The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 5

5

S ecure in Gibb’s arms, Miss Harcourt curled toward him, her color quite a bit more ashen since the ship sailed into the North Sea. “You mustn’t fuss over me. All I need is a moment and I’ll be set to rights.”

He ignored the woman’s feeble attempt to downplay her seasickness. She was in the wars and most likely would be for a time yet. “Duncan!” he bellowed while he kicked open her cabin door. In two strides, he rested her atop the bed. “I’ll fetch the chamber pot.”

“I do not neeeeeee…” Miss Harcourt’s words transformed into a cry of agony and gurgled choking in her throat. Lunging across the floor with the handle of the pot in his hand, Gibb managed to reach her just as the poor woman lost the contents of her stomach.

“Argh!” Miss Harcourt cried, heaving in a breath and clutching the pot with both hands. “Is acquiring one’s sea legs always this awful?”

He handed her his handkerchief. “For some.”

She had barely slipped the cloth from his fingers when her heaves resumed again.

“Ye wanted me, Cap’n?” asked Duncan, arriving at the door, his gaze immediately falling to the chamber pot, the sight making the lad scrunch his nose. “Gadzooks!”

Still gripping the pot by the handle, Gibb nodded toward the bow. “Inform Miss Hume that her lady is ill.”

“Straight away, sir.”

“Argh!” Miss Harcourt again cried, doubling over.

“There, there—we shall have you serenading the sailors with arias soon,” Gibb said, bending forward and rubbing her back. She had quite a lovely back—slender, with square shoulders and a long neck made all the more feminine with wisps of fine black hair that had sprung loose from her chignon. Gibb might have admired the image were the woman not doubled over, losing her nooning and most likely every other meal she’d eaten in the past week.

“Beg your pardon, Cap’n,” said Duncan, popping his head in. “I’m afeard Miss Hume isna able to come—she’s hangin’ over her chamber pot as well.”

“God save us, we’ll have to nurse them both.” Gibb dug in his sporran and motioned for the lad to enter with an incline of his head. He pulled out a key ring and selected the smallest. “Fetch the black bottle from my medicine chest, then ask Cookie for two cups of peppermint water.”

Miss Harcourt rubbed her forehead. “Is the entire boat spinning?”

“Nay, but the North Sea has begun to give us a good show. Not to worry. Soon waves like these will be lulling you to sleep.” Gibb resumed rubbing, up and down, back and forth, ever so slowly, ever so gently. “Tell me about the contents of the trunk at the end of your bed—it must contain something of import if you dinna want it stowed in the hull.”

“Tablets,” she said, the word seeming to be too much to utter, because the poor woman launched into a succession of dry heaves.

“Where did the tablets come from?” he asked after she’d managed to take a stuttering breath.

“The villa.”

“Ah, yes.” Gibb grinned, recalling their conversation in Newhailes’ private park. “The Roman ruins you and your father unearthed in West Sussex.”

“Mm-hmm.” Miss Harcourt rocked back and forth, pressing the heels of her hands against her temples. “I’m…t-translating them.”

“Interesting indeed.”

Duncan reappeared, this time with the black bottle and two of the ship’s mugs with flared bottoms to keep them from tottering. “Peppermint water and the tincture you requested.”

“Thank you, lad. Set them on the table, then clean the chamber pot, if you will.” Gibb made quick work of mixing two helpings of what he called his sleeping potion, used only for the sickest of men, and not often, because the black bottle contained laudanum—a fact that he revealed to no one. But if Miss Harcourt’s maid was anywhere near as sick as her lady, they both would fare better with a night of uninterrupted rest rather than a night with their heads hanging over their chamber pots.

When the lad returned, Gibb handed him one of the mugs. “Take this to Miss Hume and tend to the maid’s needs.”

That freckled nose wrinkled again. “Ye mean for me to hold the chamber pot for her like ye’ve been doing with Miss Harcourt?”

“Aye. Empty it as well. Sit with her until she grows drowsy and then help her into bed.”

“Och, I have to do all that? Sh-she’s a lass.”

“Mayhap, but she’s ill and needs our help. As I recall, I tended you for an entire week the first time you set foot aboard the Prosperity . Go on, off with you.”

As the door to the cabin closed, Gibb returned to his charge and offered her the mug. “Drink.”

“I cannot.” Shaking her head, Miss Harcourt pushed the cup away with her palm. “If I drink anything, it will only come right back up.”

“It may, but if you manage to keep a wee bit of my tincture down for even a quarter of an hour, you’ll sleep, and by the time you wake, the worst of the sickness ought to be behind you.”

Miss Harcourt eyed the cup and shuddered.

Not about to be dissuaded by a wee wisp of a lass, Gibb shifted the mug toward her. “Just one sip and we’ll see how it settles. That’s all I ask.”

“Gah,” she managed, taking it in both hands, the cup trembling while she drew it to her lips. She took a sip, then sputtered with a cough and pushed it toward him. “No more.”

“For now,” he said, taking the mug and carefully placing between the arches of his feet to keep it secure. Still, if the ship encountered a big wave, the tincture might be lost, even though the mugs were hewn of wheel-thrown pottery with heavy, flared bottoms.

Gibb considered urging her to ease back on the bed, but not only was it highly improper, it was too soon—proven by the fact that the poor woman convulsed with a series of dry heaves.

She wrapped her arms across her midriff and fought to catch her breath. “Dear God, this is miserable.”

It was. Over his career at sea, Gibb had seen the hardiest, most rugged men come aboard ship and be reduced to crying milksops, lying on their sides with their knees tucked up, barely able to lift their heads while they spewed their guts.

And the only thing that cured the bastards was time.

He ought to make Miss Harcourt drink the tincture and leave her alone to her misery. Except Gibb had promised to take care of her. During this voyage, the woman was in his charge. Sailing across the Atlantic wasn’t for the feeble. Healthy men oft succumbed to sicknesses like scurvy and the ague. Though the Prosperity didn’t sail with a surgeon, like most ships in the Royal British Navy, Cookie oft posed as their healer. Gibb also had spent a great deal of time reading articles and texts about how to keep his men healthy. That was why he made them drink from a barrel of lemon juice every morn, and Cookie served each sailor a dollop of pickled cabbage at the evening meals. Since they’d started the practice, there hadn’t been a case of scurvy aboard ship.

Unfortunate I canna find a cure for seasickness.

Gibb watched Miss Harcourt out of the corner of his eye. When her posture relaxed ever so slightly, he said, “Shall I tell you the story of how I came to be in command of the Prosperity ?”

She dabbed her mouth with the handkerchief. “I think you ought to leave me to my misery and go on about your captaining duties.”

“Och, I’d like nothing more, but I gave my brother and your father my word that I’d see you safely across the ocean, and that is what I aim to do.”

She shook her head, her complexion still far too pale. “Heaven forbid I die on this voyage and pose an inconvenience for my father.”

“Oh? Is your da profiting from your marriage to Mr. Schuyler? He mentioned the man keeps accommodations in Savannah, which indicated his domicile must be elsewhere.”

She gave a nod, gulping as if she’d just controlled another surge of sickness. “Papa is profiting. Though who am I to question a man’s desire to live out his remaining years in comfort?”

Gibb was such a hardened sailor that nothing could make him seasick, but his gut roiled at her overwhelmingly altruistic reply. “I beg your pardon? What of your comfort?”

“I believe my father was thinking of my comfort. In some way, at least. After all, once Papa passes away, my cousin will inherit. Not I.”

Gibb grumbled under his breath. He had never imagined he’d inherit a thing, but thanks to Martin, he had landed on his feet quite handsomely. “And your cousin isna generous enough to see to your care?”

“No.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples. “Forgive me, but I’m not feeling well enough to converse at the moment.”

“Forgive me. I ken ye must be miserable.” Gibb offered her the cup yet again. “You’d best take another sip, lass.”

She grasped the handle and met his gaze, her eyes filled with pain and indecision. “Must I?”

He nodded, using his fingertips to urge the mug toward her mouth. She slightly parted her lips while he sat taller and watched as, with the sway of the ship, the liquid sloshed over them, sending a good-sized gulp over her tongue.

Gasping and coughing, she pushed the cup into his stomach. “No more. Please.”

“I was about to tell you about the Prosperity ,” he said, knowing full well that convincing a passenger with seasickness to drink down a tincture always took time and patience. Gibb wasn’t patient by nature, but the sea had matured him, helped him to realize that a man must know when to bide his time and when to act decisively with haste.

Miss Harcourt sighed. “If you intend to remain here, then by all means, tell me about your ship.” She clapped a hand over her mouth with a heave—just one this time. “I shall do my best to pay attention, though forgive me if I should soil the buckles on your shoes in the interim.”

Gibb kicked up his leg, showing off his shoe and making his kilt flick up a bit. “You’ve been kind enough to miss them thus far.”

“I make no promises.”

He chuckled. It seemed the lass had a sense of humor even in sickness. He didn’t know many women who could jest in the face of misery, but he liked that this one did. “It wasna long after me da died that Martin met me on the wharf at the Pool of London. At the time I thought he’d come to gawk at his brother aboard the HMS Cerberus , but he took me to the tavern across the street and told me our mother had said that she couldna bear to lose me in a sea battle so soon after losing her husband.”

“Your mother seems like a very sensible woman.”

“Aye, she is. Bless her, she birthed eight children. And I’ll say every last one of us has given her cause to call for smelling salts at one time or another.”

“Especially you?”

Gibb ran his finger around the clan brooch at his shoulder, as he often did. “As it turns out.”

Closing her eyes, Miss Harcourt rubbed her temples while the ship continued to pitch and roll. “What happened in the tavern?”

“Martin and his steward told me that they were forming a new venture and the missing piece of their scheme was a ship’s captain.”

“Which they offered to you?”

“Aye. If I resigned my commission, the duke intended to buy me a ship—said it was my birthright.”

“Yours? But are you not doing His Grace’s bidding?” she asked, doubling over and grimacing.

“Because I choose to. The duke also established a cotton mill on the River Tay for my twin brothers Andrew and Philip.”

“Cotton?” she asked, sounding suspicious, and it wasn’t difficult to guess why.

Gibb picked up the chamber pot and held it at the ready. “Aye. Mind you, the MacGalloways have an exclusive agreement with a coalition of Irish sharecroppers—free men.”

Bending over the pot, Miss Harcourt heaved, producing nothing but spittle. “Truly?” she asked, doing her best to converse regardless of her discomfort.

Gibb gave a nod, amazed at how this woman fought through her misery. “They were the only suppliers Martin would consider—though I must say that those poor blighters have their share of trials from the big plantation owners in America. It isna an easy life. I fear I’ll reach her shores one day and there will be no one left.”

“What does Martin think of this?” She sat up and grimaced. “Is there nothing the MacGalloways can do to protect them?”

“From Scotland?” Gibb shrugged, setting the chamber pot aside. “Martin has talked about sending Frederick to help, but only after the lad graduates from St. Andrews University, and that willna be for a couple of years yet. Not to worry, the Irish are a hardy lot. I reckon they can look after themselves for a time longer.”

Miss Harcourt yawned behind her hand, her eyes drooping a tad.

“Are ye feeling as if you could have a wee sleep?”

“I’m too queasy to lie down.”

“Then let’s have another wee sip of my tincture.”

Through a fan of black eyelashes, she regarded him. “You’re a fiend.”

“Aye.” He gave her the cup. “Though I reckon I’ve been called worse. Why not drink it down this time?”

“Must I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

She glanced at the tincture. “Just remember that I’ll be aiming at those buckles.”

“Then I suggest ye keep in mind ’tis Duncan who’ll be shining them.”

“Fiend,” she growled, then tipped the cup up and took a good swallow. “Gah! I’ll never be able to withstand the taste of peppermint again.”

“All in time, lass, all in time.”

The poor woman yielded to the constant pitching of the ship and swayed in place. By the half-cast of her eyelids, she was well on her way to succumbing to the mind-numbing effects of the opium. Gibb rubbed her back for a time until she collapsed against him, dropping her head on his shoulder.

He shifted his nose toward her hair and inhaled—so sweet, so entirely feminine. His heart squeezed as he reached up and pulled a pin from her hair, hesitating for a moment to see if she might object. But she did not. With a gentle sigh, the woman nuzzled into him as if his shoulder provided the comfort she needed.

“I’ll just remove these pins,” he whispered.

Within a few heartbeats, he had every one of them removed, marveling as her black hair fell everywhere in waves. He ran his fingers through it—softer than ermine and so very thick, not to mention extraordinarily long. If she were standing, her locks most likely would fall past her waist, perhaps even past her buttocks.

He twirled a lock around his finger. If only he could have this woman in his bed with this feral mane draped across his chest. With a guttural moan, he let the hair fall away, doing his best to ignore his imaginings.

Miss Harcourt sighed—not a sigh of bliss, but a semblance of a groan filled with discomfort.

“You’re still quite ill, are you not?” he asked, berating himself for his wayward thoughts. The only reason he had entered her cabin was to care for her, not to ogle her.

She nodded against his shoulder.

Blast it all, Gibb couldn’t leave her to sleep alone. Considering the dose of laudanum he’d given her, she mightn’t wake if she had another wave of sickness. The odds that she might choke were high enough for concern. Nay, he had best remain at the lady’s sickbed, regardless of if she wanted him to do so or not.

He moved his hand up her spine. “I reckon you’ll feel better if you loosen your stays.”

She shook her head against his shoulder, mumbling something imperceptible.

Ignoring her protest, he slowly pulled open the bow at the back of her dress. “That’s right. Just rest against me,” he whispered, expertly working the laces open until he was able to slip the gown from her shoulders. “How’s that? Better?”

Again, she shook her head, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Don’t feel well.”

He pushed his finger inside the edge of her corset and wondered how the woman was able to breathe. “Your stays must be removed.”

“No!” she argued, pushing him away and then crumpling forward, with her head in her hands, her breathing labored.

Giving her a moment, Gibb busied himself by collecting the pins and sliding them into the drawer of her table. When he again sat beside her, Miss Harcourt had not moved, but her breathing had grown deeper and slower.

“Are you asleep, miss?” he softly asked.

When she didn’t answer, he made quick work of unlacing her stays—something he’d done hundreds of times, most often with women of easy virtue in rooms above taverns, but never aboard his ship and never with a gently bred lass.

“I’ll pull this contraption away now,” he said while she flopped to her side, her lips parted, those dark lashes fanning her ivory cheeks. “Och, ’tis for the best that you’re nay fighting me, lass. It is miserable enough to be ill, let alone suffering seasickness whilst wearing one of these torture devices.”

He cast the set of stays onto the trunk at the foot of the bed before returning his attention to his patient. She wore a fine shift of Holland cloth, but he would not have been a man if he didn’t notice the lovely form beneath—sculpted breasts, a slender waist, a womanly flare of hip, all framed by a tangle of wild black hair.

“Good God,” he growled beneath his breath, trying to think of anything to distract his attention. Nay, Miss Harcourt wasn’t his to ogle, and he’d not allow himself to gawk. Instead, he busied himself by removing her dress and draping it over the back of the chair. Then he levered her legs onto the bed, his throat growing dry when the lady’s shift hiked up over her knee, revealing two lovely calves, and ankles so slender that he wondered if he’d be able to close his finger and thumb around each one.

Such a question was not to be answered— never to be answered . It took a will of iron, but Gibb forced himself not to admire the way her hair sprawled across the pillow, or the way the slight parting of her lips seemed to beg for a kiss. Instead, he covered her with a blanket and stood back. Aye, she looked like an angel. Unable to help himself, he kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, my raven-haired lass.”

Gibb had no right to be so familiar with a woman who was all but a stranger, but it felt right in this hour when she was helpless and unwell. He would look after her this night, and come the morn, they would resume their roles—he of captain and she of a betrothed fiancée sailing across the sea and into her lover’s arms.