Chapter 7
7
T hough Gibb was seated with his back to his cabin’s door, he knew Miss Harcourt had entered by the way the fine hairs tickled the back of his neck. Perhaps the admiring expressions suddenly on the faces of the other men at the table gave her presence away as well, a fact that made him want to assign each one of them to pumping the bilges or rearranging the cargo in the hold.
The men all pushed back their chairs and stood in unison. If they had rehearsed the action fifty times, Gibb doubted they would have been able to all rise together so precisely. Perhaps each man had strings connected to the same marionette handle?
Having risen as well, he turned and bowed. “Miss Harcourt, forgive us for not waiting. I had wrongly assumed that you were still restricted to a diet of broth and ship’s biscuits.”
She graced them with a lovely smile, the lanterns overhead catching a glimmer in her dark eyes. “Believe it or not, I am feeling rather peckish.”
“That is a good sign,” said Mac Lyall, pulling out a chair for the lady.
Gibb scowled at the hulking young officer. The largest man aboard, Mac had barely turned nineteen, and this was his maiden cruise as first mate. He’d earned the post, for certain, but had no business flirting with a guest who was engaged to be married.
Once everyone had resumed their seats, Miss Harcourt rubbed her hands together. “I do believe the fare smells rather good.”
“Chicken pottage this evening,” said Archie. “The only livestock we sail with is chickens.”
“Oh? Isn’t that unusual?” she asked.
“Not on a ship this size,” Gibb explained. “A larger brig has the capacity, but we are rarely ever asea more than two months, and livestock in the hold means there’s less room for whisky and cotton.”
“We always have plenty of salted pork and the like,” said Gowan Erskine, offering the chicken pottage to the lady. “The fare aboard the Prosperity is better than any I had in the navy, for certain.”
She spooned a dollop onto her plate. “I take it you treat your men rather well, Captain MacGalloway?”
Not one to boast, he shrugged, reached for the bottle of wine, and filled her glass. “Every man deserves to be well fed. Moreover, a sailor who eats his fill is more likely to put forth a good day’s work.”
“And if ye keep them busy, they’re more likely to stay out of mischief,” Archie added.
Miss Harcourt took a sip of wine, the liquid making her lips glisten with the light from the lamps lazily swinging overhead. “Are there many discipline problems aboard?”
“Not many,” Gibb said, pouring for himself.
“But we must always pay attention, aye, Cap’n?” asked Mac. “That’s what ye told me.”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Lyall.” Gibb set the bottle down in the center of the table.
“And then we act swiftly,” Mac said as if he were an expert on disciplining the crew, which he most definitely was not.
Miss Harcourt helped herself to a biscuit and broke it. “How so?”
“The punishment must fit the crime,” said Gowan, who was only two years Mac’s senior and nearly as wet behind the ears.
“Well, I hope there’s no need for anyone to be punished during this voyage.”
Archie smirked—if there was anyone aboard who knew as much as Gibb about running a ship, it was Archie MacLean. “I’ve heard that miracles happen, but I’ve yet to witness one.”
The door to the cabin swung open and Duncan popped his head in. “Beg your pardon, but the wind’s shifted and Danny reckons we’re drifting off course.”
Archie shoveled a spoon of pottage in his mouth and stood. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Excuse me,” came a sailor’s voice from the corridor. “The rigging on the fort topmast staysail is busted.”
Gowan pushed his chair away from the table. “I suppose I have my marching orders as well, then.”
Cookie appeared next. “I hate to spoil your fun, lads, but there’s a wee leak in the hull—right below the food stores. If it isna fixed by morn, we’ll be starvin’ by the time we reach America.”
Mac stood and bowed over Miss Harcourt’s hand, planting a sloppy kiss on the back of it. “There’s no rest at sea, miss—not for any of us.”
Gibb sat back and listened to the footsteps fade away while the lady sitting at his right looked from her plate to the door and back. “Are you not going with them?”
“They are all capable officers. If I followed and looked over their shoulders, I wouldna be much of a captain, would I?”
“So, if there’s a problem they cannot tackle, then you step in?”
“Aye, and believe me, there are plenty.” Gibb took another drink. “Tell me about those tablets of yours. What do they say?”
She smiled, her eyes flickering with interest. “Mind you, I’ve only managed to fully translate four, but I believe they comprise some sort of journal.”
“Only four? It must be slow going.”
“Yes.” She scooped a bite of pottage with her spoon. “Most of them are in pieces, and it takes painstaking hour after painstaking hour to figure out how they all fit together.”
“Fascinating. Have you received assistance from the Society of Antiquaries?”
A lovely blush flooded the lady’s cheeks while she shook her head. “After they took all the credit for finding the villa and sent in their own team of men, pushing me aside, I decided to keep the discovery of the tablets to myself—at least until I’ve pieced them together.”
Gibb liked that—liked that she had the backbone to thwart the “establishment,” which so often made a right muddle of everything. He grinned over his glass. “Have you any idea who wrote them?”
“I’m not certain. They’re only small, but the person—a man, I’m guessing—has mentioned in each one how much he misses the person to whom he addresses each entry.”
“ Te desidero ,” Gibb mused, using the Latin words for “I miss you.”
“That’s right. You speak Latin?”
“Aye, ’tis a prerequisite for the son of a duke, even the son of a Scottish duke.”
“You say that as if a Scottish dukedom were less important than an English one.”
Gibb held up his glass and watched the liquid slosh with the sway of the ship. “That is because the English mistakenly believe it to be true.”
Miss Harcourt took a bite of pottage. “I don’t know about that.”
“Oh? Scottish peers are rarely as sought after as those born south of the border. You must have had a Season, did you not?”
The lass raised one shoulder, nearly touching her ear. “I suppose I attended a few balls and the like, though I’m not a good dancer, and even worse at flirting.”
“Hmm, I’d rather disagree with the latter. In my opinion, you are naturally gifted at flirting.”
“Sir, I assure you, I do not flirt.”
“I’ll have to disagree with you on that point. After all, in the park you managed to flirt with me most convincingly.” He set his glass down and offered his hand. “As to your first self-deprecating statement, however, the jury is still undecided.”
“Jury?”
“At sea, my rule is absolute. I am the captain—judge and jury of dancing maidens who are promised to…an American from Georgia?”
She placed her fingers into his palm, making frissons of energy crackle up his arm. With her nod, she stood. “Mr. Schuyler.”
He tugged her away from the table and toward the open space in front of the row of windows. “I trust you have met the man. Did he come to West Sussex and sweep you off your feet?” Gibb asked, placing his hand on her waist, preparing for a waltz.
“No,” she whispered, following his lead. “I have never met him.”
He wanted to ask for clarification, but he’d heard her plainly enough. How did a lovely, enterprising daughter of a knight end up wrangled into a marriage of convenience? Had Gibb known this when he met with her father at Newhailes, he would have demanded an explanation. Had Martin been aware?
Surely not.
Gibb led her into a series of slow, waltzing turns while his heart burned. Good God, how could she pick up and blindly shift to a country that was rugged, wild, and uncultured without so much as an introduction? Moreover, how could her father have allowed her to do so? “Do you feel it is your duty to marry a complete stranger?”
Miss Harcourt did not meet his gaze, her dark lashes lowered, making two distinct crescents against ivory cheeks. “Mm-hmm.”
Pity . Rather than utter the word aloud, he hummed the Sussex Waltz and watched as the raven-haired lass effortlessly moved with his every cue. She was lovely and graceful and…
Sad.
Lonely.
Afraid.
Suddenly, Gibb couldn’t recall the rest of the tune.
When he stopped, she drew away and clapped her fingers over her mouth. “I warned you that I am not a good dancer.”
“You must excuse me, but I am convinced that you are wrong. In my opinion, you are gifted at both flirting and dancing.”
She curtsied. “Then I’m afraid we shall have to disagree, my lord.”
As she started toward the door, Gibb caught Miss Harcourt’s arm. She turned her face up to his, those black eyes alive and full of want, her pink lips parted. A wisp of straight black hair had come loose and slashed across her throat. By God, she was lovely —a lonely, vulnerable damsel who made his blood thrum with yearning. With his next breath he might be struck dead by the Almighty, but he could not deny that he’d never wanted to kiss a woman as much as he wanted to kiss Isabella Harcourt in this moment.
But she was not his to woo. Not even her feet were his to kiss. Bowing, he settled for a whisper of a peck on the lady’s hand and escorted her to the door. “Sleep well.”
As they sailed southward, the days grew warmer. Isabella had not only opened her portal window, she had propped the door open to allow a gentle breeze to provide some relief while she worked. Thumbing through her Latin dictionary, she found the word she’d been looking for: “ succid – to cut down.” She recorded the English translation in her journal, but once she read the sentence, something didn’t seem right.
“Hard at work, are you?” a man asked from behind—the same deep voice that had come to make gooseflesh skitter across her skin.
She turned to find Captain MacGalloway leaning against the doorjamb. Holy help, the man looked as cocksure as a pirate, one ankle crossed over the other. As usual, he wore a worn-in leather doublet, his kilt belted low across his hips with a sporran covering his loins, a dirk and sgian dubh sheathed on either side. How he managed to stir her blood every time he was in her presence, she could not understand. Lord knew she had oft chastised herself for such unbidden adoration.
She affected a smile—one somewhat aloof, concealing the pure pleasure thrumming through her blood merely from the sight of the blue-eyed devil. “I’ve been searching for the fragments to complete this tablet for days, but it just doesn’t seem to make sense.”
He sauntered inside. “Mind if I have a look?”
She sat back and pointed with her tweezers, careful not to touch the bit she had just pieced together. Then she referred to her journal. “I’ve translated this passage as: Before the battle, the lieutenant pledged his head to the gods of the dead in return for victory. But after the last sword stilled, it seems I was to be a cut down .” Isabella pointed to the tablet. “He has used the word succid here, but the translation doesn’t seem to flow. Perhaps it is ‘ I was to be cut down .”
The captain leaned in, the scent of spice and the sea wafting over her just as it had done when he placed his hand upon her waist last eve and began to waltz.
Being near him was dangerous and hypnotic, yet something deep inside her craved closeness, challenging all sensibility.
“Look here,” he said, slipping the tweezers from her grip, his light touch causing her to gasp. Thank heavens it was a quiet gasp. At least the captain pretended not to notice. He pointed to the d at the end of succid . “There’s a bit of ink trailing. I think the word is not complete.”
Isabella referred back to her dictionary. “Might it be succidaneus ?”
“I think you may be right. It wasn’t unusual for a solider to pledge his life to the gods of the dead in return for victory. Perhaps your man was saying that he was used as a substitute sacrificial victim.” Captain MacGalloway leaned over her crate of fragments. “What else do you have in here that might prove us right?”
“Well, I’m not sure if it will fit, but there’s a passage that mentions that the legatus and a band of legionnaires all swore an oath to the generalis …” She nudged him aside a fraction, found the section to which she was referring, and pointed. “There.”
Biting down on the corner of his mouth, the captain carefully tried to lever the piece out with the tweezers, but he stopped as soon as a sliver flaked away. “These are only good for tiny bits,” he said, tossing the tool onto her table.
He unsheathed the razor-sharp sgian dubh from the scabbard on his belt. Before he could do any damage, Isabella grasped his wrist and stayed his hand. “I’ve never used a knife on the tablets.”
Completely motionless, they regarded each other, his pulse thrumming beneath her fingers, her mouth dry. Their gazes held as if linked by a charged current until one corner of his lips turned up.
“Not to worry, lass,” he said in his deep brogue as if confident those four lilted words would render her unable to argue. “I’ll only use it to slide under the piece. It ought to remain intact that way.”
She gave a nod but bit her bottom lip while he carefully moved the piece and placed it into the hole. Isabella nudged it a tad with the tweezers. “This is it. See, the edges on the right fit perfectly.” Though there was a craggy void where the aneus was missing from succidaneus , it was clear that the Roman who’d written the texts had suffered a grave misdeed.
“Now we absolutely must find out what oaths the men swore to the general.”
The captain fetched a second chair from his cabin, and together they worked, their shoulders touching, their knees brushing, their breath often catching, and their gazes meeting and holding for a time before shifting back to the work at hand. Tirelessly, they sat beside each other for hours until the tablet was nearly complete.
Isabella recorded the entire translation in her journal and read it aloud while the captain leaned in, his breath skimming the back of her hand. They exchanged an expectant grin before she read aloud:
“ Before the battle, the lieutenant pledged his head to the gods of the dead in return for victory. But after the last sword stilled, it seems I was to be his victim . The lieutenant and a band of legionnaires swore an oath of blood to the general that I had betrayed the cohort’s location and had informed the Aquitanians of our weakness . And now all I love is stolen from me. In chains they brought me to this frigid land, fighting for the air I breathe. The only thing keeping me alive is your memory, Flavia. Kiss our son for me.”
“Astounding.” The captain tapped his finger beneath the newly pieced-together tablet. “From this we can deduce quite a bit. Our man was married and had a son. He was betrayed by a lieutenant, and he is not in Britain of his own free will.”
“Agreed.” Isabella nodded. “I fear this Roman is a slave.”
“Aye.” Perusing the notations she’d just made in her journal, the captain leaned nearer. “You said you had translated four more—what did they say?”
Isabella glanced toward her trunk. One was rather salacious in nature and not something she could possibly read aloud—especially not to this man. “He speaks a great deal about how much he misses his wife.”
“Flavia.”
“Yes.”
“Cap’n,” said Duncan from the door. “Cookie has dinner ready, and Mr. MacLean is asking if you’d like to inspect the helm afore you sit down to eat.”
The captain checked his pocket watch. “It is after seven already? How the devil did that happen?”