Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(41)

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?”