Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(20)

“Fear no’,” said Duff, bowing his head. “Drustan and MacLean and I will keep all in order.” He cast a stern look to his captives.

“Bloody Shakespeare is serving us fish, lads,” said a Mackenzie, and they laughed roundly as Lottie made her way out of the hold.

When she emerged on the deck, Lottie paused and adjusted the heavy greatcoat around her. The rain had turned to mist, but the coat she wore was soaked. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath and her bed to chase away the chill and this horrible day, to perhaps ease the ache in her head. She wondered, as she trudged along to the quarterdeck, if she’d ever have a proper bath again, or if this voyage would be the end of her. All signs pointed to the latter.

Well, she wasn’t done yet. The day had been disastrous, but they were still alive, still had that damn whisky. As her mother always said, “One step before the next, and again.” So...one step before the next. She withdrew her gun from her pocket as she started up the steps to the quarterdeck.

Norval was still standing guard on the quarterdeck. Gilroy had taken over the wheel, and Beaty was squatting down beside a small brazier where he held a stick with pieces of fish over a small flame. He glanced up as Lottie neared him, and even in the dim light, she could see him blanch when he saw her gun. He slowly rose to his feet, his eyes fixed on it. “What’s that for, then?”

“Donna you mind it. Come with me, please.”

Beaty snorted. “You mean to escort me with a gun to me head?” He laughed with great derision.

Lottie lifted the gun and pointed it at his head. Behind him, Gilroy’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “It’s no’ for your head, sir, but your captain’s. If I see any trickery, he’ll pay the price.”

Beaty looked at the gun in her hand. Was it possible for him to tell the gun was empty? She’d shot its only bit of lead into the ceiling above the Mackenzie crew. “I could take that wee gun and toss you over with one hand, lass,” he said darkly.

She knew that, quite obviously, but she called his bluff. She cocked the gun. “Try,” she said.

Gilroy recovered from his shock and slowly smiled. “Did I no’ say that you ought not to trifle with the Livingstones?” he asked proudly.

“I thought you were Larsons,” Beaty drawled. “Have you lost your mind, lass?” he asked. “Have you no’ put yourself in enough peril?”

“Aye, without a doubt, I have,” she agreed. “But I’ll no’ allow you to put me in more peril. Come,” she said, gesturing to the stairs.

Muttering beneath his breath, Beaty stalked toward the steps. She followed him to the captain’s cabin with the gun pointed at his back, but he wasn’t terribly intimidated, apparently, for he entered the quarters in something of a snit, striding inside and pausing in the middle, his legs braced apart, his hands on his hips, surveying the lay of the land.

“What the devil?” Bernt said from the bed, and tried to rise up on an elbow.

“Please donna tax yourself, Fader,” Lottie said with the pistol pointed at the captain. “We’ve a wee bit of business, that’s all.”

The captain was leaning casually against the wall and glanced insouciantly at her gun. “You’ve no’ been threatening my men with that wee gun, have you?”

“Aye, she has,” Beaty said. “Pointed it right at my head, she did.”

“Here he is,” she said to Mackenzie. “You asked for him. Now speak.”

“Where are your men?” he asked, undaunted, unhurried. “Surely one of them can come along to hold the gun for you, aye?”

“I donna need anyone to hold it. My men are feeding your men,” she said pertly.

“Put away the gun, lass,” he said. “Beaty will do as I say. Put the gun down.”

“Tell him, then. I donna know which direction he sails, so tell him,” she demanded.

“You can tell by the prevailing wind, aye?” Mackenzie said calmly, and lifted his bound hands. “East,” he said, pointing in one direction, then arcing his hands to the opposite direction, “to west.” And then he said something low and rapidly in Gaelic.

Had she been tricked? Lottie’s temper flared; she lifted the empty gun and sighted it between the captain’s eyes.

He didn’t as much as flinch. In fact, he arched a brow as if amused by her.

But Beaty flinched, throwing up his hands as if to stop her. “There’s no call for that!” he said anxiously. “You’d no’ shoot an unarmed man, lass!”

“She’ll no’ use it,” the captain said.

He was not the least bit afraid of her. He probably didn’t believe she knew how to use a gun properly. Men were always assuming things they shouldn’t. She knew how to fire a gun, for God’s sake. She was only missing a bullet.

“Put it down, Lottie,” he said calmly. “We’re wasting time, aye?”

“We’re to use given names now, are we? I’ll put it down when you explain to Mr. Beaty that we are to sail to Aalborg, and I can see with my own eyes that he’s no’ sailing us straight into the arms of the king’s navy.”

Again, the captain spoke quickly and softly in Gaelic. Whatever he said caused Beaty to give a slight shake of his head. Lottie panicked—her knowledge of Gaelic was limited to a few words and phrases. The Livingstones generally spoke English, except for the older clan members who spoke the language of the Danes. “English!” she said sharply. “You must speak English!”