The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 2

2

“ D rop anchor!” Captain Gibb MacGalloway shouted, pleased with his chosen mooring in the Firth of Forth off the Musselburgh coast. He’d strategically nestled his sizable barque between a schooner and a larger brig where his ship ought not be immediately recognized.

He opened his spyglass and panned it across the scene occurring in the private park behind Newhailes, not the largest, but his brother’s favorite of the ducal estates. Martin, the patriarch of the family and Duke of Dunscaby, had sent word that Gibb was to sail into the firth after delivering the shipment of American sharecropper cotton to the MacGalloway mill and loading scores of barrels of MacGalloway whisky into the Prosperity’s hull.

“It appears there’s quite a gathering,” said Archie MacLean, quartermaster, and best mate a captain ever had.

“Aye, a gathering of giggling imps.” Still peering through his spyglass, Gibb spotted his two youngest sisters Modesty and Grace. They babbled among a plethora of young ladies, whom he would definitely avoid. The wee chits all wore their hair down or in pigtails with ringlets, which meant every last female was far too young to be trifled with.

A bit farther to the left, Gibb also recognized Miss Hay, the lassie’s governess, who was doling out slips of paper, after which the girls dispersed in dozens of directions.

In the distance, ample quantities of white muslin moved among the columns of the Summerhouse, a Romanesque Palladian bridge built across the curling pond—used for the sport of curling during winter but now being transformed to a watery refuge by a flock of swans. Inside the Summerhouse, Gibb easily picked out his mother, holding court in the center of a party of women who, he guessed, might be the mothers of the gaggle—and yet another gathering of females to be avoided at all costs.

Spotting a flicker of white, he shifted the glass off the port bow, where he found the view a great deal more interesting.

Hmm. Who might this be?

Though the woman’s face was hidden by a bonnet, judging by her posture and lithe movements, she was not a child. The fact that she was sitting off alone beneath the great sycamore was a good indication that she was not one of the mothers in the Summerhouse.

Perhaps he might have a bit of fun before Martin got hold of him. The duke was forever concocting new ventures of which Gibb was expected to approve instantly and exuberantly. Often, said ventures required a monumental effort of rearranging and posed a royal pain in Gibb’s backside. Nonetheless, such endeavors usually fattened his coffers, and for that he was eternally grateful.

He closed his spyglass and looked to Archie. “Lower my skiff, then give the men a day’s leave.”

“Your skiff is already waiting and manned, Cap’n. And I’ll grant leave to all except those on watch.”

“Excellent, and tell the crew not to step beyond Fisherrow Harbour, else we might end up sailing without them. I dunna intend on remaining here any longer than necessary.”

“Aye, sir.”

Gibb had the crew pull his skiff ashore in the northeast corner of the estate—behind the tree line, where he wouldn’t be seen. After letting the men know they could find a schooner of ale by walking five minutes along the shore, he skirted down the line of trees until he spotted the sycamore he used to climb with his brothers when he was a lad—the same tree now providing shade to the recluse who, quite obviously, was avoiding the celebrations.

From behind the enormous tree’s trunk, he watched the woman for a time as she turned the pages of her book and looked out to sea now and again, shaking her head and sighing. But dash it if he couldn’t see her face. The brim of her bonnet was akin to a trumpet, and no matter which way she turned her head, the blasted hat refused to even reveal the color of her hair.

The woman’s neck was long, her shoulders femininely petite, and she wore a pink shawl lightly draped over her elbows. Well, the only way to determine if she was a beauty or nay was to introduce himself.

Shielded by the trees, he hastened up a few yards, then stepped out and approached as if he had never been right behind the lass. “Either your book is extremely riveting or you’re as averse to crowds as I.”

The lady startled, jolting subtly before she looked up. Black hair with tight curls framed an oval face. With little color in her cheeks, her mien was a tad plain, but pleasant enough for Gibb to idle away the afternoon while avoiding his brother.

“I’m not terribly fond of crowds,” said the lass, her eyes narrowing as if she were trying to place him. “Her Grace is hosting a house party for her daughters and their friends, and I’m afraid I’m a little too old for scavenger hunts.”

Gibb slid onto the bench beside her without so much as an introduction. The mere thought made him grin. He detested polite society and the gutted rules they adhered to almost more than he detested Napoleon. Almost. Napoleon was a tyrant who needed to be introduced to a guillotine.

“So, Lady Modesty and Lady Grace are hunting treasure, are they?” he asked.

“Yes, in the stables, of all places. Though I daresay the stables at Newhailes are large enough to house a dozen families.”

She wasn’t wrong. The duke required ample space in which to store all his carriages as well as his horses. Gibb chuckled. “At least the park is quiet.” Judging by the numbers of young girls he’d seen they must have sounded like a flock of laying hens before they’d been dispersed.

The lass smiled, albeit sadly. “It is.”

Gibb hesitated for a heartbeat. Goodness, her eyes were dark—almost as black as her hair. And why the blazes would a woman be melancholy when visiting Newhailes? For visitors, the manse and grounds were akin to stepping into a storybook. And this woman wasn’t even wearing mourning.

“Och, ’tis a fine day for reading.” He leaned in and glanced at the page. “What has you entertained? A love story with a dashing hero and a wilting violet?”

She showed him the cover. “ Mythic Early History of Italy and its People . No white knights and damsels, I’m afraid.”

Perhaps the reading material was a bit too dreary for the lass—or perhaps not. Gibb crossed his legs and sat back, his kilt slipping up his thigh a bit. He didn’t bother to push it down. He rarely did. Once he left the King’s Navy, he’d donned a kilt and hadn’t put on a pair of trousers since.

“Are you something of an antiquarian?” he asked.

“You could say that. My father and I uncovered a villa on his estate in West Sussex, and I’ve been captivated by Roman history ever since.”

“Fascinating.” He looked at the woman again, wishing he could pull the pink ribbon securing her bonnet and remove it from her head. On closer inspection, her look was remarkable—not a classical beauty, but complex, with a small chin and cheeks that needed to be broad enough to accommodate those enormous eyes.

Gibb didn’t often slide onto benches with gentlewomen and engage them in conversation. In fact, since he joined the navy, he hadn’t interacted with them much at all. Most of his contact with women consisted of discreet interludes, usually above a tavern not far from any given shore. A woman who enjoyed antiquity was something novel indeed.

He tapped the book. “Tell me something riveting about Mythic Early History of Italy and its People .”

She smoothed her hand over the cover. “I do believe you are teasing me, sir.”

“Not at all. As a matter of fact, as we were riding across the border into England, my brother and I once took a bit of a detour and explored some ruins near Haddington—decidedly Roman, they were.”

Lovely black eyebrows disappeared under the bonnet, as if he’d just ignited a spark somewhere in the recesses of this bluestocking’s mind. “What did you find?”

“A great deal of rubble atop stone walls—charred as if there had been a fire.”

“How intriguing.” Miss Raven Hair leaned forward. “Did you report your find to the Society of Antiquaries?”

“Nay, a sheep farmer and his dog decided we were trespassing.” Gibb chuckled at the memory. Little did the scrappers know they were chasing after the eldest sons of the Duke of Dunscaby. Good Lord, had the old farmer been a bit more accurate with his musket, Gibb mightn’t be here at the moment—that or he’d be the duke, God forbid.

He pointed to a pair of archery targets standing alone sporting not a single arrow. “I take it archery wasna popular among the wee lassies.”

“I don’t recall any of them giving it an attempt. Though there was quite a to-do with battledore and shuttlecock—at least until the scavenger hunt was announced.”

Gibb spotted the quivers of arrows and bows up along the tree line. “Do you enjoy archery?”

“I do.” The raven-haired lass set her book aside and sat a bit taller. “I’ll have you know I was the West Sussex Fair champion of eighteen-oh-seven.”

“I am duly impressed,” he said. Six years ago, this woman was most likely about his sister Grace’s age—or near enough. “If you’re a champion, then how about a wee wager?”

“Are you an archer, sir?”

“More or less. Have I taken archery lessons? Yes. But I must admit, I havena won any awards. That puts me at a significant disadvantage,” he said, giving her a wink. Gibb could expertly shoot just about any weapon invented by man, be it bow and arrow, a musket, pistols, or a slingshot. He stood and offered his hand. “Come, the day is far too fine to sit idle.”

She placed her gloved fingers in his palm. “But did you not just say it was fine for reading?”

“That was before I saw the targets.” He tugged her to her feet, surprised to find that she was quite petite in stature, her head not quite coming to his shoulder. “Now, how about that wager?”

“What sort of wager?” she asked as they stopped at the quivers of arrows. She picked up a bow and tested it for tautness.

“Hmm. It ought to be something verra dear.” He drummed his fingers atop the MacGalloway brooch at his shoulder while a plethora of ideas rifled through his mind. It was then that he noticed her lips—pert, pink, a wee bit pouty. “I ken. If I win, you shall give me a kiss.”

She released the string and let it twang. “I beg your pardon? What sort of gentleman wagers a kiss? I hardly know you.”

“You ken me well enough. I like Roman history and dislike crowds. What else is there?”

“A great deal more, mark me.”

He handed her an arrow, then caught her by the wrist as she took it. “What say you, lass?” he asked, gazing into those enormous black eyes. He was a sea captain first, and though he’d been raised as the “spare son” in a ducal house, he’d never completely embraced the rules of etiquette—unless he could use them to his advantage. “I’ve issued a challenge. Have you the courage to accept?”

Licking her lips, Miss Raven Hair cast a nervous glance toward the house. “A-a small peck, perhaps? And no one must see.”

“Verra well.” Gibb liked that just fine—no meaningful kiss ought to be imparted in public. “And you, madam? What do you wager?”

The lassie’s nostrils flared as she looked him from head to toe. “If you win, I should like to know your name, sir.”

A wry grin stretched his lips. There this woman stood, completely aware that he’d sidestepped every convention of propriety, and yet she would only know his name if she won their competition. Perhaps a wee bit of mischievousness smoldered in the heart of this history-reading bluestocking?

“Why were you sitting alone?” he asked.

She loaded her bow and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I have a great deal on my mind.”

Gibb smirked. She most likely had a younger sister in the group of scavenger hunters who was as much of a hellion as Grace or Modesty. Miss Raven Hair released her arrow. It fell short of the target by a good yard. She immediately turned, blushing most adorably. Ah yes, with a bit of color, there was a striking elegance to her look. “Of course, you’ll allow two shots for practice.”

He let his gaze dip down the length of her muslin day gown and back up. “Inventing rules as we go along?” he asked, his tongue slipping to the corner of his mouth.

“Not at all.” She tossed her head, oblivious to his appreciation. “I’ve never used this bow before.”

“I’ll grant you that.” Gibb bowed. “Two shots for the lady.”

“You may have two as well.”

Her second arrow hit the edge of the target, but nowhere near close enough. He rubbed his hands, pleased to see his kiss might just be a certainty.

Except there seemed to be a bit of a hullaballoo in the Summerhouse. Had Mama spotted him?

“Ready?” he asked, trying to hurry the lass along.

She pulled back the string and homed in on the target. “Best of three?”

“By all means, but you must shoot all three arrows now.”

“Are you suddenly in a hurry?”

In a word, aye.

“I think the lassies are nearing the end of their hunt in the stables,” he said.

The woman fired her three arrows, one in the bull’s-eye and the other two outliers. She offered him the bow, smiling as if happy with her result. “Your turn, sir.”

Two footmen were now in conversation with Mama. He’d best hurry. “Three arrows,” he said. He loaded one and hit the bull’s-eye, then quickly dispatched the other two, much the same as the first.

“Unbelievable.” The lady stood with her fists upon her hips. “I daresay you are a far better archer than you let on.”

“I dunna recall saying I was unskilled .” But Gibb was a sailor, and he was no stranger to wagering or winning. He always wagered to win. Accepting a bet with questionable odds was fool’s play. A grin played in one corner of his mouth as he grasped Miss Raven Hair by the elbow and escorted her into the thicket behind an enormous oak. “I wish I had time to dally about, but it appears my attention will soon be commanded by my brother, or my mother, and quite possibly my sisters.”

Gibb placed his palms either side of her face—silken skin, a warm thrumming beneath. “Och, ye are lovely, lass.”

Dipping his chin, Gibb moved his lips toward her pert, upturned mouth. There was no time to prepare her with sweet words. Closing the distance, he took her mouth, intending a quick, gentle peck. He didn’t plan for anything more than a hasty caress, long enough to ignite a spark, but short enough not to be caught.

And then Miss Raven Hair sighed—a soft, barely audible, quivering sigh.

Holy mother , the sound was like an arrow thrust into his heart. Gibb caught it with his mouth and pressed his lips tighter to hers—to her closed lips accompanied by her rigid posture. Did this woman truly abhor kissing, or did she have absolutely no idea what a kiss was?

Inhaling the scent of vanilla from the south seas, Gibb intended to find out. He moved his arms around her and pulled her petite, luscious body close, imparting a wealth of kissing expertise and sweeping his tongue across those lovely, pouty lips, requesting entry while he slid his fingers upward and kneaded the silken hair at her nape.

With her next sigh, she opened for him, not terribly wide, but far enough for his tongue to slip inside and stroke deeply, sampling the taste of lemonade and something sweeter—perhaps an iced tea cake?

Miss Raven Hair melted against him, kindling an odd flicker in Gibb’s chest—a feeling he’d never before experienced—a feeling he’d like to explore.

“Lord Gibb?” one of the footman hollered. By the sound of his voice, the man was approximately fifteen paces away.

Damnation, Gibb had run out of time. After he straightened, he took just a moment to gaze into those black eyes and commit them to memory. This was the last time he’d ever see this woman, and he didn’t want to forget. “Do not follow me,” he growled, keeping his voice low. It was a risk to be alone like this—somewhat of a risk for Gibb, a grave risk for her—which made the interlude all the more stirring. “Skirt up the tree line and do not step into sight until you reach the house.”

Gibb moved from behind the tree and grinned at the footman he’d known since boyhood. “Och, Fergus, how long has it been?”

The old fellow craned his neck, trying to peer beyond the brush. “Far too long, m’lord.”

Gibb grasped Fergus by the elbow and started toward the Summerhouse, buying time for Miss Raven Hair to escape. “So, tell me, how is my brother faring?”