels, following like a puppy. He followed, too. Like a dog.

The pie lady had cleverly situated herself next to what looked like a sort of public garden. While they waited their turn to buy their dinner, Ian watched people strolling along the bank, ladies chatting, children playing tag, and a few men casting lines into the river. He wondered idly what was biting today, when he noticed Will had focused on a group of boys about his age.

“What are they doing?” Will asked.

“Playing some sort of game,” Ian said.

Miss MacQuarie looked in the direction of the boys. “They’re playing Annie Over.”

“What’s that?” Will asked, now very keen.

While Miss MacQuarie explained the general rules of the game, Ian purchased three golden crescent pies that looked a lot like the ones Declan’s Cornish wife made. He asked the pie lady, “Are these pasties?”

She returned a brilliant smile. “Come from Cornwall, do you?” She wrapped the three pies in an old newspaper.

“Nae, we’re all Scots, but I have a Cornish friend who makes meat pies like these, and yours smell every bit as good.”

She pocketed the coins Ian gave her and wished him and his family a pleasant afternoon. Again, he didn’t address the mistaken perception that Will and Miss MacQuarie were his, and again he was aware of how uncharacteristically pleased it made him to let the mistake go uncorrected.

Had Miss MacQuarie heard the lady? If so, she hadn’t objected.

“I see a spot under that oak that looks shady. Let’s sit there and enjoy our meal,” she said.

Will finished off his pie before they reached the tree and remained standing, watching the boys play the Annie Over game. Ian finished his pie in three bites. They were delicious but too small. Perhaps he should buy more. He turned to ask Miss MacQuarie, but was distracted by the sight of her sharp white teeth sinking into the pie. Her eyes closed as if savoring the meaty filling. A bit of flaky crust clung to her bottom lip. The last time he’d spotted something on her lip, he’d had the same impulse then as he did now, to lick it off and kiss her until she gasped his name. God, he loved to hear her say his name.

“Go on, Will. The teams are uneven. They could use another man,” she said. “You ken the rules. Go and play with them.”

Will looked to him for permission. “Go on, then,” he said, and thought, have fun for a change. How much fun had the lad actually had in the last four years? Was he working the boy too hard?

“Do you want the rest of my pie?” she asked him, having eaten only half. “I cannae finish.”

“You sure?” She nodded and handed it to him. “Thanks,” he said. She was seated on the soft carpet of grass, her legs tucked to the side under her bottom and her skirts arranged around her. She’d taken off her gloves to eat and hadn’t put them on again. It was too hot for gloves, was it not? “We’re in the shade. You can take off your hat.”

She did. She didn’t even argue. Not a word of protest. He tested her again to see just how agreeable she was.

“Would ye mind if I take off my coat? It’s awfy hot, even in the shade.”

“I wouldnae mind at all.”

He removed his coat, folded it carefully and placed it on the grass next to her thigh.

“Would ye mind if I lie down and close my eyes? I didnae sleep at all last night.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll keep an eye on Will.”

Well now, why not toss in all your chips, laddie?

He repositioned himself, legs stretched out, boots crossed at the ankle, hands clasped over his chest and reclined…with his head in her lap. Her only reaction was a short, audible intake of breath. Ah. This was grand.

He closed his eyes and said in a low voice, “Miss MacQuarie?”

“Aye?”

“Would ye mind rubbing my temples like ye did before?”

“Does your head hurt?” she asked with sincere concern.

“Nae. I just like it.”

She made a deep chuckle, the kind women made in the bedroom, and touched her magic fingers to his brow. “Do ye like it more than meat pies?”

“Oh, aye,” he sighed. “I like it more than whisky.”

Her laughter made his heart pump hard and strong, as if the sound infused him with the godlike power to do anything, be anything, say anything— “Did you mind people thinking we were married?” Jee-sus. What the hell did he just say?

“Nae. Did you?”

“Nae.” He waited for a half second to catch his breath. His mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. “Would ye mind so much if it was true?” Bloody buggering hell. What am I doing?

“Nae.” She swirled her cool fingers in circles.

Christ. Had he just asked her to marry him hypothetically? And was her “nae” a hypothetical “yes”? She slid those velvety tips over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and around his eyes, and his whole body sank three inches into the ground.

“Me, too,” he sighed. May God strike me mute before I say another daft thing.

“We can never marry because I’m going to be an actress in New York, and you’re going to be a soldier in…wherever the King sends you. But I dinnae mind pretending.” In a shy, almost inaudible voice, she said, “If you like, you can come to my bed tonight and show me what it’s like to be married to you.”

His cock leaped to attention, and he flipped over, scrabbling to his hands and knees. “Thank God,” he said and kissed her.

She pulled away laughing and swatting him in the chest. “Not in public, ye loon.” She aimed those gorgeous green eyes at him, and he realized he’d felt this way all along, ever since he’d seen her in the bookshop, when he hadn’t even known her name. She cut him a look. “And you’d better get the right room this time.”