Читать книгу Devil In Tartan - Julia London - Страница 15

CHAPTER FIVE

LOTTIE DIDN’T CARE that the rain was slashing across her face, making it difficult to see. She walked directly to the railing and gripped it tightly as she leaned over it, taking deep gulps of wet, salt-soaked air and, for a fleeting moment, toyed with the idea of lowering the jolly and putting herself in it and bobbing off and away from this catastrophe.

That man, her captive, had snatched the breath from her. She’d never looked into eyes so piercing or so shrewd, had never felt such restrained power in a man. There had been only a thin chain keeping him from flinging himself at her and strangling the breath out of her with one hand as he apparently wanted to do—she could see it in the way he’d glared at her. What in God’s name possessed her to stick her hand into the fire?

She thought of his hair, streaked blond by the sun, wild about his shoulders, having come free of its queue. She thought of the dark beginnings of his beard that framed a sensual mouth, even with his lips pressed together in an unforgiving line. She thought of the way he looked at her as if he meant to put her on a spit and roast her. Was it a sign of depravity that she wanted to be roasted by him? In spite of extraordinary and challenging circumstances, the thought caused her to shiver with a mix of thrill and fear. And perhaps the worst of it all was that she did need the counsel of someone like him.

“Lottie!”

She swayed backward from the railing and turned about as Drustan lumbered across the deck to her, his face twisted with worry.

“What is it, mo chridhe?” she asked.

Drustan slipped on the wet planking and grabbed awkwardly for the railing to keep from falling. “I donna know what to do,” he said. “Mats, he hasna told me what I’m to do, but I’m no’ to go up there.” He pointed to the masts.

Lottie looked up—Mats was several feet above her, helping with the sails. “Good Lord,” she murmured.

“I want to see Fader,” Drustan said.

“Aye, I know,” Lottie said soothingly. Drustan was not adept at finding his footing when circumstances changed. Frankly, none of them were. “We’ll see that all the men are fed, and then I’ll take you to see him.” She reached up and used the sleeve of the captain’s coat to wipe rain from Drustan’s face. “Come,” she said, and took his hand.

They made their way to the quarterdeck, where Norval Livingstone stood guard over Mr. Beaty. Even with the relentless rain, she could hear Gilroy and Beaty arguing.

“I tell you, ’tis no’ the way it’s done,” Gilroy said as Lottie and Drustan climbed the steps.

“Canna outrun a frigate without a gaff,” Beaty said gruffly.

“I beg your pardon,” Lottie said.

Both men had failed to notice her approach and jerked their gazes around to her, slinging water off their cocked hats and into her face. Lottie sputtered, wiping the rain from her face with her sleeve.

“You ought no’ to be on deck,” Gilroy said. “Look at you, soaked through.”

“Are we bound for Denmark?” she asked, ignoring Gilroy, her eyes locked on Beaty.

Beaty glowered at her. “Beggin’ your pardon, but do you think I canna find my way to Denmark?”

“Why should she trust you?” Gilroy demanded.

Beaty glared at him, too, cocked hat to cocked hat. “You’re the one who has stolen our ship, and I am no’ to be trusted, is that the way of it? I’m sailing her, am I no’? Sailing east, too, as anyone can plainly see.”

Lottie could not plainly see it. Gilroy was right—she didn’t trust Beaty. But neither did she trust her own instincts, and she was suspicious of Gilroy’s. How could he possibly know which direction he was sailing in the dark and the rain? She could only hope that she was right, and that these men would not return to Scotland with the whisky on board. They’d have nothing to show for their own cargo, and she knew very well how the crown’s authorities viewed Highlanders—all of them were suspect. They would seize them all. Privateers might do worse. If they were set upon by pirates or privateers, she’d have to give these men leave to take up their weapons, and she had no doubt what would happen to the Livingstones if it came to that.

All right, that was enough. She couldn’t bear standing in this rain another moment. She would have to trust her instincts, no matter how ignorant they were. “I’ll see to it that the men are fed,” she said, wiping rain from her face again. “After which, Mr. Beaty, your captain wishes to speak with you, aye?”

“What? Lottie, ’tis no’ wise—” Gilroy started, but she waved a hand at him.

“It’s all right, Gilroy,” she said calmly. “Come along, Dru,” she said, and left the quarterdeck.

She and Drustan went down into the hold where the Mackenzies had been forced. It was dank in the hold, and the faint smell of rotting fish assaulted her senses. It was poorly lit as well, and there didn’t appear to be any space that wasn’t taken up with salted beef, wool or casks of whisky. Lottie could hear the raised voices of men coming from the stern. They were shouting at each other, in English and Gaelic, with a bit of Danish thrown in for good measure. She followed Drustan around a stack of crates to an area they’d blocked off to hold their captives. When she stepped into the light of a single lantern, all shouting stopped. The men stared at her for a highly charged moment, and then as if signaled by some magical siren, they started shouting at once.

Lottie threw up her hands. “Uist!” she cried. “Silence!”

Duff MacGuire punctuated her shout with a sharp whistle that caused half of them to cover their ears. At least they stopped shouting.

Lottie took a breath. “We mean to feed you and give you what you need—”

“What I need is to have these binds undone!” shouted one man, lifting his hands up. “A man canna even piss!”

“By all that is holy, I’ll put me bloody fist into yer trap if you speak so in front of the lady again,” Morven threatened.

“Ye canna expect us to eat with our wrists bound,” complained another.

“You ate the bread we gave you well enough, aye?” Mr. MacLean snapped. The men began to shout again.

“Please!” Lottie cried. A sharp pain was once again throbbing at the base of her skull, but the men kept shouting and arguing with one another. Lottie took the gun from her pocket, cocked it and fired at the ceiling above them. The crack was deafening and splinters of wood and smoke rained down on them. Men ducked, their hands covering their heads.

After a moment of stunned silence, a Mackenzie said, “For the love of God, take the gun from her, ere she kills someone.”

“I’ll no’ do it,” Duff said. “She’s a better shot than any man here, she is.”

Lottie hopped up onto a crate so she could see them all. “Listen! I know you’re all verra angry, aye?” she said, breathless with anxiety. “All of us,” she said, gesturing to all the Livingstones around her, “are verra sorry for the situation that has brought us to this—”

“’Tis piracy!” The Mackenzie men began to shout again. “What have you done with Beaty? Where is Captain Mackenzie?”

“Let us see them!” someone shouted, which roused the rest of them to shout at her, too.

Duff held up both arms and whistled again. When they had quieted, he said grandly, “Say no more, miss. I’ve already told the devils what we’re about, that I have.”

“Why in the name of Hades do you speak like a king to his subjects?” groused a Mackenzie man.

“Perhaps because I’ve had the good fortune of receiving my theatrical training at the Goodman’s Fields Theatre in London!”

“The what?”

“The theatre!” Duff bellowed, always quite impatient with any poor soul who did not hold theatre in the same high regard as he.

“All right, thank you,” Lottie said, and moved in front of Duff before he commenced a sermon. “We’ll bring food to you now, and on my word, we’ll bring Beaty down so that you can look on him and know he is quite all right, aye?”

“And what of Captain Mackenzie?” someone demanded.

“Beaty will see him and he’ll vouch that he’s quite all right. But we must hold him close until we reach our destination. You’d do the same, would you no’?”

“We’d no’ steal another man’s ship!” said one crossly.

“Aye,” she said. A thought popped into her head—she’d never known a man who did not respond to money. “That’s why we mean to compensate you for your trouble.”

Duff and MacLean gasped at the same moment. “Lottie—”

“We will,” she said firmly. “’Tis only fair.”

“We lost six casks,” MacLean muttered behind her.

“Aye, and we might lose all if we donna have a care.”

“How much?” a Mackenzie asked.

“Five percent more than the wage your captain means to pay you.” Her gut dropped a wee bit the moment the words were out of her mouth. She hoped that was not extravagant. Perhaps it was, as her men were gaping at her. And the Mackenzies looked confused. She’d spoken too hastily, perhaps, but she had to make it sound worth their while. Except that she really had no idea how they would pay these men, and she could see from the concerned look on Mr. MacLean’s face that he didn’t, either. Diah, she was beginning to behave like her father, making promises she couldn’t possibly keep without thought. But the shouting had stopped and the men were looking around at each other, interested. It did seem only fair. It seemed the only way to convince the Mackenzies that they had not stolen their ship with ill intent. Well, she’d said it, and there was no pulling the words back into her mouth. If they didn’t make enough from the sale of the whisky, there was another way to compensate them. Mr. MacColl was still on Lismore, still pining for her.

Her stomach did a queer little flip, and she swallowed down that thought. She couldn’t think of that now and looked at Duff. “Have we something to feed these gentlemen?”

“Fish stew,” Duff said. “Yesterday’s catch.”

“Stew? How will we manage?” she asked.

“With our hands and one at a time,” said Duff. He reached up to put his hand on Drustan’s shoulder. “And we’ve a lad who might crush the head of any man who tries to keep us from it.”

“I donna want to crush heads!” Drustan exclaimed fearfully.

“Well I donna mean there will be an actual need, lad,” Duff said.

“Morven?” Lottie said. “The dressing on my father’s wound needs attention.”

“Aye, I’ll fetch a few things, then,” Morven said and started for the steps up to the main deck.

“Fear no’,” said Duff, bowing his head. “Drustan and MacLean and I will keep all in order.” He cast a stern look to his captives.

“Bloody Shakespeare is serving us fish, lads,” said a Mackenzie, and they laughed roundly as Lottie made her way out of the hold.

When she emerged on the deck, Lottie paused and adjusted the heavy greatcoat around her. The rain had turned to mist, but the coat she wore was soaked. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath and her bed to chase away the chill and this horrible day, to perhaps ease the ache in her head. She wondered, as she trudged along to the quarterdeck, if she’d ever have a proper bath again, or if this voyage would be the end of her. All signs pointed to the latter.

Well, she wasn’t done yet. The day had been disastrous, but they were still alive, still had that damn whisky. As her mother always said, “One step before the next, and again.” So...one step before the next. She withdrew her gun from her pocket as she started up the steps to the quarterdeck.

Norval was still standing guard on the quarterdeck. Gilroy had taken over the wheel, and Beaty was squatting down beside a small brazier where he held a stick with pieces of fish over a small flame. He glanced up as Lottie neared him, and even in the dim light, she could see him blanch when he saw her gun. He slowly rose to his feet, his eyes fixed on it. “What’s that for, then?”

“Donna you mind it. Come with me, please.”

Beaty snorted. “You mean to escort me with a gun to me head?” He laughed with great derision.

Lottie lifted the gun and pointed it at his head. Behind him, Gilroy’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “It’s no’ for your head, sir, but your captain’s. If I see any trickery, he’ll pay the price.”

Beaty looked at the gun in her hand. Was it possible for him to tell the gun was empty? She’d shot its only bit of lead into the ceiling above the Mackenzie crew. “I could take that wee gun and toss you over with one hand, lass,” he said darkly.

She knew that, quite obviously, but she called his bluff. She cocked the gun. “Try,” she said.

Gilroy recovered from his shock and slowly smiled. “Did I no’ say that you ought not to trifle with the Livingstones?” he asked proudly.

“I thought you were Larsons,” Beaty drawled. “Have you lost your mind, lass?” he asked. “Have you no’ put yourself in enough peril?”

“Aye, without a doubt, I have,” she agreed. “But I’ll no’ allow you to put me in more peril. Come,” she said, gesturing to the stairs.

Muttering beneath his breath, Beaty stalked toward the steps. She followed him to the captain’s cabin with the gun pointed at his back, but he wasn’t terribly intimidated, apparently, for he entered the quarters in something of a snit, striding inside and pausing in the middle, his legs braced apart, his hands on his hips, surveying the lay of the land.

“What the devil?” Bernt said from the bed, and tried to rise up on an elbow.

“Please donna tax yourself, Fader,” Lottie said with the pistol pointed at the captain. “We’ve a wee bit of business, that’s all.”

The captain was leaning casually against the wall and glanced insouciantly at her gun. “You’ve no’ been threatening my men with that wee gun, have you?”

“Aye, she has,” Beaty said. “Pointed it right at my head, she did.”

“Here he is,” she said to Mackenzie. “You asked for him. Now speak.”

“Where are your men?” he asked, undaunted, unhurried. “Surely one of them can come along to hold the gun for you, aye?”

“I donna need anyone to hold it. My men are feeding your men,” she said pertly.

“Put away the gun, lass,” he said. “Beaty will do as I say. Put the gun down.”

“Tell him, then. I donna know which direction he sails, so tell him,” she demanded.

“You can tell by the prevailing wind, aye?” Mackenzie said calmly, and lifted his bound hands. “East,” he said, pointing in one direction, then arcing his hands to the opposite direction, “to west.” And then he said something low and rapidly in Gaelic.

Had she been tricked? Lottie’s temper flared; she lifted the empty gun and sighted it between the captain’s eyes.

He didn’t as much as flinch. In fact, he arched a brow as if amused by her.

But Beaty flinched, throwing up his hands as if to stop her. “There’s no call for that!” he said anxiously. “You’d no’ shoot an unarmed man, lass!”

“She’ll no’ use it,” the captain said.

He was not the least bit afraid of her. He probably didn’t believe she knew how to use a gun properly. Men were always assuming things they shouldn’t. She knew how to fire a gun, for God’s sake. She was only missing a bullet.

“Put it down, Lottie,” he said calmly. “We’re wasting time, aye?”

“We’re to use given names now, are we? I’ll put it down when you explain to Mr. Beaty that we are to sail to Aalborg, and I can see with my own eyes that he’s no’ sailing us straight into the arms of the king’s navy.”

Again, the captain spoke quickly and softly in Gaelic. Whatever he said caused Beaty to give a slight shake of his head. Lottie panicked—her knowledge of Gaelic was limited to a few words and phrases. The Livingstones generally spoke English, except for the older clan members who spoke the language of the Danes. “English!” she said sharply. “You must speak English!”

Mackenzie looked almost amused. “English, then,” he said graciously.

“Do as she says, aye?” her father said roughly from the bunk. “My daughter is as fine a shot as she is bonny.”

The captain said something else in Gaelic; Lottie cocked the gun. The captain kept his gaze on her gun but leaned over and pointed to something on one of the maps.

“I’ll blast a hole in you, I swear I will,” Lottie said sharply.

“She looks a wee bit mad,” Beaty said nervously.

“Mad? I look mad?” Lottie said. What shreds of patience she might have been clinging to were lost. “I suppose were you the one holding the gun, you’d look perfectly reasonable! Why is it man’s unfailing belief that if a woman is anything less than demure and silent, she must be mad, but—”

“Lottie, lass...” her father said.

“Men think themselves so bloody superior,” she snapped. “Come, Beaty, before I demonstrate just how mad I am. What would you do, were you me? My father wounded, my men without knowledge of the sea—”

“You should no’ have pirated a ship, then!” Beaty said indignantly.

The captain said calmly, “There is no need to argue, aye? Have you paused to consider, then, miss, that if you blast a hole in me, there will be a heavy price to pay? My men will go along with your thievery as long as they know I’m your captive. But if I’m dead?”

If he were dead, they’d all be dead—no one needed to tell her so. Lottie could well imagine the carnage, beginning with Beaty, who would not hesitate to snap her neck. Mackenzie knew this. He knew that her gun was merely display and really no use to her at all in this circumstance. Diah, but her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely hear her own thoughts. “You donna frighten me, sir.”

“Do I no’?” he asked congenially, as if they were playing a game. “Then shoot me.”

“Och, pusling, before you shoot him, the tincture Morven has given me has no’ dulled the pain. Might there be some brandy about?”

“Pardon, what?” She was so intent on the captain and the quicksand she found herself in, that at first her father’s question didn’t make sense.

“Brandy,” he said again. “I could use a wee dram, that I could.”

Lottie looked at Mackenzie.

He sighed at the imposition. “In the sideboard, below.”

Lottie moved backward, keeping her eye on Beaty, and bumping into the immovable table. Beaty looked terribly confused, his gaze swinging between her and his captain and her father. Lottie managed to keep the gun trained on Mackenzie as she dipped down and opened the cupboard beneath the sideboard. She took her eyes from him for a brief moment, reaching inside the cabinet for a half empty bottle of dark amber liquid. She noticed a neat stack of lawn shirts, trews and trousers. Lottie grabbed the bottle, closed the door and quickly stood.

Beaty leaned toward the captain and said something quite low.

“English!” Lottie shouted.

Beaty lifted his hands. “I need a wee bit of help setting a course for Aalborg, aye? ’Tis the cap’n’s head that can work out all the figures—no’ mine.”

“No,” she said as she skirted around the table with a bottle of brandy in one hand and the gun in the other. The throbbing had started up in her neck again, and her arm was beginning to burn from holding the gun aloft. She knew that it wobbled, and she could see the captain had noted it, too.

“Ah, there’s an angel. Thank you, pusling,” her father said, and with a shaking hand, took the bottle she held out to him.

“You ought to put the gun down, Lottie,” Mackenzie said. “You’ll lose all feeling in your arm if you donna. You’d no’ want to cause injury to yourself.”

“Uist,” Lottie said, warning him to be quiet.

He smiled wryly and asked, “What is the penalty for piracy, Beaty?”

“Hanging, sir.”

“We’re no’ pirates,” Lottie said irritably.

“What is the penalty for holding a captain with a gun against his will, Beaty?” he asked, his gaze on Lottie.

Beaty paused to consider it. He shrugged. “Hanging. Or walking a plank.”

The pain in Lottie’s head began to shift to her belly.

The captain made a tsk, tsk sound. “You should no’ have picked up the gun, then, aye?”

Her father, who had taken two healthy swigs of the brandy, suddenly chuckled. “Aye, he’s a clever one, Lottie, this captain. He means to unnerve you. He canna know that you’re no’ easily disheartened.”

Ironically, Lottie was feeling quite disheartened at the moment.

“Donna pay him any heed, pusling.” Her father paused to take another healthy swig of the brandy. “You have the gun and the ship, aye? If you so desired, you could shoot them both and toss them to the fish and the crew would be none the wiser.”

Lottie turned her head and stared at her father.

“By the bye, Captain, your brandy is excellent.”

“My intention is only to help,” the captain said. “As you’ve said, you’re in a wee bit over your head, aye? I’d no’ like to see you on a plank.”

“I’d rather hang, were it me,” Beaty opined.

Lottie swung the muzzle of the gun from the captain to Beaty now. “All right, then, you’ve seen your captain and now we’ll go below to tell your men he is very much alive, aye? Come now, before I find a plank for you.”

“Aye, go, Beaty, lest they deliver us into the depths of the sea,” the captain said. “And God help them find Aalborg if they do.” He smiled.

Bloody hell, but this man had her at sixes and sevens. Beaty started for the door, but paused to speak in Gaelic to Mackenzie.

“Now,” she said sternly.

Beaty opened a door, and Lottie fell in behind him. She glanced at the captain as she followed Beaty out, and the man had the audacity to smirk. Smirk.

That’s what she got for asking for help.