CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CABIN SEEMED almost empty without the captain glowering at Lottie from the corner. Her father’s presence, which had been so pressing two days ago, had also diminished considerably.
Lottie latched the door shut, then sat on a chair to remove her boots, listening to her father’s labored breathing. She unbraided her hair and began to comb through it.
“Lottie? Is it you, pusling?”
She dropped the comb and turned around—her father was trying to roll onto his side, grunting with pain.
“Stay where you are, Fader,” she said, and went to his bunk, helping him to right himself. “Turn your head, aye? I must dress. Aalborg is in sight.”
He did as she asked, and Lottie quickly began to undress, slipping out of the trews first.
“Not a krone less than one hundred per cask,” he reminded her.
“Aye, I remember.”
“If you canna find Anders or his father, the Copenhagen Company ought to have offices in the port.”
“Aye,” she said, and fastened her stomacher over her stays and petticoat.
“I would that it was me,” her father said.
“Aye, I know,” she said soothingly. She went to the sideboard and propped up the small shaving mirror. She wound her hair in a knot as best she could, wishing for Wee Mary, a tiny young woman who always helped her dress when clan business demanded it.
She wished for home. These last few days had tested her in ways she could not have possibly imagined. She wished for Lismore, for the rabbits, for the cozy manor house where they lived. That house had been her mother’s pride, and Lottie had kept it in pristine condition, even doing some of the maintenance herself. The island had always seemed so small to her, so confining. She had wanted out in the world, to see what God had created. She had wanted to see famous sites, people who looked different from her. She wanted to know what women wore in high society, to ride in a proper carriage, to be courted by a man who was not related to her in some form or fashion. But today, all she wanted was her home. Her bed. Her horse, her dog, her freedom. Unfortunately, she’d made herself a prisoner of her own foolish decisions.
When she had her hair put up as best she could, she donned the gown, fastening it at the waist over her stomacher. It was tight, the fabric having shrunk, and it smelled of seawater and sweat. It was badly wrinkled and badly mended—the lace around one sleeve had come undone, and she was forced to pull the lace off the other sleeve to match. Diah, she looked a sight.
“Donna tarry, Lottie,” her father said.
She glanced at her father over her shoulder. “Pardon?”
“Set your price and go. Donna tarry or they will try and drive it down, aye?”
“All right.”
“We must have this done as soon as possible.”
“We will,” she tried to assure him.
“Those men in Aalborg, they’ll see you—”
She winced. “Drustan and Duff will be with me.” She sat on the chair to pull on her boots.
“You must think what you’ll say to Anders. It must seem plausible. A handsome man he was, but never trust a handsome man, lass.”
What an odd thing to say. “I’ll think of something,” she said. I always do.
“Mind your mouth, as well, pusling. Think before you speak, aye? Men will—”
“I know, I know,” she said, and stood up from the table and moved to his bedside. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. His skin was hot, and she noticed the front of his shirt was wet with his perspiration, yet he was shivering. She didn’t care about the whisky now—she needed to find a physician, someone who could help him. She pulled the coverlet up under his chin and tried to blink away the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes from nowhere. “I’ll be needing your pocket watch, Fader.”
He didn’t ask her why. “Morven put it nearby.”
She looked around and spotted it on a small bedside table, between a brass candleholder with the stub of a candle in it, and a stack of leather-bound books. She picked it up. “Your father’s watch, was it?” she asked, examining the carving in the brass.
“Aye.” He smiled a little. “’Tis the only thing I’ve left of him. He’d no’ be happy to know what will become of it.”
“I’m sorry, Fader.” She tucked the watch into her pocket and put her hand on her father’s shoulder. “Rest easy. We’ll return before nightfall.” She leaned over him and pressed her lips to his burning forehead once more. But she couldn’t see his face—her vision was blurred by her unshed tears. She gave him as reassuring a smile as she could manage and started for the door.
There were dark, monstrous thoughts creeping about her head—things could go terribly awry on shore. Or her father might possibly be beyond saving. If she thought of those things, she’d lose heart. She could only think what must be done today, one foot before the other and again.
If they ever returned to Lismore, she would single-handedly dismantle those bloody stills herself.
She’d almost reached the door when her father roughly called her name.
“Aye, Fader?” she said. He spoke again, but his breath was short and she returned to his bedside. “What is it?”
“I never wanted but to provide for our clan and our family, pusling. You must know it.”
“Aye, of course I know it—”
He grabbed her hand with surprising strength that reminded her of the strength with which her mother had held her hand on her deathbed. “You and the lads, you’re the only things that have mattered to me. The only thing.”
“I know, Fader,” she said gently. “We all know.” She tried gently to dislodge her hand from his.
“On my word, I’ve done the best I knew how to do,” he said tearfully.
She fell to her knees beside him and clasped his hand in both of hers. “I’ve never doubted it. Of course you did! Mats and Drustan and I know you have. We all know you have.”
Tears were sliding from the corner of his eyes and disappearing into his matted gray hair. “I’ve made a bloody wreck of things, I have—”
“No! I’ll no’ listen to it, Fader. It’s our lot in life, that’s all. We were born to struggle. Our mother always said that if life came easy it would no’ be worth living, aye? No matter what happens here, we’ll be quite all right—we always are. Always. We have each other.”
“Only because of you, pusling.” He squeezed her hand. “Aye, I’ve never spoken truer words. Where would we be without you, then? I love you, Lottie lass. Tha gaol agam ort,” he repeated in Gaelic. “A king could no’ have sired a better daughter than I have in you.”
Tears were sliding down her cheeks, and Lottie swiped at them. “I love you, Fader. Now, keep your breath old man, until I’ve returned, aye? You may no’ think so kindly of me if I return with less than you wanted.” She smiled.
Her father didn’t smile. His eyes moved over her face. “Have a care for yourself, and mind you look after the lads,” he whispered roughly.
“Always,” she said. She kissed the back of his hand and let it go. She smiled at him and walked out the door in her ridiculously damaged gown, her wet boots, and hair put up in a crooked chignon.
She was a sight, she knew that she was, and yet that didn’t keep every head from swiveling toward her when she appeared on deck. They’d all gathered, apparently, to await her. “All right, all right,” she said, her cheeks warming as she descended the stairs. “Och, I’m the same as I was before, aye?” she said irritably.
“Pardon, miss, but you’re no’ at all,” said the young man with the broken arm. “You’re bonny.”
“Have you no hat?” asked Duff, before Lottie could fret too much about what she must have looked like before she’d donned the gown. “Aye, Lottie, you’ll be needing a hat,” he said firmly. “That hair of yours shines like a diamond in a sea town and will attract more attention than you want.”
“He’s right,” Mr. MacLean agreed, and handed her a flagon of whisky. She looked at it with confusion. “They’ll want a taste,” he said.
“A hat, Lottie!”
“I’ve no hat!” she repeated. “I’ve no’ a proper gown or shoes, either, for that matter.”
“In the cabin,” the captain said. He was sitting on a cask, his legs crossed, as if he were a gentleman in a park watching the world pass. “I’ve a hat on the wall in the cabin, aye? Billy, fetch it for the lady, will you? And bring your greatcoat for her, too.”
The lad took the stairs two at a time.
“A lot of fuss and bother,” Lottie muttered. “I donna need a greatcoat—”
“Aye, you do,” the captain said, and casually studied his hand. “For the same reason you need a hat. The gown fits you like a glove,” he said, and lifted his gaze and let it travel the length of her body.
She flushed furiously. She knew he’d seen her in a state of undress last night. She knew he’d been watching her, and she, well...she hadn’t minded it. She’d felt a strange sort of shimmering in her blood, like grease on a fire, sparking and flaring and pooling wet in her groin. She had lingered too long in the task of bathing, pleasantly inflamed by his perusal.
The lad returned, bounding into their midst with surprising agility for having the use of only one arm. He handed her a cocked hat, one that was so weathered it had lost the sheen of its wool felt, and one side of the brim was sagging. She put it on her head, but it was too big, and slid down so that it sat just above her eyes.
“Aye, tuck your hair up, then,” Duff said, eyeing her critically.
Lottie tucked as much of her hair up under the hat as she could while the men stood about and studied her efforts. She slipped on the threadbare greatcoat and Duff stepped forward to button it. He turned the collar up around her face. “The less anyone can see, aye?”
“That will do,” she said, batting his hands away.
“Well then,” the captain said. “Might we about the business so that I might have my ship returned to me?” he asked impatiently, and turned toward the railing as the boat was lowered to carry them to port.
Livingstones and Mackenzies alike gathered to watch them row to shore. The Livingstones called out their encouragement to them, and Duff, theatrical to the end, stood in the middle of their little boat and sang up to all the men that they would return by eventide. But the moment Drustan began to row, Duff was knocked onto his arse and his oratory ended.
The room in the boat was close, and once Mackenzie handed his oars to Duff, Lottie was forced to sit beside him in the bow. He kept his gaze on the port ahead, and she kept her gaze on the water, her nose wrinkling at the smell of rotting fish as they drew closer to shore. Gulls lined the quay, and people were so thick that she couldn’t be certain it wasn’t a crowd gathered for some event.
But more than the blue sky overhead, or the sound of the gulls calling to each other, or the voices of hawkers calling out their wares to be sold, Lottie was acutely aware of the press of Mackenzie’s thigh against hers, the firm meat of his hip against hers. So acutely aware of it, in fact, that she shifted, trying to put some space between them. Mackenzie turned his head, his gaze sliding to the open collar of her coat, and the exposed flesh of her décolletage, then slowly lifting to meet her eyes. He was thinking of last night, too. She could see it in the blistering shine of his eyes. Maybe he felt the memory just as as she did, pulsing in every vein, rising rapidly to the surface of his skin, too, because he turned his head and looked away.
Lottie leaned over the edge of the boat and dipped her hand into the water and brought it to her cheeks, trying to douse the flame that was beginning to bloom inside her. And then she did something that surprised her—she touched his thigh. It was hardly a touch at all, really, just a draw of her finger down the side of it, a slow, light caress. She just wanted to touch him, to feel the strength in his legs and imagine them wrapped around her. She hardly touched him, but it felt as intimate as her bath.
You will do this now?
Yes, now. Life felt unsettlingly short suddenly, and who knew if there would be another opportunity? She had no idea what she might find on shore.
The captain pressed a clenched fist to his knee and Lottie touched him again, her finger tracing the same path.