The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 4

4

G ibb clenched and unclenched his fists as he left Miss Harcourt and stormed out onto the deck. God’s stones, the woman was supposed to be the sister of one of Grace and Modesty’s friends. He’d expected to never see her again, not spend an entire cruise crossing the Atlantic whilst catering to the woman’s whims.

Worse, the temptress was engaged to be married to an American. Gibb wondered how that union had come about, given her reclusive nature. Was the gentleman in question an old family friend? Where had they met? Why hadn’t Mr. Schuyler come to England and married her there?

“Damnation,” he mumbled under his breath. Not a single question in his mind mattered in the slightest.

So, Miss Harcourt thought him a rogue? Well, it was a damn good thing, since her berth was about three steps away from the captain’s cabin. She’d be far better off if she feared him and kept her distance.

And the lady hadn’t been wrong. He had acted irresponsibly and taken advantage. He’d toyed with her and quite enjoyed it at the time. Except now, every time the woman came on deck, he’d have to scowl and turn away. No, he mustn’t allow her to know how those black eyes made his heart thrum, or how any clever retort on that pink tongue made him want to taste her.

The sailors were singing a ditty below when Gibb stopped at the open hatch, frowning at two trunks that had not yet been lowered. “Mr. Lyall?” he called over the song, projecting into the black abyss of the hold.

“Aye, sir?” came the first mate’s disembodied voice.

“Why are these trunks not stowed away?”

The man’s face came into view from below. “A few boards splintered when we lowered the first. Not to worry, the carpenters will have the damages repaired in no time.”

“See to it they do. These trunks need to be secure before we hit the open sea, else they’ll be sliding across sea-sprayed decks, and Lord kens what damage they’ll do then.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Gibb hadn’t taken two steps when the next problem caught his eye. A tar balanced on the foresail’s yardarm, examining an enormous, frayed hole. “Mr. Erskine, please tell me we have a spare lower fore topsail.”

The boatswain hastened across the deck. “’Tis merely a wee tear. I’d rather stitch her up than swap her out with precious new canvas.”

Gibb considered the options of replacing the damaged sail with a new one and mending the old to keep as a spare. “How fast can the rigging monkey sew?”

“It’ll be done within a quarter of an hour.”

“It had best be.” Gibb checked his pocket watch. “Lads, we sail at half past ten. I want to be cruising round Berwick-upon-Tweed by dusk.”

Archie MacLean stepped beside him and pointed to the pennant sitting utterly idle atop the main mast. “Pardon me, Cap’n, but we won’t be going much of anywhere unless the wind picks up.”

“She’ll be blowing a gale once we reach the open sea, mark me,” Gibb said, saying a silent prayer that the wind indeed picked up in the next quarter of an hour. There would be nothing more humiliating than sitting like a duck decoy off the coast of his brother’s estate. In Martin’s eyes, Gibb felt the need to continually prove himself a competent mariner—the man responsible for selling gallons of MacGalloway whisky in a new market the family hadn’t enjoyed before, as well as bringing cotton grown by free men back to his twin brothers, Andrew and Philip, who were operating a mill on the River Tay.

Gibb continued with his inspection of the upper deck and had nearly made it to the bowsprit when an unusual silence spread across the timbers—the singing stopped, discussions stopped, and other than a few gulls calling overhead, the ship was too quiet.

He didn’t have to glance over his shoulder to know why, but he turned all the same. Miss Harcourt and her lady’s maid had stepped out onto the decks like two swans bedecked in ribbons and lace while Duncan led the way, evidently giving a tour, waving his arms and expounding about something that was most likely trivial.

Looking to the heavens, Gibb prayed for wind, and a great deal of it. Given ideal winds, the Prosperity might actually make the Atlantic crossing in a fortnight. Though he hadn’t managed it as yet, a fortnight had been recorded, but only after voyages with perfect conditions. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered at the sailor who had leaned so far out from the yardarm of the foresail that he was likely to fall. “Mr. Briggs, if you continue to gawk, the sail will never be repaired and we’ll be anchored here for a week!”

The man’s jolt made him slip, but he managed to keep his footing on the rigging. “Aye, Cap’n.”

Gibb opened his pocket watch. “Thirteen minutes, men!”

“Cap’n,” said Cookie from below, his face popping out from the hatch. “Would ye be able to spare a moment?”

Gibb gave a nod and climbed down the narrow steps to the ship’s galley—not only had the ship’s cook beckoned him, but he welcomed any excuse to avoid Miss Harcourt at the moment. Cookie had lost three fingers on his right hand in the wars, but he was a good sailor, and would have a position on the Prosperity what may come.

“Have you a problem?”

The thickset man scratched his red beard, looking a bit uneasy. “I reckon I dinna bring enough flour aboard—I wasna expecting the ladies, ye ken?”

“None of us expected them, but dinna my brother’s kitchens supplement your supplies?”

“Aye—of oats, chickens, and cabbages, but no’ flour.”

“Verra well, half my rations of ship’s biscuits, but not the men’s. They’ve had to make enough accommodations already.” Gibb patted the side of an open flour barrel. “Besides, with a good wind, I’m hoping to make it to Virginia in a fortnight—two at most.”

“Och aye? Then I’ll pray for wind—as long as it isna a bloody hurricane.”

“Wheesht, such a word is never to be uttered aboard my ship.”

“Sorry, sir, just waggin’ me tongue, is all,” said Cookie, rubbing his ample belly. “I could stand to lose a stone or two—I’ll cut back on the biscuits as well.”

Gibb clapped his shoulder. “Good man. Secure this barrel and dunna waste an ounce. We have a ship to get underway.”

Still unaccustomed to Scotland’s long summer days, Isabella had been surprised when it was still broad daylight and Maribel came into her cabin to help her dress for dinner. Of course, the idea of dining in Captain MacGalloway’s cabin had made her a bit queasy ever since the ship weighed anchor.

After knocking on the door, she was also surprised to see it was answered by the quartermaster, Mr. MacLean. “Come in, miss. We’ve just been talking about you.”

She smiled, the captain drawing her attention as he stood and offered a gallant bow. Regardless of her opinion of the man, his presence was commanding, from the unruly flaxen hair that dangled over one eye to the fervid blue eyes that locked with hers. “All good, I hope.”

Mr. Erskine and Mr. Lyall stood as well, holding glasses. “Am I late?” she asked.

Mr. Lyall held the chair nearest the captain’s seat at the head of the table. “Not at all. We were just enjoying a wee tot afore the meal is served.”

She gave the first mate a nod as she sat. “Do you always dine together for the evening meal?”

“Och, nay,” said Mr. Erskine. “It just depends on the sea. Some nights there’s no time to sit, let alone eat—a man is lucky to grab a ship’s biscuit whilst fighting a storm.”

“At least the spray of water over the bulkhead softens them up a bit,” Mr. Lyall added, bringing a chuckle from the men at the table.

“The meal will be served shortly,” said the captain. “Would you care for a glass of wine whilst we wait?”

“Thank you,” Isabella replied, taking a moment to glance about the chamber. In comparison to her cabin, it was enormous, but in comparison to her chamber at Papa’s manor, it was relatively modest. The dining table was of carved cherry wood and stood in the center with five chairs, the sixth being placed by the captain’s writing table—a fine piece, also of cherry wood, with a locking drawer. Along one side of the cabin was a sizeable bed shrouded by red curtains and recessed into an enormous set of shelves that took up the entire wall. On display were dozens of leather-bound volumes, from poetry and Shakespeare to historical journals. Maps were rolled and neatly contained in a lower box obviously made for the purpose.

But what caught her eye was the row of windows overlooking the stern of the ship. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Captain MacGalloway standing there, broad shoulders tapering to sturdy hips, his kilt slightly askew while his hawk-eyed gaze surveyed the endless sea.

The man himself slid a glass of ruby wine in front of her and pointed toward a bit of land visible off the starboard quarter. “We’re passing Dunbar now, where the warmer waters from the Firth of Forth meet the North Sea. The Prosperity’s sails will pick up the wind, and the work of a sailing ship becomes far more interesting.”

The words had barely left his lips when the ship listed with a resounding groan, nearly making the wine slosh from Isabella’s goblet.

Mr. Lyall raised his glass. “There she blows, as if on cue, Cap’n.”

Isabella clamped a hand over her stomach. “My, that was quite a jolt.”

“’Twas just a wee roll,” said Mr. MacLean. “By the end of your wee cruise, you’ll hardly notice.”

“Here we are,” said Duncan, entering with a tray of food. He was followed by an enormous smiling man.

“Cookie, have you met our guest, Miss Harcourt?” asked the captain.

“I canna say I have.” The big man placed a tray of food in the center of the table, then wiped his hands—one of which was missing three fingers—on his apron and bowed. “’Tis my pleasure, madam.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, feeling a bit green when the scent of roasted lamb wafted her way. “Cookie, is it?”

“Aye—at least, that’s what the men have called me ever since I left the service of the King’s Navy and followed the cap’n aboard the Prosperity .”

“Is that so?” Isabella glanced to Captain MacGalloway and swallowed hard to keep her stomach from sloshing and her head from spinning. Perhaps sampling the wine had been a bad idea. “Did most of the men aboard follow you once you retired your commission—I assume you would have retired a commission, did you not?”

The question seemed to cause the captain some consternation. His eyebrows pinched together and a shadow crossed his face. He even shuddered, as if in a blink, his mind was cast back to the horrors of war. “Aye to both questions,” he replied with unconvincing cheerfulness. “Most of the men aboard are Highlanders who fought beside me—survivors of the Battle of Lissa.”

“The very sea battle that claimed me da,” said Duncan, his expression troubled as he gave a sidelong glance toward the captain, who did not meet the boy’s gaze.

“Come, lad.” Cookie ushered Duncan toward the door. “There’s work to be done below decks.”

After they left, silence swelled through the air, as if the Battle of Lissa had taken place only days prior. Isabella wanted to know more, but by the somber aspects of everyone’s faces, she thought better of it.

Without uttering a word, Captain MacGalloway picked up the carving knife and fork and set to slicing the roast leg of lamb, his strokes short and hard—almost violent. Perhaps he was back on the decks of the naval ship, fighting for his life?

But by the roiling of Isabella’s stomach, she was unable to contemplate the sudden somber mood that had settled in the cabin along with the incessant swaying of the ship. She shifted her gaze to the bowl of boiled potatoes, though doing so only made her discomfort worse.

“Lamb, miss?” asked the captain, putting a slice on her plate.

As the scent of roasted meat wafted to her nose, Isabella closed her eyes and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Ye’d best eat your fill,” said Mr. MacLean. “The fare willna be anywhere near this good by the time we reach America.”

Mr. Erskine passed her a plate of biscuits, so flat that they couldn’t have an ounce of leavening. “If yer feeling a wee bit queasy, Cookie’s ship’s biscuits always help.”

She took one and gave the young man a grateful smile, the fingers of one hand still firmly pressed against her lips. “Thank you,” she managed to squeak.

Everyone at the table stopped and watched as she clipped a bite with her teeth. “My, ’tis hard.”

Mr. MacLean popped an entire piece of potato into his mouth. “Cookie makes them that way to keep the weevils and maggots at bay.”

At the mention of maggots, Isabella’s stomach could take no more. Suffering an involuntary heave, she covered her mouth. “Pardon me,” she said, pushing her chair away from the table.

Bile burned her throat as she made a frantic and mortifyingly ungraceful dash toward the door, the ship pitching and rolling beneath her feet. Halfway across the floor, Isabella lost her balance, stumbling and flinging out her arms, reaching for anything to stop her fall. As she was certain she was about to topple backward, a strong arm slipped across her waist while another swept her legs upward.

“Och, lassie. Sometimes it takes a day or three for a sailor to develop his sea legs,” purred the captain in his deep burr. “Ye’d best have a wee lie-down until the sickness passes.”