Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(56)

Aulay squinted into the darkness. He couldn’t even make out the pinprick of light any longer. “You’re certain, are you?” he asked as Beaty handed him the spyglass.

“Aye. She’s tacked a wee bit east and north and caught a good wind, she has.”

Aulay lifted the spyglass and spotted the hazy light in the distance. The ship had definitely gained ground. “Leave the whisky,” he said. “Tack north, then east.”

“Aye,” Beaty said. “You ought to get some sleep, Cap’n, if you donna mind me saying. We’ll need you when the sun rises. I’ll fetch you if we need you before then.”

Aulay reluctantly agreed. He’d reached the limits of his exhaustion, but he knew that what was ahead for the rest of the night was an arduous task, and come morning, he’d be fortunate if his men could keep to their feet. He would be no use to them if he were as exhausted as they would be.

He made his way to his quarters and entered without any thought other than a pressing desire to sleep. The interior was dark, the smell fetid. How long before the stench of death would be gone? Someone had closed the portholes and pulled the heavy linen drapes over them, as was the custom when a person died. They said it kept the ghost from escaping. In this case, the old man’s ghost had nowhere to go and could not escape, so Aulay pushed back the drapery and opened the window. A bit of night light and the salty smell of the sea filtered in, enabling him to see better. He made his way to the next porthole, nearly stumbling over Lottie when he did. He had not seen her lying on the bare bunk, curled onto her side, her back to the door.

He pushed her feet aside and sat on the end of his bunk. “Have you eaten, then?”

“No,” she said meekly. “I canna possibly.”

“Aye, you can, if you donna wish to follow your father into the sea.”

She gasped and rolled over, sitting up. “How dare you say such a wretched thing?”

“Lying here without food or drink? What else am I to think?” He noticed some salted beef and a biscuit on the table beside his bunk that someone had brought her from the hold. How he would ever pay for the cargo they’d lost, he couldn’t say. He’d think on that later—for now, he was exhausted and had a few days at sea ahead of him. And while he felt exceedingly sympathetic for the lass who had just lost her father, he had very little patience for anything that did not move them forward and away from the events of these last few days. What choice did any of them have?

Lottie pushed her legs over the edge of the bunk, bracing her hands on either side of them. He picked up the biscuit and held it out to her.

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m no’ hungry.”

“Eat.”

She snatched it with exasperation.

Aulay went to the sideboard and rummaged around there until he found a candle. The light flared when he lit it. He looked at Lottie again. Her hair, unbound, fell long around her, almost to her waist, and framed her bonny face. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, as if she’d long been ill.

“Eat,” he said again.

“It tastes like wood. Everything tastes like wood. I feel like wood.” She took a small bite of the biscuit and made a face.

“It will have to do, lass. We’ve no’ time to fish, and it looks as if we have a ship in pursuit of us.”

She looked up with eyes wide with alarm. “The Danes?”

“I donna know,” he said. “And I donna intend to let them get close enough to see who they are.”

Her lashes fluttered and she glanced down at her biscuit.

She looked so forlorn that Aulay was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to take her into his arms, to hold her, to lie to her and promise that all would be well. Why am I so enticed by this lass? She had likely ruined him and yet, he couldn’t help but want her.

Sometimes, a man just knows.

He’d had the same ridiculous thought early at the start of their acquaintance, when she’d stepped on board his ship and had conquered him with her beauty and the spark in her eye.

“Can we escape them?” she asked.

“If we remain vigilant, aye. We had a good start on them, we did.”

Lottie closed her eyes a moment, gave a slight shake of her head. “So much has happened.”

Aulay put the candle aside, picked up the beef, and handed it to her.

She took a bite. “Do you think you must account for your life straightaway when you die, or is there a wee bit of time for grace?”

“I donna know,” he said, taking a seat beside her.

“Will you know the purpose of it all? Of this life? Will you know if it was worth the hardship?”

The lass was clearly tormented. She was so young, at least fifteen years younger than Aulay, and perhaps had never contemplated these questions before. Did anyone ever really know their purpose on this earth?

“Perhaps you ought no’ to think of these things if they upset you, aye?”

“When I was a wee lass, only eight years, my father took me with him to Port Appin, and there we met a Scot with four ponies on a string, aye? I was quite taken with them, that I was, and particularly a black one. He had a wee star just between his eyes,” she said, gesturing absently to her forehead. “My father said, ‘Do you want the pony, Lottie?’” She laughed ruefully. “What lass of eight would say no, I ask you? So he turned to the man and said, we should like a pony, and he offered him a price. The man said, ‘Why these are Percheron ponies,’” she said, mimicking the man. “Spanish war horses, they are, the finest on a field of battle. My father didna question it, no’ for a moment. He said, ‘For my lass, only the finest pony. Percheron, you say? Spanish you say?’” She shook her head. “We returned home with that pony.”