Devil In Tartan

What a ridiculous creature. She could not possibly fathom that he was imagining that slender neck in a noose just now.

“But this is no’ what it must seem to you.”

Not what it seems? What it seemed was piracy. Was he not bound? Were his men not lost to him? Had his ship and his cargo not been stolen? Aye, piracy was exactly what it seemed.

The ship heaved again and she stumbled, catching herself on the bunk. She put her hand to the forehead of the man who lay there, then pulled up the coverlet—Aulay’s coverlet, thank you. His bunk, his bed, his linens, his pillow.

“We donna mean to keep your ship, on my word.”

Aulay arched one very dubious brow above the other.

“Once we reach port, we’ll return the ship to you as we found it, aye? You have my word,” she said, and pressed a hand to her heart as if to pledge it before being tossed again by the ship’s heaving.

Bloody ignorant wench. If he’d been able to speak, Aulay would have cursed her. There was no time for her excuses. He glared at her and pointed to the chart.

But she moved away from the chart, putting the table where he often took his meals with Beaty between them. “You need no’ look at me in that manner,” she said. “I know you’re quite angry. On my honor, I canna convey how much I regret that it has come to this, aye? But we were taking on water, and we’ve a mission that canna be delayed. We were hopeless, and I’m afraid there was naugh’ to be done for it. But that in no way eases my deep remorse, Captain.”

Did she take him a fool? Aulay wanted to strangle her. Unfortunately, the more important issue was the matter of the ship.

“As you can see, my father is badly wounded,” she continued, ignoring his dark look. “They...they meant to draw straws to see who would drown and who would accompany us in the jolly, and I couldna bear the thought of it, aye? But then you appeared! Out of that gray mist, you suddenly appeared like an angel from heaven,” she said, her voice full of awe.

The ship rose up; she was very nearly tossed into a chair. “Your crew is to be commended, Captain. You didna see them as you were unconscious, but on my word, they put a good fight, they did. We were armed, so naturally, we had the advantage.”

He suddenly remembered Beaty asking if they ought to pick up arms and his nonchalance about it. Aye, he was going to kill her with his bare hands, limb by lovely limb. Aulay shouted through the gag, which was really more of a hoarse throttle, as the gag prevented the use of his tongue.

“Diah, of course, you want to speak,” she said sympathetically. She glanced back at the man on the bunk, then at him. “If I remove the gag, do you promise you’ll no’ scream? It willna matter if you do—there’s no one to hear you, really.”

His heart raced wildly at that—what did she mean, there was no one to hear? Where is my crew? Who is at the helm?

“Aye, all right,” she said, warily eyeing the ropes at his wrists and the blood on his cuffs, the shackle around his ankle. She winced at the sight of it. “How you must loathe us.”

Loathing was too good for the likes of her. But Aulay maintained his composure with the hope she’d free him of the goddamn gag.

She approached him cautiously. “Ah...you’re quite tall, are you no’? Will you bend your head, then?”

His glare only deepened, but he did as she asked, bowing at the waist like a bloody supplicant.

She worked at the knot of the cloth at the back of his head, her fingers brushing against his neck and tangling in his hair. The gag fell away from his mouth and he coughed when he was free of it.

She moved away from him, staring at him, eyes wide with what, fright? He was the one trussed up like a Christmas ham.

“Who is at the helm?” he asked hoarsely. “Is it my man, then?”

“Ah...no,” she said, then turned and hurried to the sideboard, twice pausing to steady herself when the ship pitched beneath her.

“Who then?” he asked impatiently. “Whoever is sailing the ship must reef the sails.”

“Pardon?” She’d reached the sideboard and was struggling to pour water from the ewer into a cup.

“If he’s no’ reefed the sails, he must do it now or we’ll capsize. If he doesna know how to sail in these winds, give him my first mate. Beaty is his name and he can sail through the worst of storms.”

She began the unsteady trek back to him, but with a sudden lift of the ship, she spilled quite a lot of the water onto the floor of the cabin. Another wave pitched her forward, and she caught herself on Aulay’s arm, then quickly yanked her hand away, as if he might burn her.

“Do you hear me, then?” he demanded loudly. “We’ll capsize if you donna do as I say.”

“Gilroy is a captain,” she said evenly, and tried to hold the cup to his lips.

Aulay jerked his head away from the cup, causing her to drop it. That distracted her, and he seized the moment and caught her by the throat. His wrists were bound, but he could still wrap his hands around her neck, could still squeeze the life from her.

She gasped, and tried to claw his grip free of her throat with one hand, her eyes bulging with fear. “I ought to snap your neck here and now, aye?” he breathed angrily. “Can you no’ feel that we’re tossing about like a child’s boat in the bath, lass? Your captain doesna know how to sail it, and if you donna wish to drown us all, then by Diah, put Beaty at the helm.”

Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and Aulay’s fool heart skipped a single beat, but then began to race as he felt the cold steel of a gun suddenly jab him in the neck. “Let me go,” she croaked, “or I’ll blow your bloody head from your shoulders.”

Aulay glared at her, and she glared back, her eyes an icy blue now, her cheeks flushed. Her lips had parted and she was choking. She was shaking. But she thrust the gun deeper into his skin.

“Do as she says, Captain,” came a hoarse voice from the bunk. “And we’ll fetch your first mate, we will.”

Neither he nor the woman moved. Her eyes narrowed, her brows dipping into a vee of determination. He slowly let go her neck, and she sagged backward, dropped the gun from his gullet. She clutched a small dueling pistol in one hand and pressed the other hand to her throat. She blinked and suddenly turned to the bunk. “Fader? How do you fare?”

“As poorly as a three-legged horse. Donna tend me, pusling, do as the captain says,” he told her. “Gilroy is a fine captain, that he is, but he’s no’ been a’sea in many years, and he’s no’ sailed a ship as fine as this, aye? Go, and see to your brothers while you’re out.”

She hesitated. She gave Aulay a dark look. But then she went, obedient, hurrying to the cabin door and yanking it open. A gale of wind and rain blew in as she went out, then was silenced when she pulled the door shut behind her.

Aulay fell back against the cabin wall, his breath short, his heart still beating rapidly.

“Donna blame her,” the man said from his bunk. “My daughter is no’ at fault for what has happened. The blame lies entirely with me.”

“It lies with all of you, and you’ll all hang for it,” Aulay said flatly. “All of you.”

The man said nothing more.

Aulay waited, pacing the wee bit of floor the shackle would allow him. He heard voices, but could not make them out, not with the wind howling and the ship groaning so loudly. But after an eternity, it seemed that the ship was pitching less. Perhaps the storm was weakening. Perhaps she’d given the helm to Beaty.

It seemed as if hours passed before she finally returned, bursting into the cabin and slamming it shut behind her in the face of a gale. She was soaked through to the skin, her hair was plastered to her head, and her gown so wet and heavy that it dragged the ground and clung to the voluptuous curves of her body. Her gun, he noted, was tucked into the waist of her petticoat.

She went straight to the bunk and leaned over the old man, stroking his head. “You’re warm,” she said.

“Aye, I feel as if that old Mrs. MacGuire has put her boot through me head,” he said.

“You’re bleeding again, Fader. I’ll fetch Morven, aye?”

“Leave him be, lass. He’s needed on deck and he canna do more than he’s done. If you’ve a wee bit more of the draught, however.”

She slipped a hand into the pocket of her gown and withdrew a brown vial. She shook the contents, then lifted the man’s head and helped him take the liquid. When he’d had enough, she held the brown glass vial up to the light from the porthole. “We’ve scarcely any of it left,” she said, the worry evident in her voice.

“Och, we Livingstones are made of sturdy stock. I’ll be quite all right,” the man said, but Aulay could tell from the roughness in his voice that he was not all right. That was just as well, then—one fewer to hang.

She sat on the edge of the bunk, shivering, periodically clutching the edge of it when the ship surged up or down or right or left. Aulay relaxed a wee bit—he was confident Beaty was now at the helm, as the ship was riding over the waves instead of crashing headlong into them.