Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(43)

“What are we to do?” the giant asked. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, his arm connecting with Aulay’s back every time he surged forward, as if he had no sense of how large he was, how his body filled the space around him.

“We are to wait,” she said.

The giant rocked, knocking into Aulay again, so Aulay moved aside and put his back against the wall to wait.

Lottie chewed nervously on her bottom lip, her gaze fixed on the offices across the way. She was not thinking of him at all, and it occurred to Aulay that he could slip away. He could slip away, return to the ship, invent some excuse about the Livingstones still on shore, and take control. He could set sail, now, and hope that he might make up for lost time.

He considered it.

And then Aulay imagined something else entirely. Her finger, tracing a path down the side of his thigh. There was no mistaking what that was, no pretending she had innocently or accidentally touched him. He imagined tracing a line down her bare back. Perhaps a bit more slowly. A bit longer. Perhaps following that path with his lips. He was thinking of her naked body when he ought to be thinking of escape.

Aulay frowned. He didn’t like the thoughts stirring in his head. It was infuriating to him that he’d been seduced by his captor. He tried, unconvincingly, to justify not walking away because he meant to see her to justice. To abandon her in Aalborg would mean she would not be punished for her unspeakable crime against him. He tried to convince himself that he didn’t walk away because it would be cruel to leave her and the giant to fend for themselves, with no notion of the world between them. As much as he wanted justice—and he did want justice—he was not a cruel man.

Aulay tried desperately to convince himself of anything but the truth, which was that he no longer knew what sort of man he was. Only a few days ago, he would have sworn to anyone he could not be taken by a lass, and yet here he was. Or that he could possibly harbor feelings of admiration—and yet he did. The last few days had changed him in ways he didn’t like and didn’t understand.

She suddenly jerked around, as if she’d just remembered her prisoner. Aulay smiled with amusement at her fluster. Her brows fell with displeasure. Just over her shoulder, he saw the actor emerge from the customs house, walking briskly toward them, almost running, and he pushed away from the wall.

“What news?” Lottie asked as the actor reached them.

“Well,” he said, pausing to catch his breath, “the gentleman I spoke to said there are only two physicians known to him and neither of them mad enough to board a foreigner’s ship.”

“What?” Lottie cried.

“He has directed us to the Hospital of the Holy Ghost, he has, where Samaritans may be found. Somewhere there,” he indicated, waving vaguely in the direction of the town sprawling behind them. “Quite a large place, he said. Canna miss it.”

“No, no, no—we must find a physician!” Lottie said frantically.

“We’ll inquire at the hospital, lass. I donna know what a duty agent should know of it, really.”

“What else?” she asked.

“Och, ’tis no’ good news,” he said. “The gentleman claimed no familiarity with Anders Iversen—”

“But his father—” Lottie was quick to interject. “Did you tell him Anders Iversen was the bookkeeper of the Copenhagen Company, and his father exchequer?”

“Aye, I did,” the actor said. “I explained to him that Mr. Iversen, whose company we verra much enjoyed last summer, had found occupation as their bookkeeper with the help of his father, who is exchequer and ought to be well known in this port. But he said...” He paused, took off his hat and wiped his forehead.

“He said what?” Lottie demanded.

“Well he laughed, he did, and said the name of the exchequer is Mr. Pedersen and had been for nigh on thirty years, and he’d never heard of Anders Iversen, no’ in this town, nor had he heard of any company hailing from Copenhagen and to move aside, as he had more pressing issues than my ignorance.”

Lottie gasped. The actor returned his hat to his head.

Aulay suppressed a groan of frustration. He was not surprised, given what he knew about the Livingstones. What in hell would he do with all that whisky on his deck? Toss it into the sea?

“That canna be, Duff,” Lottie said, her voice shaking. “Anders would no’ have lied—”

“Apparently, he did, lass, for he told me the same,” the actor said. “But donna fret, aye? I would no’ leave without a wee bit of information and merely explained to the man that we’ve fine Scotch whisky to sell, and he looked a wee bit pleased with it, he did, and said I ought to speak to Mr. Ingoff Holm. He said if there was good whisky to be sold, he’d be the man for it.”

Lottie didn’t respond—she stared at the ground, her brow furrowed.

The actor dipped his head to see her face and said carefully, “Lottie?”

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “What is the man’s name?”

“Ingoff Holm,” the actor repeated. “You may find him in a private room at the Kajen Inn.” He pointed at the inn at the very end of the road.

Lottie flicked a gaze over her brother, who was trying to coax a seagull to him.

“I’d no’ seek this man, were I you,” Aulay offered.