Devil's Highlander

“Are you ready?” He stared down at her, the usual steadiness in his eyes.



She could face anything by this man's side, so implicitly did she trust him and rely on him. She'd never stopped relying on thoughts of him to get her through. “I'm ready for anything,” she said with her jauntiest of grins.



“Anything, eh?” He gave a surreptitious pinch to her rump.



Swallowing a squeak, she grabbed his arm. “Anything on board ship.” He shook his head in mock ruefulness. “That's what scares me. You must let me do the talking, Ree. These men…



they're killers, with icy water in their veins.”



She gave an abbreviated curtsy. “The Lady Brodie is ever careful.”



“Mind you, I had to do some very pretty talking for the sailors to agree to let you board. They're dreadfully superstitious, and women are a particular menace for any sensible seafaring man.”



“A menace, am I?” She stood a bit taller, pleased with her newfound status. “How did you manage to convince them?”



“Once I managed to leave the bed yesterday” — he paused to give her a teasing wink — “'twas easy enough to find Forbes at his office, under the pretense of bearing tidings of the ailing Lady Brodie. Your 'illness' proved a most convenient explanation, by the by. My weak lady wife must hire a boy for her obvious needs.”



“Why, I am a menace.” Her eyes narrowed, and he chuckled.



“Those were the imaginary Lord Brodie's words, not mine,” he was quick to assure her. “And it was all the excuse we needed. I gather Forbes is new to this particular enterprise. He told me whom to contact dockside, and here we are.”



“Enterprise,” she muttered with a frown. “As though we're discussing a new sweets shop instead of folks' lives.



You're certain Davie's on board?”



“We can't be certain of anything. But if Davie is on the Oliphant, we'll find him.” He let go her arm to slip his hand behind her, hugging her close to reassure her. “Now, shall we?” They were about to enter another foreign world. She thought of eccentric wives and their uncharitable husbands.



A wave of nausea swept her, as though she'd just had another tankard of that hideous rumbullion. “I don't want to see any of those people ever again, Cormac.”



“Don't fret,” he told her, leading them down the pier. The walkway was spindly and precarious, reaching far into the inky water. Its wooden planks creaked underfoot, and she gripped him for balance. “'Twill be simple sailors we find on board. A coarse lot, but at least they don't come clothed in velvet.” Slowing his pace, he stroked her hand with his thumb. “Are you certain you're prepared for what awaits us?”



“Never more certain.” Standing tall, she eased her grip on his arm to prove her point.



“I promise there will be no more feather-wearing harridans to provoke you. You'll be the only woman aboard. And I doubt Forbes or any of his cronies will make an appearance. I gather those sorts of men don't like to sully their good names by standing witness to the vulgar exchange of goods and money.” Goods. The word made her shudder. It was boys they were talking about. “No, he simply enjoys the profits after the fact.”



Cormac stopped in his tracks. “It's the last time.” He turned, leaning close to her, his voice a whisper even though none could possibly hear. Cupping her chin, he told her, “We'll get Davie and go far from here.” We. His hushed promise gave her strength. Marjorie gave him a definitive nod. She could weather anything as long as she was by his side.



“Ho!” he cried when they got to the end of the dock. The Oliphant cast a long shadow, its hull looming thrice her height overhead. Was Davie just on the other side of that timber, imprisoned in a darkened, vermin-infested hold? Cormac chafed her back, and she realized she'd shivered. “Ho there!” There were distant shouts, and a head popped over the side to look down at them. A young boy, no older than thirteen, studied them skeptically. His head popped back out of view, replaced a moment later by a grizzled man in want of a full set of teeth. “You be Brodie?”



“Aye.” Cormac's voice was clipped, and Marjorie was astonished to watch his transformation. The man who'd soothed her chill a moment before had, with a word, turned into a creature of all mettle and no heart. “We come aboard.”



The man sucked on his rotted teeth and spat into the water. His eyes went to Marjorie, scanning her intently.



She was proud she flinched from neither spittle nor stare.



“She's no' comin' aboard. No womenfolk.” His eyes lit, glimmering with suggestion. “Not unless she's—”



“No,” Cormac said, his voice sharp. “She's coming aboard or your man sees none of this.” He lifted the edge of his waistcoat, flashing the coin purse tied there.



Scowling, the man disappeared.



“I wish it weren't this way… “ Cormac muttered.



“I have to come with you. How else to be certain we retrieve the right boy?” She nodded to where the coin purse was nestled beneath his coat. “So,” she said, with a quick change of subject, “I thought you said true Scotsmen carried only sporrans.”



He shook his head in disbelief. “You're not very afraid, are you?” She inhaled deeply, contemplating his question. “We're close to finding Davie. And when I consider that, I feel bravery enough for the both of us. Right now, the concern foremost in my mind is” — she eyed the side of the ship —



“how precisely are we to” — a rope ladder tumbled over the side — “ah.” The flimsy ladder swung in the air, and he grabbed the side to steady it. “In the mood for a climb, Ree?”



“Come aboard,” a voice shouted from above. “The both of you.”



Even with his help, it was a struggle to mount the ladder. Finally, she pulled herself completely onto it.



Between their adventure and the fact that they were about to save Davie, a wave of giddiness overtook her.



Standing on the swaying rope ladder, she looked back over her shoulder and told him saucily, “I don't know if my legs can handle any more strenuous activity.”



When she glanced up, though, spying some of the ladder's more threadbare footholds, her high spirits flagged.



She glanced back down to see what a fall would look like. A gap between the dock and the side of the ship wavered like a great flapping maw. “Would one survive the fall, do you think, or be crushed between ship and pier?”



“Courage, lass.” With a wicked gleam in his eye, he placed his hands on her rump and gave her a push up to get her started. “Nobody will be doing any falling this day. And anyhow,” he added with a wink, “as for the strenuousness of the activity, 'tis I who's had the most exacting time of it.” His ribald comment erased her trepidation long enough for her to scale to the top. He climbed right behind her, helping to guide her up and over the side.



After Marjorie gathered her wits and dusted her skirts, she raised her head to see dozens of gape-mouthed faces staring at her. The stench of unwashed men hit her like a wall. She forced a prim smile onto her face.



Davie. They were so close. And the first thing she would do was give him a bath. Or feed him and then bathe him.



Perhaps she could feed him while he sat in the bath.



She remembered they played a role — she was supposed to be a wealthy woman, generally entided, and keen to hire help. She stood taller, adopting her best haughty mien.



Shading her eyes from the sun, she took a step forward, staring wide-eyed at the dense webbing of lines overhead. It seemed an impossible tangle of ropes and poles. She took another step, watching as a sailor climbed high, edging out along the top of one of the sails to tie something off.



“Mind the boom, mum.”



Marjorie looked down to see who'd spoken, and she had to bite her lips not to gasp. A young boy stood there, and he was the strangest, most beautiful creature she'd ever laid eyes on. His skin shone dark as ebony, his shy smile baring teeth like small pearls.



She'd heard tell of Moorish folk, and here was one before her, a lad with such a peculiar inner stillness combined with the most incongruous



Scots brogue spilling from his lips. She wanted to ask who he was. Did he remember his mother? Was he safe? “Thank you,” she said simply instead.



She didn't understand this world, didn't want to contemplate boys stolen from faraway lands. She felt Cormac at her back, and something eased deep inside. They were in this together.



There was a shout, and the sailors scattered like marbles, scurrying in dozens of different directions, back to their posts.



Another man appeared before them, and he stood out dramatically from the rest of the crew. Unlike the majority who wore loose-legged sailor slops, this man had donned fine tawny-colored britches and a simply cut black waistcoat. An oily smile spread across his face. “Welcome aboard. I confess, my men are in quite a dither. The last woman aboard was a pretty little native rowed out to us as a gift when we were docked off the coast of Dominica.



You can imagine they wonder if the appearance of another female might mean—”



“Let's just get on with this, then,” Cormac snarled. “We are the Lord and Lady Brodie.”



“Oh, I know who you are, or you wouldn't be standing here. And you may call me… Jack.” The man's smile grew broad, but it didn't reach his eyes. He winked, and her skin crawled. “You must understand I'm not in the habit of handing out my Christian name to strangers, no matter how pretty a king's subject she might be.”



“Aye,” Cormac rasped. “A pretty subject who happens to be my wife.” With a nonchalant shrug, Jack turned and strolled toward the rear of the ship, his clear assumption being that they'd follow. “I'm told you want a younger lad, but there's not much promise in that group. You might find more satisfaction with—”