Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(42)
“That will do,” she said, batting his hands away.
“Well then,” the captain said. “Might we about the business so that I might have my ship returned to me?” he asked impatiently, and turned toward the railing as the boat was lowered to carry them to port.
Livingstones and Mackenzies alike gathered to watch them row to shore. The Livingstones called out their encouragement to them, and Duff, theatrical to the end, stood in the middle of their little boat and sang up to all the men that they would return by eventide. But the moment Drustan began to row, Duff was knocked onto his arse and his oratory ended.
The room in the boat was close, and once Mackenzie handed his oars to Duff, Lottie was forced to sit beside him in the bow. He kept his gaze on the port ahead, and she kept her gaze on the water, her nose wrinkling at the smell of rotting fish as they drew closer to shore. Gulls lined the quay, and people were so thick that she couldn’t be certain it wasn’t a crowd gathered for some event.
But more than the blue sky overhead, or the sound of the gulls calling to each other, or the voices of hawkers calling out their wares to be sold, Lottie was acutely aware of the press of Mackenzie’s thigh against hers, the firm meat of his hip against hers. So acutely aware of it, in fact, that she shifted, trying to put some space between them. Mackenzie turned his head, his gaze sliding to the open collar of her coat, and the exposed flesh of her décolletage, then slowly lifting to meet her eyes. He was thinking of last night, too. She could see it in the blistering shine of his eyes. Maybe he felt the memory just as as she did, pulsing in every vein, rising rapidly to the surface of his skin, too, because he turned his head and looked away.
Lottie leaned over the edge of the boat and dipped her hand into the water and brought it to her cheeks, trying to douse the flame that was beginning to bloom inside her. And then she did something that surprised her—she touched his thigh. It was hardly a touch at all, really, just a draw of her finger down the side of it, a slow, light caress. She just wanted to touch him, to feel the strength in his legs and imagine them wrapped around her. She hardly touched him, but it felt as intimate as her bath.
You will do this now?
Yes, now. Life felt unsettlingly short suddenly, and who knew if there would be another opportunity? She had no idea what she might find on shore.
The captain pressed a clenched fist to his knee and Lottie touched him again, her finger tracing the same path.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY DOCKED THE BOAT, then climbed the ladder to the quay. The giant went first, startling a few sailors who happened to be going by, followed by Lottie, then Aulay, and the actor last.
Aalborg looked to be a thriving port, with all the good and bad that went with it. The quay and the road that ran alongside the edge of it were thick with souls—dockhands and sailors, dogs, and young lads who swarmed those who looked as if they had money, begging for coin. The scent of salt, fish and ash was pungent, the gulls loud. Carters passed them with carts full of fish, trailed by gulls looking for food. Old women hawked their wares, young women hawking their much different wares by hanging out the windows of bawdy houses, calling out to sailors who happened by.
The warehouses built along the road were squat buildings. Some of them housed official offices of the Danish crown. Others housed shipping companies.
Aulay should not have been surprised at how sure-footed Lottie was, because this was not a small Scottish island. And yet she strode along confidently, her arms swinging at her sides and a flagon over her shoulder. She strode past a man lying face down in the gutter either dead or drunk; past sailors staggering down the street after what Aulay assumed was a long night of ale and women, their arms around each other’s shoulders, singing in clashing keys and laughing uproariously. She even marched past two harlots who smiled wantonly and called to her in Danish, challenging her.
Lottie paid them no heed. She was made of iron.
Her brother, on the other hand, was so startled by all that he saw that he kept bumping into Aulay, kept muttering under his breath.
They did not walk along without notice—it was impossible to ignore the young giant with his snowy hair and extraordinary height and breadth.
At a corner where an alley met the main street, Lottie stopped, planted her hands on hips and looked around them. “How do we find Anders Iversen and a physician?”
The actor shrugged. The giant was distracted by a pair of women smiling at him from a window overhead. Lottie looked to Aulay.
“You’re asking me?” he asked.
“Who else can help us?”
“I will ignore the irony of your request for my help and suggest you might ask at a duty and toll office, aye?”
“A splendid idea!” the actor proclaimed. He and Lottie looked around, studying the various buildings. “There,” he said, pointing to a building that was a wee bit larger than others. “Toldforvaltning,” he said, reading the sign. “If I were to guess, and guess I shall, as I learned only a wee bit of Danish at me mother’s knee, I’d wager it’s a customs house or something like it.”
“Good,” Lottie said, and put her hand on his back. “Go and inquire after Anders. If they donna know him, then inquire after the Copenhagen Company. And a physician! If naught else, a physician, aye?” She gave him a push.
“Me, is it?” the actor asked uncertainly. He straightened his neckcloth before striking out, striding across the street and very nearly colliding with a cart laden with fish in his haste.