She shot him a suspicious look. “You’ll no’ do that. You’ll no’ risk putting your ship into the hands of the crown. They’ll no’ believe you’re innocent, no’ with whisky on board. You need me and mine off your ship, I should think.”
Clever and beautiful. But Aulay would see her brought to justice. And he would do it by taking full advantage of her naiveté.
“Aye, you’re right, you are.” He held up his hands. “Untie me, and I will help you.”
She blinked. She moved closer, so close that Aulay could see flecks of light gray in her pale blue eyes that, under different circumstances, would have tempted him. His gaze slid to her lips, succulent and pursed, and errant thoughts began to wander into places they ought not to have gone. This was the woman who had aggrieved him, had stolen his ship, had put his crew in peril. How could he imagine kissing her? He’d been addled by that blow to the head, clearly.
She seemed to know what he was thinking, because she smiled saucily and tilted her head back. He held up his hands to her so that she might release him. “I’ll no’ deny it, I need you, I do, Captain,” she said silkily, and a warm shiver ran down his spine. “But donna take me for a fool.” She abruptly put her hands on his chest and shoved him away, then stepped back.
She took the greatcoat from her shoulders, slid one arm into a sleeve, and then the other, then buttoned the coat up to her neck so that she looked as if she was wearing a priest’s robe. She picked up the gun from the table and slid it into the pocket before she shoved her feet into wet boots. “There are men to be fed, and my father needs a change of bandage.” She moved to the door.
He realized she meant to leave him. “If you want my help, bring me Beaty,” he said sternly.
She opened the door and went out. A moment later, he heard what sounded like a barrel or a crate being slid across the decking and shoved in front of the door.
All right, then, she was no fool.
Well, neither was he...all evidence to the contrary. He would help her, all right. He would help her right into the arms of the authorities.
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