Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(40)

“No, no’ only that,” he said pleasantly. “I also swore to them that we would have our justice.” He smiled.

Lottie should have been alarmed—at least think what her next steps would be—but all she could think was how his blue eyes glittered in the sunlight with defiance, and how that defiance made her feel warm and wobbly. A bit like she’d been struck and paralyzed by lightning.

He arched a brow, apparently amused by her perusal of him. “Do you no’ wish to change your clothing, too?”

Lottie blinked. She nervously touched her hair, then said to Duff, “Mind you keep an eye,” and whirled about, fleeing in mortification, aware that the men ogled her in her trews.





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.