Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(59)

Lottie was not an experienced woman—her brief affair with Anders not withstanding—but she knew instinctively that there was something quite profound about their frantic lovemaking. At the very least, it was much different than anything she’d experienced with Anders.

It was funny how often she’d thought of Anders in the last year, but since she’d stepped foot on this ship, she’d scarcely thought of him at all. She wondered, as she gazed into a vast landscape of various shades of gray, what she might have done had she met Anders again in Aalborg. It hardly mattered to her any longer—with the perfidy she’d discovered in Aalborg, he had faded into nothing.

What time is it? She hated not knowing time, but it was impossible to keep track when one was at sea, particularly when the skies looked the same as the surface of the water. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She felt oddly at peace. Fatigued, and full of longing. But the riot inside of her heart had calmed, the turmoil of having lost her father had begun to subside into acceptance. Her thoughts were turning to what lay ahead of them.

She yawned, stretched her arms overhead, then climbed off the bunk and over the sleeping form of Drustan. Mathais was in the other bunk. After their father’s death, he had claimed to be made sick by the motion of the sea, but Lottie knew he was too proud to allow his grief to be seen. Yesterday, he’d gone out of the forward cabin and had made himself of use on deck, working hard until Duff had sent him staggering back into the cabin, where he’d fallen onto the bunk, exhausted, and into what Lottie hoped was a dreamless sleep.

A Mackenzie had been kind enough to bring her an ewer with some water, and a small bowl for washing. The water was dingy now, and it wasn’t possible to change it, as the fresh water was being rationed. This, she understood from Duff, who fancied himself something of a seafarer now. He’d also explained to her that they had outrun the ship that had been following them.

“Turned round and went back to port, I’d wager,” he’d said yesterday as they stood at the stern. “The Mackenzies are puffed up like dead bovines, what with their successful maneuvering, but Gilroy believes we might have tacked east to north and been quicker about it.”

The ship suddenly rolled to the starboard side, and Lottie nearly lost her balance. The seas were rough and her sea legs, so sturdy in the first few days, were wobbly.

She washed her face and combed her hair with her fingers, then bound it at her nape. She hoped she was afforded the luxury of a bath before her trial, and some decent clothes for it. That was something else she’d become numb to—the prospect of a trial and punishment. Hanging or prison, whatever would happen, seemed so far in the distance and so impossible to comprehend that she couldn’t feel anything for it. Just...nothing.

She grabbed the plaid from the bunk and wrapped it around her shoulders, and quietly quit the cabin.

The air was cold and wet, but a welcome departure from the hard sun and stiff wind they’d had for the last two days. More than once, she’d had to catch herself from being blown overboard. She would need to be vigilant today, too—the seas were rough and the ship was rolling and pitching with the swells.

She saw Duff on the deck below, arguing with a Mackenzie. She had always had a soft spot for the big man, and she would love him always for the way he’d taken Drustan under his wing. He’d kept a close eye on him, and had confided in Lottie that Bernt had asked him to keep Drustan in his care in the event of his demise. Lottie didn’t know if that was true, or Duff’s acting out his own grief, but in her despair, she’d been quite grateful for the help.

Duff had even cajoled Iain the Red into teaching Drustan how to whittle. Drustan was quite taken with it, worrying over a piece of the cask spine for hours on end. His distraction was a welcome relief to them all.

She looked toward the bow and noticed one of the Mackenzie men leaning against the mast step, his eyes closed. He was sleeping standing up! Duff had explained to her how arduous it had been to sail against the wind and to keep pace enough to outrun the other ship. The Mackenzie crew had worked round the clock.

As she moved cautiously across the deck, she was startled by the sound of pounding on the deck hatch that led to the hold below deck. Her men were held there, she knew, and, Duff said, quite restless.

She made her way to Duff’s side. “What is that rumpus?” she asked.

“Your clan, aye?” Duff said, and slanted her a look. “They’ve drunk all the whisky below, slept it off and now they want out.”

“Can they no’ come out, then? A wee bit of air would help soothe them, aye? They canna escape.”

“While we work around them?” the Mackenzie man said, and snorted. “We’ve had twice the work because of them, and no pay, and we’ll no’ have them underfoot.”

“Can we no’ be of some service to you, then?” she asked.

The man grunted.

“Duff!”

The three of them turned about. Aulay was standing just above them on the quarterdeck, his hands braced against the railing, glaring down at Duff. “Can you no’ control them?” he asked, gesturing to the hatch.

“What am I to do, then?” Duff shot back. “Our whisky is gone as are all our hopes, and they can find no joy in being locked away!”

Aulay turned his glare on Lottie. “Miss Livingstone,” he said, quite formally, “Will you have a word with your clan and ask them to kindly stop making such a bloody racket?”