Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(34)

“You were right to offer them pay, you were. Coin is a powerful lure. I suspect they’ll go along, aye. As for us, we’ll be rich, Lottie. We can hire the best ship to return us home.”

Rich! They would have enough to pay their rents to Campbell and a wee bit more to pay this crew. No one would be rich!

“I’ll make the salve now, aye?” Morven said. He smiled kindly and patted her arm, then walked away.

Did any of them truly believe the Mackenzies would so easily forget what the Livingstones had done to them, even if they were paid? And what of the captain? She couldn’t imagine that he’d forget a single moment. She saw the way he looked at her—he would delight putting the noose around her neck himself.

She shivered in the bright sunlight at the very thought of it. Until they had sold that blasted whisky, they were stuck. Lottie had no other viable option that she could see. She got off her barrel and went in search of something to darn her gown.





CHAPTER NINE

THE RAW SKIN of Aulay’s wrists burned with the slightest movement. His discomfort had been made worse by the incessant chatter of the old man, but thankfully, he’d finally fallen asleep under the weight of his many words.

His sons had left, too, thank the saints. Between the boasts of the young one, and the fear of the giant one, and the many words of the old one, it felt as if the Livingstones had consumed all the available breath.

With the twin portholes open to allow a flow of air, Aulay could hear the men outside. He recognized the voices of more than one of his crew up on the rigging. That gave him some ease, knowing that his men were at work, trimming sails as Beaty needed, and sailing these thieves on to Aalborg.

He and Beaty had discussed it very briefly in Gaelic when Beaty had entered this room. Aulay had told him the lives of the crew were the only thing that mattered to him; Beaty assured him he’d handle things on deck and see them safely to shore. Like him, Beaty was more concerned with the ship and their men than avenging what had happened. But some of the men were obviously free to work the sails, and Aulay could hope that meant there was something underfoot that would return his ship to him.

He felt utterly useless and increasingly frustrated by his impotence, an old, familiar feeling he’d often felt at home. A burden to them all, useful to no one.

The door opened, and the lass returned carrying the tools required for sail repair—a large needle, waxed thread, a brace to stretch the fabric. She also carried a small glass jar.

She put the things down on the table and with the glass jar in hand, she turned around to him. The gun, he noticed, was tucked into the trews she wore.

“Morven made this for your wrists,” she said, holding it out. “Will you allow me to tend to you without trouble?”

“What trouble could I give you, then?” he asked irritably. “I’m hobbled like a hog.” He waved her over, grateful for any relief she could give the burning skin around his wrists.

She placed the gun on the table and approached him warily, sinking down onto her knees beside him. She opened the jar, and a pungent smell made his eyes water. “What in the devil is that?” he complained, rearing away from it. “It smells bloody awful.”

“Morven said he used a wee bit of fish entails—”

Aulay unthinkingly jerked his hands back, but she caught one and dropped a dollop onto the raw part of his wrist. He was set to protest, but she began to rub the concoction into his skin, her touch feathery light, and the relief to his skin was instantaneous.

He relaxed.

He watched her fingers move gracefully on his wrist. She kept her eyes on the task, but she was so close, he could see the translucence of her skin, the slight shadow of a vein at her temple, a gentle pulse at her neck. Her hair, though tangled and knotted haphazardly at her nape, looked like silk. He wanted to touch it, to feel it between his fingers. He leaned forward, his desire to at least smell it—

She stilled. “What are you doing, then?”

He didn’t answer her. In spite of the harsh conditions, she smelled surprisingly nice.

She slowly continued working on his wrists, smearing more of the unguent on his flesh. She turned his hand over, and Aulay caught her fingers in his. Lottie arched a brow in silent question. He answered by tugging her forward until she was close enough to kiss. He wasn’t thinking—he was wrapped in a cloud of her feminine scent, and his actions were divorced from his thoughts. He touched his lips to hers. There was stillness in her—when everything around him moved every moment of the day, he noticed stillness. She was quiet calm.

He moved his lips on hers, touched his tongue to the seam of her lips.

Her lips parted beneath his, and he felt the touch of her tongue to his. But Lottie suddenly receded from him like water. “You’ve gone off your head, you have.”

On the contrary. This was the first he’d felt himself, a healthy, living breathing man, since she’d kicked him in the chin. But he eased back and took some pleasure in the pink blush of her cheeks. “Who is our Mr. Iversen, then?”

A blush deepened. “No one.” She turned his hand over, palm up.

“Shall I guess, then?”

“No.”

He cocked his head to one side to study the way her lashes seemed almost to brush against her cheeks as she worked on his wrist. “He treated you ill, did he?”

She clucked her tongue at him. “It hardly commands any thought at all to guess that, does it?”