The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 3

3

T he best thing about returning home was being the recipient of the happiness and love on his mother’s face. The worst thing was being ushered toward the Summerhouse and a flock of mothers while his sisters came running from the opposite direction with their friends. “Gibb, my dear boy!” Mama exclaimed, clasping her hands over her heart. “I do not believe I’ll ever grow accustomed to seeing you arrive by sea.”

He enfolded her into his arms and kissed her forehead. She smelled the same as always—of lavender, sugar, and home. “Och, ’tis good to see you.”

“And better to have you home.” The Dowager Duchess of Dunscaby turned to her friends. “Have you met my son Lord Gibb MacGalloway, the sea captain?”

He gave a respectful bow. “Ladies, I trust you are enjoying your house party.”

“’Tis a luncheon,” said Modesty, the youngest and most mischievous in the family, tugging him by the elbow, then throwing her arms around him. “Mama is preparing us for when we are invited to a real house party.”

He swept a knuckle over her freckled nose. “My lands, ye’ve grown like a stalk of corn since I last saw you. How old would ye be now?”

A proud grin played upon her lips. “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen? How the devil did that happen?” He looked to Grace, a classic beauty, who, much to a brother’s chagrin, grew lovelier every time he saw her. He tugged Grace in as well and embraced them both. “And I’ll wager you’re fifteen, aye?”

“Sixteen, mind you,” she said with a haughty edge. “Nearly ready to be introduced at court.”

Gibb kissed her temple. “And you’ll be the darling of the ton , when the time comes.”

“Yes,” Mama agreed. “Though her presentation at court cannot come fast enough for Grace, I’m quite happy to remain in Newhailes for a time.”

As if on cue, Giles the butler approached and cleared his throat. “Felicitations, Lord Gibb. Forgive my interruption, but His Grace has asked to see you forthwith.”

“Och aye? I’ve barely stepped ashore and have already been summoned by our all-powerful brother.” Gibb gave Mama a wink. “If you’ll please excuse me, I’ll leave you to return to your guests.”

As he walked toward the manse, Modesty followed and clamped on to his arm. “How long will you be staying this time?”

“I’m afraid not long—I’ve a hull full of whisky to take to America.”

“But how are you to marry if you’re always at sea?”

“Perhaps I havena any plans to marry.”

“Why not?” Together they climbed the curved steps leading to the enormous double doors. “Miss Hay says it is the duty of all gently bred ladies to marry and provide their husbands with heirs. How am I supposed to find my match if all the good men are off on adventures like you?”

“Believe me, there will always be plenty of men on the marriage mart. Besides, I’m merely a second son—not nearly as good a catch as Martin.”

“I think you’re a fine catch—you’re in command of your own ship, and you’re as handsome as Marty for certain.”

While Giles opened the door, Gibb flicked one of her red curls. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. If I should ever be in port long enough to seek out a wife, I’ll be sure to let everyone ken I’m as handsome as the duke.”

She giggled and gave him a playful swat on his shoulder. “At least ye havena lost your sense of humor.”

Gibb hoped not. Since he’d been summoned only moments after Mama sent the footman after him, his present state of humor was rather tenuous. What did Martin have in store for him now? If he considered the duke’s bidding in a positive light, his brother would present him with a new, larger ship. Perhaps a fleet of merchant vessels for him to command? Now that was something dreams were made of.

Before his imagination ran away, Giles opened the door to the library and ushered him inside. “Lord Gibb, Your Grace.”

“Och, there he is,” said Martin, pushing up from his chair and gesturing to an older man, who stood as well. “Brother, surely you remember our father’s dear friend, Sir Kingston Harcourt.”

Gibb bowed respectfully. “How could I forget—as Papa put it, you spared him from the bite of a cobra in Egypt during the Second Coalition.”

Sir Kingston chuckled. “To this day I am convinced the snake was intentionally placed in your father’s tent by the French.”

“’Tis after two o’clock,” Martin said, moving toward the sideboard. “Can I tempt you to a glass of MacGalloway’s finest?”

Gibb licked his lips. “Dear brother, I’m a sailor. You can tempt me with such an offer any time of the day or night.”

“I’ll not argue either,” said Sir Kingston.

In familial custom, the duke poured for all three men.

“How is Julia and the bairn?” asked Gibb as they sat in the wing-backed chairs at the rear of the library—the one with a low table sporting a chessboard with ivory and ebony pieces.

Martin grinned, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Both in good health and high spirits.”

Gibb chuckled. His brother’s wife was a spitfire for certain. “I’ll wager they are.”

Since they were in the company of Sir Kingston, Martin mentioned no more about family antics. “I’ve a favor to ask.”

Of course those words came as no surprise, though the duke’s favor requests were usually another taboo topic when there was a guest present. Martin wasn’t in the habit of discussing family matters with anyone outside of kin. Gibb crossed his legs. “I thought you might be angling at something, else you would have let Mama and her friends regale me for a wee bit longer.”

Martin held up his glass and examined the amber liquid in the beam of light streaming in through the twenty-foot window. “Ye ken I’ve always been one to extend an olive branch when necessary.”

Gibb couldn’t argue. If it weren’t for the duke, he’d still be in the King’s Navy fighting Napoleon. “I’ll grant you that.”

His Grace glanced to their guest. “I need you to ferry Sir Kingston’s daughter to Georgia.”

Gibb blinked, several objections coming to mind, the first being the most important. “I beg your pardon? The Prosperity is not a passenger ship. She’s a merchant vessel. The food is plain—comforts are few. And though my men are hardworking tars, many of them were raised in the gutter. Besides the fact that no women are allowed aboard, the fellas wouldna ken what to do with a gentlewoman if presented with one.”

“Aye, I understand your concerns, but it is only for one passage…unless you’re telling me that you canna handle your crew.”

Wincing at his brother’s jab, Gibb uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I dinna say that at all. I’m saying the men are bleedin’ sailors—they will forever behave and speak as such.”

“Isabella is a very sensible woman and keeps to herself for the most part,” said Sir Kingston. “I’m quite certain you’ll hardly know she’s aboard your ship.”

Gibb swilled his whisky. No wonder the chap was sitting in on this discussion—having him here made it impossible to argue. He’d know the female was there for certain, as would every male aboard. “I’ll have no choice but to move her into one of the officers’ cabins.”

“Aye,” Martin agreed. “And she’s traveling with her lady’s maid.”

“Good God, another bloody female?”

Sir Kingston stretched his neck, tugging his neckcloth. “Would two not be better than one—companionship and whatnot?”

Gibb scowled—now he’d be giving two officers the boot, because there was no chance in hell he’d put a lady’s maid in a hammock below decks.

“Come, I dunna oft ask for favors,” said Martin. “And this one is ever so important to Papa’s old friend—a decorated war hero, mind you. You must promise me to look after the lass and see that she makes it to America healthy and happy.”

Och, now it was promises Gibb would be making? He took a deep breath. “Of course. I’ll look after Miss Harcourt and see her safely delivered to—” Gibb tossed back the remains of his whisky and forced a smile. “I beg your pardon, but Georgia’s coastline runs about a hundred miles. Where, exactly, am I to deliver the lady? Will she disembark first, or shall I offload the shipment of whisky in Virginia beforehand?”

“I’d think you ought to sail to Georgia first, then complete the remainder of your voyage as planned. I’ll write to her fiancé to let him know she’ll be arriving in…” Martin looked to Sir Kingston and spread his palms.

“Savannah.”

“There you have it. Savannah.” Martin flicked a tuft of lint from his kilt and eyed Gibb. “Approximately how long do you believe it will take you to reach Savannah?”

Of course, everyone present knew sailing across the Atlantic was nowhere as predictable as driving a coach from one end of Britain to another. “The average sail time is a month—a few weeks if a sailor is lucky; longer if he is not. The wind’s as fickle as a woman.”

“I do believe Mr. Schuyler maintains rooms in Savannah,” said Sir Kingston.

Gibb stood and helped himself to another glass from his brother’s crystal decanter. “If that is so, perhaps it would be best if I offloaded the shipment of whisky first. That would allow me to send word from Norfolk to your daughter’s fiancé ahead of our arrival.”

Sir Kingston clapped his hands together. “Come to think on it, I do believe that would be best. Capital idea.”

Gibb tossed back the entire glass of whisky and wiped his lips. “Well then, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve a pair of cabins to rearrange.”

“You’re leaving without saying hello to Julia or James?” asked Martin.

“Are they in the next room?” Gibb asked, though he knew they were not—the next room housed Dunscaby’s steward.

Martin pointed upward. “Most likely in the nursery.”

“Verra well, I’ll pop my head in for a moment, but I’m not about to take any chances of being mobbed by Mama’s luncheon party. I’ll slip out the rear door within ten minutes.” Gibb looked to Sir Kingston. “Please inform Miss Harcourt that we’ll be sailing at half nine in the morning. I’ll send a skiff to fetch the lady and her maid.”

Martin moved to his writing table and picked up his quill. “She’ll need more than one.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Gibb.

The duke flicked open the silver cover on his inkwell. “Miss Harcourt is traveling with five trunks.”

God’s bones, this task was growing more daunting by the minute. “My ship only has one skiff. I’d be grateful if you’d engage your wherry to transport her effects to the hull of the Prosperity .”

Dipping his quill, Martin gave a dismissive nod. “Done.”

Isabella sat in the stern of the skiff, hardly able to look at the enormous ship looming in the water ahead. He was surely watching—either from the row of windows at the rear of the barque, or from the decks above. Most likely, the Duke of Dunscaby’s brother had enjoyed a good laugh at her expense.

Yesterday she’d heard the footman clearly enough—“ Lord Gibb ,” alias Captain Gibb, commander of the Prosperity , which had been sequestered to ferry Isabella to her doom, a voyage that would take weeks.

She, Isabella Harcourt, had never in all her days kissed a man or behaved so brazenly. The blackguard had tricked her into kissing him. Worse, she’d wanted him to do so. After all, her father had promised her hand in marriage to a miner who, it turned out, happened to be twice her age, had never married, and lived in the far reaches of Georgia.

Heaven’s stars, was Mr. Schuyler so entirely hideous that he could not find a well-bred, obedient wife somewhere on the continent of North America?

To ease her trepidation, Papa had given her the letters Mr. Schuyler had written—though the contents provided little reassurance. The miner’s handwriting was rather unschooled, though his prose managed to adequately describe his mine on the Savannah River and the house he had built nearby. Papa, however, had never provided a satisfactory answer as to why he replied to Mr. Schuyler’s advertisement in the Gazette .

I still cannot believe my father responded to the man. Had I known he was so anxious to be rid of me, I might have flirted with the vicar’s son at church, or anything aside from agreeing to marry a complete stranger in a land reported to be rife with convicts and rebels.

Now she was about to board a ship captained by a rake, a man who had tricked her into kissing him. And merciful macaroons, what a kiss it had been. Who knew kissing could be so entirely consuming? Isabella highly doubted Mr. Schuyler would kiss her thus. And she highly doubted she’d ever again be the recipient of such an erotic display of sexuality.

When she thought about it analytically, the entire encounter had been obnoxious and absurd.

From this moment onward, she decided to lock the experience away in the recesses of her mind and pretend the kiss had never happened. Isabella would forget that the roguish captain had wrapped his arms around her and drawn her flush against his extraordinarily hard chest and pressed his extraordinarily soft lips to hers. She would not think about his wayward tongue flavored with delicious spices as it swept into her mouth and performed a quadrille—a dance hypnotic enough to turn her entire body into a boneless, mindless heap of jelly.

Beside her, Maribel grasped Isabella’s hand. “I know this whole ordeal is an awful muddle, but not to worry. I believe in happy endings, and one must sometimes pass through darkness to find them. At least we shall be together, and I’ll wager your betrothed will be over the moon as soon as he sets eyes upon you.”

Isabella gave the lady’s maid a nudge. “Forever the optimist, are you not?”

“Well, being optimistic helps the days pass.”

“I admire you for it. We both have had our lives uprooted. You every bit as much as me.”

“I think not. I’ll still be your lady’s maid, but you will neither be at your father’s manor nor in England near your Roman villa.”

The skiff lightly bumped the ship’s hull, and the oarsmen secured her to the rigging. Isabella craned her neck, looking at the weave of thick hemp netting and wondering if they expected her to climb up the side of the ship. Her question was answered when a sailor pointed to a seat being lowered from a winch that had been swung out over the deck. “The captain has sent the boatswain’s chair for the lassies’ comfort.”

She did her best to smile at the sailor, though at best it was a grimace. Was everyone on board a Scot? Was she to be referred to as a lassie throughout the duration of the cruise? The few crew members she’d met so far spoke with a thick burr, including the scandalous captain—who had been born into a dukedom, no less.

Offering his hand, the sailor helped her onto the seat, which was no larger than the swing in the walnut tree in front of her father’s house.

He would be up there.

Would he apologize?

Would he hound her for kisses throughout the voyage?

Isabella gripped the ropes tightly as the boatswain’s seat started upward, swinging precariously out over the water. She dared to glance downward, which only served to make her stomach lurch. Goodness, the ascent was rather faster than she’d imagined. There must be half a dozen sailors working the winch above.

“You’re doing splendidly, miss!” called Maribel, sounding overly cheerful.

As Isabella neared the top of the ship, four hands reached out for her as the pulley continued to winch the ropes upward.

“We’ll swing you over the railing now, miss,” said a man who was not Lord Gibb. Nodding his way, Isabella decided that the sinking in the pit of her stomach was purely from being suspended at least thirty feet in the air and being swung over the deck.

“Good morning, Miss Harcourt. You’re safely aboard now,” said a lad of no more than twelve years of age as he offered his hand and helped her to her feet. Then he stepped back, removed his cap and bowed. “Duncan Lamont, cabin boy, at your service.”

“That will be all, Duncan, thank you,” said a very deep voice, the exact one that had lulled her in the park yesterday. By the way the sinking in the pit of her stomach turned into fluttering, Isabella evidently had not grown impervious to the sound, no matter how much she tried to convince herself to do so.

Bicorn hat tucked in the crook of his arm, Lord Gibb stepped out from behind a row of crewmen. At first his eyes widened, expressing a bit of surprise, but with a blink, his visage quickly assumed an air of confidence. He stood out among the men with a commanding mien full of purpose.

Tall and broad, His Lordship posed as the ever-so-cocksure man who had joined her in the park yesterday without so much as an introduction. No, he hadn’t been an apparition. His eyes were still a shockingly deep shade of blue, with prematurely etched lines around them, which wasn’t incredibly odd. After all, the man’s face was tanned and his flaxen hair longer than fashionable, waving in the wind like a rogue sail, as if making a testament to his cavalier nature.

The man took her hand, bowed, and kissed it. When he straightened, he affected an unreadable expression as far away as London. “Welcome aboard the Prosperity , Miss Harcourt. I am Captain MacGalloway.”

She curtsied. “My lord.”

He tightened his grasp on her hand. “Aboard ship I am Captain , and never referred to as anyone’s lord.”

Though she was wearing gloves, it was as if the heat from his grasp had seared through the kid leather. Slipping her fingers away, she wiped them on her skirts. “As you wish.”

He turned to the cabin boy. “You’ve already met Duncan, but allow me to introduce?—”

Isabella held up her palm and stopped him. “A moment—would you mind waiting until my lady’s maid arrives before you make the introductions?”

“Of course,” he said, his smile replaced by a thin line as he gripped his hands behind his back.

“Cap’n says ye’re marrying a miner in America,” Duncan blurted, earning a clearing of the throat from the captain.

“I—ah—” Isabella glanced from the boy to Lord Gibb, who leaned forward as if he might be interested to hear her story. “Yes. That is the plan.”

The lad leaned out over the rail, watching as the men began cranking the winch upward again. “I’ve never been to Georgia.”

“But I thought the Prosperity had made several trips to America.”

“We mostly call into ports in Virginia and North Carolina,” the captain explained, his gaze shifting to the open sea. Perhaps he had already forgotten about their kiss. Perhaps he often took unsuspecting women behind trees and kissed them. “Occasionally we’ll deliver a shipment of whisky to New York. It all depends on our orders.”

“I see,” she said, grateful to spot Maribel’s bonnet as the lady’s maid came into view.

The crewmen made quick work of hauling her over the rail and onto the deck. Duncan again exercised respectful manners as he introduced himself under the watchful eye of the captain. Was Lord Gibb training the lad in chivalry, or for a more senior position? Isabella tapped her finger to her chin. Were he and Duncan related in some way?

The captain cleared his throat and bowed. “Welcome aboard, Miss?—”

“Hume.”

“Miss Hume.” He bowed respectfully as he would to any gentlewoman. “Captain Gibb MacGalloway, at your service.” He gestured toward three men, standing shoulder to shoulder, all wearing navy-blue doublets and kilts with the same tartan as His Lordship’s. “Please allow me to introduce my officers, the men who oversee all the work done aboard the Prosperity —Mr. Archie MacLean, our quartermaster, Mr. Gowan Erskine, our boatswain, and first mate Mr. Mac Lyall.”

Isabella curtsied, as did Maribel beside her. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The captain gestured from bow to stern. “You are welcome above decks at all times, though I caution you not to venture below where the men have their bunks—a ship is manned around the clock. Day or night, there’s always someone sleeping.”

“Or at least trying to sleep,” interjected the cabin boy.

The captain cleared his throat. “If you need to visit the galley, send Duncan, or any one of the crew. They have all been instructed to lend assistance whenever needed.”

Isabella breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently when aboard ship, Captain MacGalloway acted the perfect gentleman.

“Damnation, this is bloody heavy!” growled a sailor, lifting one end of the trunk containing her tablets. “We’ll need a few more men in the hold to maneuver it down there.”

“Absolutely not. I need that trunk in my cabin.” She turned to the captain. “Please, the contents are extremely fragile.”

He eyed it with an arch to a wheat-colored eyebrow. “There’s not a great deal of room in the cabins. Are you certain you want that one?”

“Yes. It is an absolute necessity.”

“She’ll also need the large one with the pink ribbon tied around the handle,” said Maribel. “That trunk contains Miss Harcourt’s personal effects and clothing for the journey.”

“Two trunks in Gowan’s wee cabin?” asked Duncan.

Isabella cringed, looking at the forlorn expression on the boatswain’s face. She should have realized she’d be putting someone out of their accommodations.

“Find a way to make them fit,” said the captain.

“If they do not, I only have a valise. Miss Harcourt’s clothing can be placed in my quarters—if there is enough room.”

“Och aye, there ought to be,” Duncan replied. “You’ll be bunking next door in Mac’s cabin.”

Isabella smiled at the gentlemen whose cabins she and Maribel would be occupying and offered a curtsey. “Thank you so very much for the use of your quarters.”

“Enough chatter. We’ve a ship to get underway. To the rigging!” shouted the captain before turning to the women. “If you ladies would kindly follow me, I’ll show you to your cabins.”

While the men started up the lattice web of ropes leading to the sails, Captain MacGalloway led the women aft and through a door with a small corridor. At one end was a rather lavish-looking arched door, its frame carved in the shape of a serpent.

The captain stopped at the first door on the left, then unlocked and opened it. “This is your berth, Miss Hume.” He dropped the key into her palm before moving along and opening the second door. “The boatswain’s cabin is only slightly larger than the first. I trust it is to your satisfaction, Miss Harcourt?”

Isabella stepped inside, finding only a narrow bed and a writing table. He hadn’t been wrong—if there were two trunks in this chamber, she would scarcely be able to move. He slipped the loop of twine attached to the key over his finger. “You’ll break your fast and take your nooning in your cabins. Dinner is served in the captain’s cabin every night promptly at seven—Miss Hume, you are welcome to dine with us.”

“Oh, no,” said the maid. “I couldn’t. I am a servant and am not one to be served.”

Isabella gave Maribel’s shoulder a pat. “This is not my father’s house. Are you certain you won’t join us?”

“Absolutely. I’ll take my suppers in my cabin, if I may.”

“Verra well, suit yourself.” The captain rested a hand atop the hilt of a dirk sheathed in his belt. “The ship’s cook makes a palatable biscuit, but I’ll admit the rest of the fare is bland and commonplace. I’m certain it goes without saying that this is not a pleasure cruise. Compared to other boats in its class, my crew is relatively small, and though we shall do our best to see to your comfort, you willna find much aboard this ship with which to while away your time?—”

“Not to worry.” Isabella began to tug the key off his finger, but the twine caught on his knuckle, making his fingertips brush the back of her hand. A spark ignited between them. Unable to stop her sharp intake of breath, she released her grasp and took a step away. “I-I intend to busy myself with my tablets.”

The captain narrowed his eyes, removed the twine, and set the key on the foot of the bed. “The contents of the excessively heavy trunk?”

“Yes.”

As if on cue, a resounding commotion came from the deck. Maribel opened the outer door, revealing six able seamen straining to haul said trunk inside. “This way, gentlemen.”

While the lady’s maid’s attention was drawn to the task at hand, Captain MacGalloway lowered his lips to Isabella’s ear. “Please accept my apologies for my wee misstep yesterday. Had I known that you would be traveling aboard my ship, I never would have?—”

“Acted like a rogue and taken advantage of an unsuspecting maid?” She boldly met his gaze, raising her chin defiantly.

A shadow crossed those shocking blue eyes. “Mark me, it shall nay happen again, madam.”