Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(25)

She sighed wearily. “It is impossible to convey how much I should like to put this ship into your hands and remove it from mine,” she said. “And return your clothes and anything else we’ve made use of.” She walked to the foot of the bunk where her father lay, and crawled onto the small space at the foot of it. “I’d return your bloody ship and your clothes here and now if I didna have such desperate need for them.” She curled up beneath the blanket. Her braid lay like a silk ribbon across the dark brown of the blanket.

“What of me, then?” Aulay asked. “Am I to be denied food and a chamber pot?”

“Pardon?” She lifted her head to peer at him.

“Supper,” he said impatiently. “A chamber pot. I need to—”

“Och, you need not explain it.” With a weary groan, she pushed herself up and brought her legs over the side of the bunk. She braced her hands on either side of her knees and stared at him as if he were an unruly child.

He held up his bound hands. “I’m your captive, lass. You have a duty to tend to me as the rules of war demand.”

“Rules of war!” She clucked her tongue. She pushed herself to her feet with some effort, gathered her discarded boots, then took his greatcoat from the wall once more. She picked up her gun, slid it into the pocket, then shuffled to the cabin door and opened it.

“Lottie,” he said.

She paused. She slid a sidelong gaze to him.

“Something warm, aye? And some ale.”

She pressed her forehead to the edge of the door with a sigh. “What more, Captain?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She started out the door.

“A chamber pot!” he said.

He heard her mutter as she went out. He smiled to himself. He couldn’t threaten her into untying him. He couldn’t scare her, either, apparently. But he had strength on his side, and he was determined to exhaust her into it.





CHAPTER SEVEN

A HALF HOUR or more passed before Lottie returned to Aulay’s quarters carrying a cloth bundle and in the company of two men. The men undid the chain at Aulay’s ankle, hauled him up between them, then escorted him out “to take the air.”

Aulay was relieved to be out of the cabin and breathed deeply of the salt air. In the wake of the storm, a blistering array of stars and the full moon lit the deck. He could see casks of whisky stacked haphazardly and tied loosely about the main deck. He was surprised they’d not lost them in the storm.

At the stern, a man casually held a long gun and smoked a cheroot. Beaty was at the helm with two Livingstone men, in deep conversation that seemed, from a short distance, almost friendly.

When Aulay had dallied as long as he might, the men returned him to his cabin. As they moved up the few steps to the forecastle, the Livingstone physician emerged from the forward cabin. He backed out of it, really, and was laughing as he went. But when he turned about and saw Aulay, he quickly sobered.

“Who is within?” Aulay demanded.

“Wounded men, Captain. One of ours, two of yours.” He scurried down the steps past Aulay and his guards.

It was too casual. There was no tension—it was as if everyone had settled into this arrangement and had no objection to it. What had she done, entreated them? Played to their sympathies? Seduced them with her bonny face and beseeching blue eyes? Were they all as weak as he?

In the cabin once more, Aulay simmered as they shackled him like an animal. Lottie watched with heavy eyelids, her head propped on her fist.

“Now what?” asked one of the men.

Lottie yawned. “Rest, aye? But go now—I’d no’ like Fader to wake.”

Judging by the snores coming from the bunk, there was no danger of that happening.

When the men had gone, Aulay lifted his bound hands. “Untie me.”

She sighed.

“How am I to eat, then?” he asked, gesturing to a hunk of bread, some cheese, and what looked like a cup of soup laid on top of his desk.

“Can you no’ manage it?”

“No, I canna manage it,” he said curtly.

She wearily lifted her head off her fist and stood, and seemed a little unsteady on her feet. She looked at Aulay, then the food. “At least you must sit, aye?” she said to him. “I’m at a disadvantage to try and help you, as tall as you are.”

She picked up one of the heavy wooden chairs at the table and clumsily maneuvered it across the floor, positioning it next to the desk. She pretended to dust it off, then bowed low, sweeping her hand over it. “Your seat, Captain.”

He sat heavily, his stomach growling. When she didn’t hand him anything to eat, he turned his head toward her.

Lottie was looking at his hands. She grimaced, then leaned over to have a better look. “Mi Diah,” She knelt beside him and touched her finger to a particularly raw spot on his wrist.

Aulay hissed with the burn of her touch.

“I should call Morven to have a look.”

“You ought to take them off,” Aulay snapped. “You’ve asked for my help, but keep me bound like an animal.”

“You know I canna do that.” She moved the food to the middle of the desk, carelessly pushing his papers and maps aside in the process, then dragged herself up to sit on it. Her legs dangled, her ankles crossed, her feet bare. She picked up the hunk of bread and tore two chunks from it, handing one to him, and popping the other in her mouth.