Devil In Tartan

Once again, the man straightened up, put his fist to his waist and called out, “Our Lady Larsen, sir! We are carrying her home to her ailing grandmamma!” He paused, put a hand to his throat and said, “’Tis a journey of great and intolerable sadness, as the lady’s grandmamma is no’ expected to live!”

Larson. Aulay did not know the name.

“An ailing grandmamma my arse,” Beaty muttered.

Aulay was likewise suspicious. These men seemed to have no idea what they were doing, who was on board, or even how to mount a sail and sally forth to dear old Grandmamma. Moreover, the man had the peculiar habit of speaking as if he were acting in a play. “Where is your destination?” Aulay called.

“Denmark, Captain. Her grandmamma is a Dane, she is, but we are Scots, like you.”

“Never knew a clever Dane,” Iain mused. “No’ a single one.”

“Aye, she has the look of an heiress,” said one of the crew, holding the spyglass to his eye. The man next to him punched him in the arm and grabbed the spyglass as if he’d been waiting too long for his turn and was cross about it.

Apparently, the men had been passing it around to view the woman while Aulay, Beaty and Iain focused on the men below.

“Been sailing long?” Beaty called down.

“A day,” the man said.

“No, lad, I mean, what sort of seaman are you, then?”

“Well that’s the interesting thing, sir, aye? We are no’ seaman. No’ a one of us a sailor, save our captain. We’re but Christian soldiers on an errand of mercy. Able-bodied, aye, willing to try. But no’, as such, sailors.”

“Bloody damn curious,” Beaty muttered, his thick brow furrowed.

“Agreed,” Aulay said.

Billy Botly, the youngest and smallest of the crew, was the last to receive the spyglass, and he had to fight for it. He was so slight that a good, strong wind would knock him overboard if he weren’t careful, and as he swung one leg over the edge of the hull to have a look, Aulay feared precisely that. “Aye, an heiress,” the lad said, a wee bit dreamily.

Aulay reached over Billy’s shoulder, took the spyglass from him and had a look himself. The lady was still standing there, still clutching the white flag against her chest, her hands crossed over it as if she feared she would lose it.

He lowered the spyglass again and peered down at the man. “Aye, and what do you want from me, then? I’ve no time to ferry anyone to her ailing grandmamma.”

His crew chuckled derisively in agreement.

“The ship, sir, she’s taking on water, that she is. We’ll no’ last through the night.”

“Should no’ have sailed in a ship no’ meant for open water, then,” Beaty called down. Apparently, Beaty was the only man aboard who was not moved by the sight of a comely lady in dire circumstances.

“Aye, but we’ve the miss and her father, wounded in the fight, he was. She’s no one to look after her.”

“You expect me to do the looking after?” Aulay asked and laughed roundly with his crew. He was bound for Amsterdam, and he’d not be late. This voyage was crucial for his family, and he firmly believed it had the potential to grow into something quite lucrative for the Mackenzies, in spite of his father’s misgivings. After years of scraping by, Aulay was resolved to prove they could restore their trade.

“Just need a port, sir, that’s it,” the man called up as he gripped the hem of his waistcoat in a nervous manner. They all seemed slightly agitated, each of them stealing looks at their damaged ship, as if they expected her to slip under the water while they had their backs turned.

“You’ll make landfall by night,” he called to them. “Go back the way you’ve come, aye? That’s what your attacker has done. You’ve two good sails yet and the wind will carry you if you trim them properly. Gun déid leat,” he said, wishing them the best of luck, and turned away from the railing, his intent to be done with this unusual event at sea.

“Captain, sir!” the man shouted frantically. “She’s taking on water too fast, can you no’ see with your own eyes? It’s a miracle of heaven that you’ve come at all, and we rejoice in our fortune! We were drawing straws to see who would take the lady and her father in the jolly and who among us would be doomed to drown! Will you turn your back on us now?”

“Aye, Cap’n, she’s sinking,” Billy said anxiously.

“What is the matter with him, then?” Iain asked curiously, eying the man in the boat. “Why does he speak in that fancy manner?”

Why indeed did he speak in that manner, and who set sail with no experienced hands? It all seemed rather odd, but as Aulay was mulling it over, they heard a groan of wood from the other ship. The winds were picking up, and a strong wave had rocked it, making it list even more. He lifted the spyglass. The woman was clutching the arm of the mountain of a man beside her.

Bloody hell. The ship was sinking.

“How many of you are there?”

“Ten!” the man said.

One of the other men punched his leg and spoke. They exchanged a few words and then he said, “I beg your pardon, only eight!”

“Are they so inept they canna count the souls on board?” Aulay muttered.

“Fools,” Beaty agreed.

Aulay debated. He was a man of the sea and he understood that sometimes, the sea won. All of them, to a man...well, with the exception of Billy, perhaps...understood the risks involved every time they made sail. The thrill of that risk drove them. But there was something about that woman clinging to the man across the way that tugged at Aulay’s conscience. An unwelcome and disturbing image of his younger sister, Catriona, popped into his head, and he inwardly shuddered at the thought of her standing in that lady’s shoes. “Verra well,” he said. “Bring the lady and your men, then. Bring what provisions you have, aye? I donna intend to feed the lot of you. And you can expect to work for your passage.”

“Of course. Thank you, Captain, thank you,” the man said, and quickly motioned for the men to row.

As they turned the small boat about, banging into the ship’s hull as they did, Beaty sighed loudly and gave Aulay a sidelong look.

“What, then, you’d have the lady drown?” Aulay asked.

“No!” Billy cried.

“No,” Beaty admitted reluctantly. “But there are too many of them, and one of them so large that he’ll be as much trouble as three, he will. Where will they sleep, then? Have we enough water for them all? And what of these fools?” he asked, gesturing to Aulay’s crew, all of them still at the railing, still chattering about the woman. “You’d think they’d never seen a lass.”

“We’ll put them in the hold with a night guard, aye?” Aulay said.

“Shall we arm ourselves?” Beaty asked.

Aulay glanced at the listing ship. “They are no threat to us.”

Beaty’s response was muttered under his breath.

It took two trips to bring all of them. When the first batch of men was delivered, along with a crate of food, Beaty demanded irritably, “Why’d you no’ bring the lady, then, if you’re so fearful of her drowning?”

“She willna come until her father can be brought,” said the man who had first spoken to them from the jolly.

They watched the second batch of men come, and when they were delivered safely on board, they stood with the first batch at the rail in an anxious cluster, their eyes on the jolly as two of them returned to the listing ship.

Not one of them looked like a sailor to Aulay. Most of them didn’t seem to have their sea legs, stumbling and banging into each other as the ship bobbed on the swells and they sought their balance. It was all very odd. He was impatient, too—the transfer was taking far too long. The Reulag Balhaire had to keep tacking around to keep from drifting too far from the smaller ship. Aulay watched the progress of the last few. The enormous man who had remained behind with the lady singlehandedly lowered a figure in a rope sling to the waiting boat. Next came the lady, climbing down the rope ladder with surprising agility. She leaped into the boat, foregoing any of the hands offered up, then turned her head up to direct the larger man. He began to make his way down, too, but much more clumsily—lumbering, really, appearing to have trouble fitting his feet into the slots along the ladder. When he at last made his way into the boat, the inhabitants had to fan out to both sides to keep the small boat steady and accommodate his girth, and the boat itself seemed to sit lower in the water as they began the laborious progress across.

As the small boat neared the Mackenzie ship, all the men strained to have a look at the woman. She kept her head down, her attention on the injured man. The only distinguishable thing about her was the unbound hair. Long hair that looked almost as white as snow, a beacon against the gray sky and sea.

When the boat came alongside the ship, Aulay’s men crowded around, each juggling to be the one to help the lady up, and if pushed aside, hanging over the railing to have a look. Two men came aboard first, and together, they lifted the injured man with a pair of ropes. There was quite a lot of commotion as that man was carried off to one of the cabins. Aulay’s men scarcely gave the injured man a look—they were clearly far more interested in the ascent of the woman, all of them craning their necks, and some of his crew swaggering about the railing like roosters as they called their encouragement to her.

Aulay saw the crown of her head as she hopped over the railing and onto the deck. “Madainn Mhath,” she said, as if she were greeting guests at a tea party. The men crowded closer.

“Och, let the lass breathe, then,” Iain the Red said crossly. “Billy, lad, give the lady room.”

“Are you all right, then?” asked Fingal MacDonald, one of Aulay’s crew.

“Verra well, thank you.” Her voice had a pleasing lilt to it. “If you please, sirs, might you step back a wee bit, then? I canna move.”

“Give way, give way!” Iain shouted at them.

There was a shuffling, but none of his men gave an inch to another. Iain shoved one man aside, and when he did, Aulay caught a glimpse of an elegant hand as the woman pushed hair from her temple.

“You’re unharmed, are you?” Beaty asked, and judging by the concern in his voice, Aulay guessed his disdain for this rescue had completely dissipated.

“Oh aye, thank you,” she said. “I’ve had quite a fright, that’s all.”

“You’ve quite a lot of blood on your gown,” Beaty said.

“Do I?”

Her lyrical voice was oddly accented, with a slight hint of a Scots brogue and a proper English accent. It reminded Aulay a wee bit of his mother, who was English by birth but had lived in Scotland for nearly forty years now, and had a similar accent.

“Aye, indeed I do,” she said, sounding surprised. “Never mind it—I fear more for my father.”

At that moment, the lumbering giant came over the railing, and it felt almost as if the ship tipped a wee bit. “What am I to do, Lottie?” he asked. “I donna recollect what I’m to do.”

The giant of a man sounded like a dullard.

“Stay close,” she said sweetly. “You’re all so verra kind,” she said to Aulay’s men in that lilting voice. “I should like to thank your captain, aye? Might you point him out?”

There was a lot of shuffling about, muttered pardons—a word, incidentally, Aulay had never heard his men use before. But these men, as rough and bawdy as any he’d ever known, seemed almost bashful now. They were stumbling over each other to allow the lady to pass.

When they’d cleared a path, Aulay instantly understood what held them in such thrall. The first thing he noticed about her was her hair, a thick wave of unbound silk, the blond of it so light that it reminded Aulay of the color of pearls. Next, her eyes, large orbs the same color as the warm coastal waters of the Caribbean Sea. Plump, rose-colored lips that could bedevil a man. Her almost angelic beauty was as surprising as it was incongruent next to the men in her company. This young woman was bòidheach. Beautiful. To his eye, a pulse-fluttering sight.

Something strong and strange waved through Aulay. He felt himself standing on the cusp of something quite big, as if part of him hung in the balance. He innately understood the feeling. It was something he’d experienced the first time he’d ever been on a ship and had known that would be his life. Or the first time he’d ever lain with a woman. Aulay just knew. He was not one to flatter unnecessarily, but he was bedeviled.

As she approached him, her warm blue eyes fixed on his, that strange feeling of intoxication waved through him again. Her cheeks were pinkened from the wind and from her scrambling about, and her hair, Diah, her hair—it was falling wildly about her face in ethereal wisps. She wore a gown of silver silk over a blue petticoat, the stomacher cinched so tightly that it scarcely contained plump breasts.

Beaty pointed at Aulay, apparently incapable of speech, and even Aulay, who had heretofore thought himself inured to the effects of beautiful women after spending his life in so many ports of call, was a wee bit tongue-tied.

“Captain,” she said, and dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you.”

Aulay slipped his hand under her elbow and lifted her up with the vague thought that she ought not to bow to anyone.

The ship pitched a little, and she caught his arm as if to steady herself, her fingers spreading over his coat and squeezing lightly. “You’ve my undying gratitude, you do,” she said. “I donna know what we might have done had you no’ come along to rescue us.” She smiled.

An invisible band tightened around Aulay’s chest and his breathing felt suddenly short. He realized that hers was not a perfect beauty, but taken altogether, she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

“You’d no’ believe what we’ve been made to endure this day,” she said, and pressed that slender, elegant hand to her heart. “On my word, I thought we’d perish. You’ve saved our lives, good sir!”

“Who have I the pleasure of saving, then?” Aulay asked as his gaze traveled over her face, to her décolletage, her trim waist.

“Oh dear me,” she said, and smiled sheepishly as his men closed in around them, straining to hear. “The ordeal has robbed me of my manners, it has. Larson, sir. Lady Larson.”

“Madam,” he said, and bowed his head. “Captain Mackenzie of Balhaire at your service.”

“Balhaire, of course!” she said delightedly. “No’ an angel from heaven then, but the Mackenzies are legend all the same.” She smiled again with sunny gratitude.

Aulay was confused by the notion of being called an angel and the idea she should know his name, but again, he felt strangely and uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

“Did you see them, then?” she asked, pushing more hair from her face. “The pirates?”

Her eyes, one slightly larger than the other, were unusually bright, sparkling like a clear spring day.

“Thieves, they were. They attacked us without reason.” She turned slightly, addressing all the men. “There we were, sailing without a care and getting on verra well, mind, as we’ve little experience at sea. Save our captain, of course,” she said, and gestured to a man with narrow shoulders and hips. He clasped his hands behind him and bowed gallantly. “When suddenly, out of the mist, a much larger ship appeared and was bearing down us.”

“How did they make contact?” Aulay asked curiously.

She turned those shining blue eyes to him again. “With a cannon!” she said dramatically. “We did naugh’ to deserve it! We had scarcely noticed them at all, and then, boom!” She threw her arms wide, and her breasts very nearly lifted from her bodice, and all the men swayed back, as if expecting them to launch. When they didn’t, his men quickly shifted closer.

“My poor father has been badly injured with a wound to his torso,” she added, her smile fading.

“And so have you,” Beaty said, pointing to a rip in the fabric of the skirt of her gown and the bloodstains around it.

She glanced down, to where he pointed. “Oh, aye, indeed. I’d forgotten it in all the confusion.”

“Ought to have a look at it, Miss Livingstone,” said one of her men, who stood somewhere behind the crowd of Aulay’s men. “Gangrene and the like.”

Gangrene. Aulay rolled his eyes.

“Gangrene!” she cried, alarmed.

“I think you need no’ worry of that,” Beaty said, glancing peevishly at whoever had said it.

Lady Larson suddenly leaned down, gathered the hem of her skirt, and lifted it to midcalf.

Aulay’s men surged forward like a wave of cocks and balls, their gazes riveted on her leg, and the little boots and stockings she wore. “I donna see it. I suppose it’s a wee bit higher still,” she said, and much to Aulay’s surprise, she lifted the hem to her knee.

He was completely devoid of thought in that moment. She lifted the gown higher still, past the top of her stocking, so that they could see her bare thigh, the flesh pale white and as smooth as milk. There was indeed a small gash there, but neither very deep or long, and certainly not one that could account for all the blood on her gown.

The lady glanced up at the men, and her gaze settled on Aulay. “Do you think it is verra bad?” she asked prettily, practically inviting him to have a closer look as she thrust her leg forward. “Can any of you see?”

Aulay never had the opportunity to answer. A sudden and loud explosion from the other ship startled them all—at which point, Aulay suddenly recalled that the difference between a bilander and a fly boat was that a bilander generally carried a small gun or two.

Before he could utter a word or a command, he was struck from behind with such force that he was thrown to the deck and his wits were knocked from him. He instantly tried to stand, but the ship felt as if it was spinning, and he couldn’t seem to move his legs properly. He managed to claw his way up to his knees, then looked up, saw the luminescent blue eyes of Lady Larson gazing down at him. She smiled ruefully and said, “I am so verra sorry,” and kicked her knee squarely into his jaw with the strength to send him backward.

Aulay grabbed for the railing to pull himself up. He found his footing, was reaching for her when he was struck on the head once more.

The last thing he could register before everything faded to black was that after all these years, he’d at last been felled at sea. Not by battle or storm, but by a woman.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN THE MARGIT had set sail from the shores of Lismore, it had never occurred to Lottie that a scant two days later, she would have somehow become a pirate—at least that’s what she thought she should be called after what she’d done.

The bedlam had settled, and the Livingstones had won the battle, such that it was. She and her clan had caught the unsuspecting Mackenzies so completely off their guard. What stretched before them now was disaster on a scale so vast, Lottie still couldn’t catch her breath. A sharp pain kept pulsing at her temples as she tried to sort through it all. How in God’s name had they lost one ship and stolen another all in the stretch of a day?

That had most certainly not been the plan.

She gazed down at her wounded father. They’d put him in the captain’s cabin for want of any other suitable place. The forecastle held two Mackenzie men and one Livingstone, all of them injured, but none of them mortally, thank the saints. Morven, the closest thing to healer the Livingstones had, was sure of it.

Her father, however, was not so fortunate. Lottie could scarcely look at his gray pallor without feeling bilious, and even more so when she looked at the blood that soaked the bandages they’d put around the gaping hole in his torso.

He was groaning now, reaching for Lottie’s hand. And everyone else? The men who were still on their feet and crowded around her? They were all offering their varied opinions about what they ought to do, then looking to her to choose. All of them but Gilroy, the captain of the Margit and her father’s friend of more than forty years. He stood at the porthole, watching his ship pitch and roll and drift away, its bow under water.

“What do we do now?” asked Norval Livingstone.

Diah, but Lottie’s head hurt. She wished everyone would stop looking to her to solve everything. Could they not see she’d made a mess of things thus far? The terror and panic that had shot through her when Gilroy shouted they’d taken a shot to the bow and were taking on water had blinded her to all common sense. They didn’t know who attacked them, they didn’t know why and had only one gun on board to fight the larger ship, one they scarcely knew how to fire. But fire it they had, and the cannon shot had hit something explosive on the other ship and had sent flames shooting into the air. All quite by accident—she thought it nothing short of magical that they’d hit the ship at all. Just as quickly as it had come upon them, that ship turned about and fled toward Scotland.

She should have done what Gilroy advised once the fighting had ended and the other ship had fled. She should have agreed to let the crew draw straws to see who would accompany her and her father back to Scotland on the jolly boat, while the others tried to sail the listing ship back to shore. But then someone had shouted another ship was approaching, and her father had begged her not to turn back and Lottie had come up with an impetuous, foolish, dangerous plan that she prayed would save them all.

It was so absurd that she still couldn’t believe it had worked.

“Aye, well then, Gilroy, what do you see?” asked Duff MacGuire. He was the resident thespian of the Livingstone clan and had played the part of spokesman on the jolly when the Mackenzie ship had come to their aid.

“It has begun to rain,” Gilroy said flatly. “And my ship has sunk.”

He turned his back to the porthole. There were lines on his face Lottie had never seen before. “We should no’ have sailed her,” he said morosely. “I said as much to Bernt, I did, but he convinced me ours was a noble endeavor. Diah, she’s gone now.”

“I’m so verra sorry, Gilroy,” Lottie muttered.

“I donna like it,” Drustan said, his voice full of panic. Lottie’s younger brother was rocking back and forth on his heels, but because he was so unusually large, he kept knocking into the table. She put her hand on his arm to calm him, but he was staring with horror at their father, a bead of perspiration sliding down his temple. He was confused. But then again, poor Drustan was always confused. He’d been born with the cord wrapped round his neck and had very nearly died. He’d never been quite right.

Lottie’s mother had always said Drustan was special in ways unlike anyone else. “Mark me, that lad has a brilliance in him. We’ve just no’ discovered it yet.”

“Donna worry about Fader,” Lottie said to Drustan. “He’s quite strong. You know that he is. He’s sleeping now because Morven gave him a sleeping draught so that he might heal, aye? You and Mats go with Gilroy now. There’s much work to be done.” She looked to Gilroy for confirmation, but the man was studying his feet, lost in thought.

Mathais, Lottie’s brash and youngest brother, moved to her side, his chest puffed like a fat pigeon. He’d only recently turned fourteen years to Drustan’s twenty years and her twenty-three. He had the heart of a warrior, but was still a child. He declared, “I’ll go, Lot. You need no’ send Drustan. He’ll only be in the way, he will.”

Lottie was too despondent to argue. “Aye, go,” she said, waving a hand at Mathais. “Take Drustan with you.”

Mathais rolled his eyes.

“Gilroy?”

“Hmm?” He glanced up.

“Should no’ someone sail the ship, then?” she asked gently.

His brow furrowed as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Do you mean to say no one is sailing her?”

“Well who would sail it, Gilroy?” Duff asked with exasperation.

“Bloody hell, have we all lost our minds?” Gilroy demanded sternly, and began to make his way out of the overstuffed cabin.

Mathais pivoted about to follow Gilroy and tripped over his own feet, which seemed to grow another inch each week. Drustan, who towered above them all, hurried behind Mats as if he was afraid he might lose him.